 | Keep Your Own Secret |  |
ACT I.
Scene I.
A Room in the Palace.—Enter the Prince Alexander, and Don Arias.Prince.
I saw her from her carriage, Arias,
As from her East, alight, another sun
New ris'n, or doubling him whose envious ray
Seem'd as I watch'd her down the corridor,
To swoon about her as she mov'd along;
Until, descending tow'rd my sister's room,
She set, and left me hesitating like
Some traveller who with the setting sun
Doth fear to lose his way; her image still,
Lost from without, dazzling my inner eye—
Can this be love, Don Arias? if not,
What is it? something much akin to love.
Ar.
But had you not, my lord, often before
Seen Donna Anna?
Prince.
Often.
Ar.
Yet till now
Never thus smitten! how comes that, my lord?
Prince.
Well askt—though ignorantly. Know you not
That not an atom in the universe
Moves without some particular impulse
Of heaven? What yesterday I might abhor,
To-day I may delight in: what to-day
Delight in, may as much to-morrow hate.
All changes; 'tis the element the world,
And we who live there, move in. Thus with me;
This lady I have often seen before,
And, as you say, was ne'er a sigh the worse,
Until to-day; when, whether she more fair,
Or I less blind, I know not—only know
Of all my friends I would my passion own.
Ar.
Much thanks; yet I must wonder, good my lord,
First, that in all your commerce with Don Cupid
You never, I think, dealt seriously till now.
Prince.
Perhaps: but if Don Cupid, Arias,
Never yet tempted me with such an offer?
Besides, men alter; princes who are born
To greater things than love, nevertheless
May at his feet their sovereignty lay down
Once in their lives; as said the ancient sage—
“He were a fool who had not done so once,
Though he who does so twice is twice a fool.”
Ar.
So much for that. My second wonder is,
That you commit this secret to my keeping;
An honour that, surpassing my desert,
Yea, and ambition, frights me. Good my lord,
Your secretary, Don Cesar,—
To whom you almost trust the government
Of your dominions,—whom you wholly love,
I also love, and would not steal from him
A confidence that is by right his own;
Call him, my lord: into his trusty heart
Pour out your own; let not my loyalty
To you endanger what I owe to him;
For if you lay't on me—
Prince.
Don Arias,
I love Don Cesar with as whole a heart
As ever. He and I from infancy
Have grown together; as one single soul
Our joys and sorrows shar'd; till finding him
So wise and true, as to another self
Myself, and my dominion to boot,
I did intrust: you are his friend, and surely
In honouring you I honour him as well.
Besides, Arias, I know not how it is,
For some while past a change has come on him;
I know not what the cause: he is grown sad,
Neglects his business—if I call to him,
He hears me not, or answers from the purpose,
Or in mid answer stops. And, by the way,
We being on this subject, I would fain,
Being so much his friend, for both our sakes,
You would find out what ails and occupies him;
Absolute still: that, loving him so well,
I'd know what makes him so unlike himself;
That, knowing what it is, I may at least,
If not relieve his sorrow, share with him.
Ar.
Oh, not unjustly do you bear the name
Of Alexander, greater than the great
In true deserts!
Enter Lazaro (with a letter).
Laz.
Not here? my usual luck; had I bad news to tell
my master, such as would earn me a broken head, I should
find him fast enough; but now when I have such a letter
for him as must bring me a handsome largess, oh, to be
sure he's no where to be found. But I'll find him if I go to—
Prince.
How now? Who's there?
Laz.
The Prince!—Mum!
(hides the letter and turns to go).
Prince.
Who is it, I say?
Ar.
A servant, my lord, of Don Cesar's, looking for his
master, I suppose.
Prince.
Call him back; perhaps he can tell us something
of his master's melancholy.
Ar.
True, my lord. Lazaro!
Laz.
Eh?
Ar.
His Highness would speak with you.
Prince.
Come hither, sir.
Laz.
Oh, my lord, I do well enough here: if I were once
to kiss your Highness feet, I could not endure common shoe'
leather for a month to come.
Ar.
His humour must excuse him.
Prince.
You are Don Cesar's servant, are you?
Laz.
Yes, one of your trinity; so please you.
Prince.
Of my trinity, how so?
Laz.
As thus; your Highness is one with Don Cesar; I
am one with him; ergo—
Prince.
Well, you are a droll knave. But stop, stop:
Whither away so fast?
Laz.
Oh, my lord, I am sure you will have none of so poor
an article as myself, who am already the property of another
too.
Prince.
Nay, I like your humour, so it be in season.
But there is a time for all things. I want you now to answer
me seriously and not in jest: and tell me the secret of your
master's melancholy, which I feel as my own. But perhaps
mouth.
Laz.
But not so foolish as he who should throw it there.
And therefore since my master is no fool, it is unlikely he
should have committed his mystery to me. However, in
my capacity of Criado, whose first commandment it is,
“Thou shalt reveal thy master's weakness as thy own,”
I will tell you what I have gathered from stray sighs and
interjections of his on the subject. There has lately come
over from Spain a certain game of great fashion and credit
called Ombre. This game Don Cesar learned; and, playing
at it one day, and happening to hold Basto, Malilla,
Spadille, and Ace of Trumps in his hand, stood for the
game; and lost. On which he calls out “foul play,”
leaves the party, and goes home. Well, at night, I being
fast asleep in my room, comes he to me in his shirt, wakes
me up, and, dealing cards as it were with his hands, says,
“If I let this trick go, I am embeasted for that, and besides
put the lead into the enemy's hand; therefore I trump with
one of my matadores, and then I have four hearts, of which
the ten-ace must make, or else let them give me back my
nine cards as I had them before discarding.” And this I
take it is the cause of his dejection.
Prince.
The folly of asking you has been properly chastised
by the folly of your answer. You are right; Don Cesar
would never have intrusted with a grave secret one only fit
for idle jest.
Laz.
Ah, they are always importing some nonsense or
other from Spain. God keep your Highness; I will take
warning not to intrude my folly upon you any more (until
you try again to worm some truth out of me).
[Aside and exit.
Prince.
A droll fellow! Were one in the humour, he
might amuse.
Ar.
Oh, you will always find him in the same, whenever
you are in the mood. He cannot be sad.
Prince.
He cannot be very wise then.
He is as God made him. Did you never hear any of
his stories?
Prince.
I think not.
Ar.
He will hardly tell you one of himself that yet might
amuse you. He was one day playing at dice with me; lost
all his money; and at last pawned his very sword, which
I would not return him, wishing to see how he got on without.
What does he but finds him up an old hilt, and
clapping on a piece of lath to that, sticks it in the scabbard.
And so wears it now.
Prince.
We will have some amusement of him by and by.
Alas! in vain I hope with idle jest
To cool the flame that rages in my breast.
Go to Don Cesar: get him to reveal
The sorrows that he feeling I too feel.
I'll to my sister; since, whether away,
Or present, Donna Anna needs must slay,
I will not starve with absence, but e'en die
Burn'd in the sovereign splendour of her eye.
[Exeunt severally.
I will not answer for the accuracy of my version of this dilemma at Ombre: neither perhaps could Lazaro for his: which, together with the indifference (I presume) of all present readers on the subject, has made me indifferent about it. Cesar, I see, starts with almost the same fine hand Belinda had, who also was
“Just in the jaws of ruin and Codille,”as he was, but, unlike him, saved by that unseen king of hearts that
“Lurk'd in her hand and mourn'd his captive queen.”Scene II.
A Room in Don Cesar's House.—Enter Don Cesar and Lazaro meeting.Laz.
A letter, sir, Elvira just gave me.
Ces.
A letter! Give it me. How long have you had it?
Laz.
I looked for you first at the Prince's.
Ces.
Where I was not?
Laz.
You know it! I am always looking for what cannot
be found in time. But if you like the letter I shall
claim my largess for all that.
Ces.
Ah! what does she say?
Laz.
The folly, now, of a man with his watch in his hand
asking other people for the time of day!
Ces.
My heart fails me. Even if your news be good it
comes late.
[He reads the letter.
Laz.
So let my reward then—only let it come at last.
Ces.
O Lazaro, half drunk with my success,
I lose my wits when most I've need of them.
She writes to me, my lady writes to me
So sweetly, yea, so lovingly;
Methinks I want to tear my bosom open,
And lay this darling letter on my heart.
Where shall I shrine it?
Laz.
Oh, if that be all,
When some such loving lady writ to me,
And it did excellently; keeping tight
Her reputation, and my shoe together.
Ces.
O Lazaro! good Lazaro! take for this
The dress I wore at Florence.
Laz.
Bless you, sir.
Ces.
My letter! oh my lady!
Laz.
I bethink me
Upon remembrance, sir, as I may say,
The pockets of that dress were very large
And empty.
Ces.
They shall be well lined. Don Arias!
Enter Don Arias.
Ar.
Ay, Cesar, Arias coming to complain
On his own score, and that of one far greater.
Ces.
A solemn preamble. But for the charge,
And him who heads it.
Ar.
The Prince, our common Lord,
Who much perplext and troubled too, Don Cesar,
About the melancholy that of late
(No need say more of that which best you know)
Has clouded over you, has askt of me
Whom he will have to be your bosom friend,
The cause of it.—Alas, 'tis very plain
I am not what he thinks.—Well, I am come,
Say not as friend, but simple messenger,
To ask it of yourself.
Ces.
You do yourself
And me wrong, Arias; perchance the Prince—
But yet say on.
Ar.
His Highness bids me say
That if your sadness rise from any sense
Of straiten'd power, whatever residue
Of princely rule he hitherto reserved,
He gives into your hands; as sov'reign lord
To govern his dominions as your own.
Thus far his Highness. For myself, Don Cesar,
Having no other realm to lord you of
Than a true heart, I'd have you think betimes,
That, deep as you are rooted in his love,
Nay, may be all the more for that, he feels
Your distaste to his service, and himself:
However highly heap'd, however long,
Still are but heaps of sand, that some new tide
Of royal favour may wash clean away,
One little error cancelling perhaps
The whole account of life-long services.
Be warn'd by me; clear up your heavy brow,
And meet his kind looks with a look as kind,
Whatever cloud be on the heart within:
If not your friend, Don Cesar, as your servant
Let me implore you.
Ces.
Oh, Don Arias,
I kiss his Highness' feet, and your kind hands
That bring his favours to me: and to each
Will answer separately. First, to him;—
Tell him I daily pray that Heav'n so keep
His life, that Time, on which his years are strung,
Forget the running count; and, secondly,
Assure him, Arias, the melancholy
He speaks of not a jot abates my love
Of him, nor my alacrity in his service;
Nay, that 'tis nothing but a little cloud
In which my books have wrapt me so of late
That, duty done, I scarce had time or spirit
Left to enjoy his gracious company:
Perhaps too, lest he surfeit of my love,
I might desire by timely abstinence
To whet his liking to a newer edge.
Thus much for him. For you, Don Arias,
Whose equal friendship claims to be repaid
In other coin, I will reveal to you
A secret scarcely to myself confest,
Which yet scarce needs your thanks, come at a moment
When my brimm'd heart had overflow'd in words,
Whether I would or no. Oh, Arias,
Wonder not then to see me in a moment
Flying from melancholy to mere joy,
Between whose poles he ever oscillates,
Whose heart is set in the same sphere with mine:
Which saying, all is said. I love, my friend;
How deeply, let this very reticence,
That dare not tell what most I feel, declare.
Yes, I have fixt my eyes upon a star;
Toward which to spread my wings ev'n against hope,
And (let not such a boast offend the ears,
That of themselves have open'd to my story,)
Not hopelessly: the heav'n to which I pray'd
Answer'd in only listening to my vows;
Such daring not defeated not disdain'd.
Two years I worshipp'd at a shrine of beauty,
That modesty's cold hand kept stainless still;
Till wearied, if not mov'd by endless prayers,
She grants them; yea, on this most blessed day,
With this thrice blessed letter. You must see it,
That your felicitations by rebound
Double my own; the first victorious trophy
That proud ambition has so humbly won.
Oh Arias, 'tis much I have to tell,
And tell you too at once; being none of those
Who overmuch entreaty make the price
Of their unbosoming; who would, if they knew
In what the honour of their lady lies,
Name her at once, or seal their lips for ever.
But you are trusty and discreet: to you
I may commit my heart; beseeching you
To keep this love-song to yourself alone,
Assigning to the Prince, remember this,
My books sole cause of my abstraction.
Donna Anna de Castelvi—
(I can go on more freely now the name
Of her I worship bars my lips no more,)
Is she who so divides me from myself,
That what I say I scarcely know, although
I say but what I feel: the melancholy
You ask about, no gloomy sequestration
Out of the common world into a darker,
But into one a thousand times more bright;
And let no man believe he truly loves,
Who lives, or moves, or thinks, or hath his being
In any other atmosphere than Love's,
Who is our absolute master; to recount
The endless bead-roll of whose smiles and tears
I'd have each sleepless night a century.
Much have I said—have much more yet to say!
But read her letter, Arias, the first seal
Of my success, the final one, I think,
Of my sure trust in you; come, share with me
And above all things, once more, Arias,
Down to your secret'st heart this secret slip;
For every secret hangs in greater fear
Between the speaker's mouth and hearer's ear,
Than any peril between cup and lip.
Ar.
You have good cause for joy.
Cesar.
You will say so
When you have read the letter.
Ar.
You desire it. (Reads.)
“To confess that one is loved is to confess that one loves
too; for there is no woman but loves to be loved. But
alas, there is yet more. If to cover my love I have pretended
disdain, let the shame of now confessing it excuse
me. Come to me this evening and I will tell you what I
can scarce understand myself. Adieu, my love, adieu!”
Ces.
Enough: you know what you shall tell the Prince
In my behalf: if he be satisfied
I'll wait on him directly.
Ar.
Trust to me.
Ces.
Let my sighs help thee forward, O thou sun,
What of thy race in heaven remains to run:
Oh do but think that Dafne in the west
Awaits thee, and anticipate thy rest!
[Exeunt Cesar and Lazaro.
Ar.
Charg'd with two secrets,
One from my Prince the other from my friend,
Each binding equally to silence, each
Equally the other's revelation needing,
How shall I act, luckless embosomer
Of others' bosoms! how decide between
Loyalty and love with least expense to both!
The Prince's love is but this morning's flower,
As yet unsunn'd on by his lady's favour;
Cesar's of two years' growth, expanded now
Into full blossom by her smiles and tears;
The Prince too loves him whom his lady loves,
And were he told, might uncontested leave
The prize that one he loves already owns;
And so both reap the fruit, and make the excuse
Of broken silence, if it needs must break.
And yet I grope about, afraid to fall
Where ill-advised good-will may ruin all.
[Exit.
Scene III.
A Corridor in the Palace.—Enter Prince, Don Felix, Donna Anna, and train.Prince.
I must show you the way.
Anna.
Your Highness must not do yourself so great indignity.
Prince.
To the bounds at least of my sister's territory.
Anna.
Nay, my lord, that were undue courtesy.
Prince.
What courtesy, madam, can be undue from any
man to any lady?
Anna.
When that lady is your subject, whom your very
condescension dazzles to her own discomfiture.
Prince.
What, as the morning star dazzles the sun whom
he precedes as petty harbinger? If I obey you 'tis that I
fear my own extinction in your rays. Adieu.
Anna.
God keep your Highness.
[Exit.
Prince.
Don Felix, will you attend your sister?
Felix.
I only stay to thank your Highness, (both as subject
and as servant,) for all the honour that you do us; may
Heaven so prolong your life that even oblivion herself—
Prince.
Nay, truce to compliment: your sister will not of
my company, unless under your proxy. So farewell.
[Exit
Felix.]
Is there a greater nuisance than to have such
windy nonsense stuff'd into one's ears, when delight is
vanished from the eyes!
But, Don Arias! You have seen Cesar?
Ar.
Yes, my lord; but ere I tell you about him, would
know how far this last interview with Donna Anna has advanced
your love.
Prince.
Oh Arias, Arias, my love for her
So blends with my solicitude for him,
I scarce can hold me clear between the two.
Yet let me tell you. In my sister's room,
Whither I went, you know, upon our parting,
I saw my lady like a sovereign rose
Among the common flowers; or, if you will,
A star among the roses; or the star
Of stars, the morning star: yea, say at once
The sun himself among the host of heaven!
My eyes and ears were rapt with her; her lips
Not fairer than the words that came from them.
Went with the ev'ning; which, how short, say love
Who'd spin each golden moment to a year,
Which year would then seem than a moment less.
Ar.
Is then, my lord, this passion so deep fixt?
Prince.
Nay, but of one day's growth—
Ar.
I come in time then,
My lord, in one word, if you love Don Cesar,
Cease to love Donna Anna.
Prince.
Arias,
He who begins to hint at any danger
Is bound to tell it out—nothing, or all.
Why do you hesitate?
Ar.
Because, my lord,
But hinting this to you, I break the seal
Of secrecy to him.
Prince.
But it is broken;
And so—
Ar.
Oh, Cesar, pardon him who fails
His pledge to you to serve his Prince! My lord,
The cloud you long have seen on Cesar's brow,
Is not, as he would have you think it, born
Of bookish studies only, but a cloud,
All bright within, though dark to all without,
Of love for one he has for two long years
Silently worshipt.
Prince.
Donna Anna!
Ar.
Ay.
Prince.
Cesar loves Donna Anna! be it so—
I love him, as you say, and would forego
Much for his sake. But tell me, Arias,
Knows Anna of his passion?
Ar.
Yes, my lord,
And answers it with hers.
Prince.
Oh wretched fate!
Desperate ere jealous—jealous ere in love!
If Cesar but lov'd her, I could, methinks,
Have pardon'd, even have advanc'd his suit
By yielding up my own. But that she loves,
Blows rivalry into full blaze again.
And yet I will not be so poor a thing
To whine for what is now beyond my reach,
Nor must the princely blood of Parma
Run jealous of a subject's happiness.
Ar.
I even now
Have seen a letter—
Prince.
Well?
Ar.
That Donna Anna
Has written him, and in such honey'd words—
Prince.
Why, is it not enough to know she loves him?
You told me so: my mind made up to that,
Why should a foolish letter fright it back?
And yet—yet, what last spark of mortal love
But must flame up before it dies for ever
To learn but what that foolish letter said!
Know you?
Ar.
I saw it.
Prince.
You saw it! and what said it?
Ar.
After a chaste confession of her love,
Bidding him be to-night under her lattice.
Prince.
Under her lattice, while his Prince is left
Abroad; they two to whisper love together,
While he gnaws hopeless jealousy alone.
But why, forsooth, am I to be the victim?
If I can quench my love for Cesar's sake,
Why not he his for me? Tell me, Don Arias,
Does Cesar know my passion?
Ar.
How should he,
You having told the secret but to me?
Prince.
By the same means that I know his.
Ar.
My lord,
My loyalty might well be spar'd that taunt.
Prince.
Ah, Arias, pardon me, I am put out,
But not with you, into whose faithful charge
I vest my love and honour confidently.
Enough, in what I am about to do
I mean no malice or ill play to Cesar:
'Tis but an idle curiosity:
And surely 'tis but fair, that if his Prince
Leave him the lists to triumph in at leisure,
I may at least look on the game he wins.
You shall keep close to him, and tell me all
That passes between him and her I love.
Ar.
But having taunted me with my first step
In your behalf, my lord—
Prince.
Nay, sir, my will
At once absolves and authorizes you,
Ar.
But, sir—
Prince.
No more—
Ar.
I must obey your bidding,
But yet—
Prince.
I may divert my jealousy,
If not avenge it.
Ar.
Ah! what straits do those
Who cannot keep their counsel fall into!
Prince.
All say so, and all blab, like me and you!
Look where he comes; let us retire awhile.
[Prince and Arias retire.
Enter Cesar and Lazaro.
Ces.
O Phœbus, swift across the skies
Thy blazing carriage post away;
Oh, drag with thee benighted day,
And let the dawning night arise!
Another sun shall mount the throne
When thou art sunk beneath the sea;
From whose effulgence, as thine own,
The affrighted host of stars shall flee.
Laz.
A pretty deal about your cares
Does that same Phœbus care or know;
He has to mind his own affairs,
Whether you shake your head or no.
You talk of hastening on the day?
Why heaven's coachman is the Sun,
Who can't be put out of his way
For you, sir, or for any one.
Ces.
The Prince! and something in my bosom tells me
All is not well. My lord, though my repentance
Does not, I trust, lag far behind my fault,
I scarce had dar'd to approach your Highness' feet,
Had not my friend, Don Arias, been before
As harbinger of my apology.
Prince.
Cesar, indeed Don Arias has told me
The story of your sadness: and so well,
I feel it, and excuse it, as my own;
From like experience. I do not resent,
But would divert you from it. Books, my friend,
Truly are so seductive company,
We are apt to sit too long and late with them,
And drowse our minds in their society;
Once known, the cure is easy; if 'tis books
Have hurt you, lay them by awhile, and try
Other society—less learn'd perhaps,
But cheerfuller—exchange the pent-up air
Of a close study for the breathing world.
Come, we'll begin to-night;
Visit in disguise (as I have wish'd to do)
The city, its taverns, theatres, and streets,
Where music, masque, and dancing may divert
Your melancholy: what say you to this?
Ces.
Oh, my kind lord, whose single word of pardon
Has turn'd all leaden grief to golden joy,
Made me another man, or, if you will,
The better self I was—
Prince.
Why this is well;
To-night together then—
Ces.
Yet pardon me.
Prince.
How now?
Ces.
It almost would revive my pain
That you should spend yourself upon a cure
Your mere forgiveness has already wrought.
Let this day's happiness suffice the day,
And its night also: 'twill be doubly sweet,
Unbought by your annoyance.
Prince.
Nay, my Cesar,
Fear not for that: after so long estrangement,
My pain would be the losing sight of you
On this first night of your recovery.
Lazaro!
Laz.
My lord?
Prince.
You too shall go with us.
Laz.
And not a trustier shall your Highness find
To guard your steps.
Prince.
What! you are valiant?
Laz.
As ever girded sword.
Prince.
Your weapon good too?
Laz.
He touches on the quick (aside)
. Yes, good enough,
My lord, for all my poor occasions.
Although when waiting on your Grace, indeed,
A sword like yours were better.
Prince.
You depreciate
Your own to enhance its value. Sharp is't?
Laz.
Ay,
'Twould splinter it in two. (The sword I mean. Aside.
)
Prince.
Well temper'd?
Laz.
As you bid it.
Prince.
And the device
Inscrib'd upon it?
Laz.
“Thou shalt do no murder”—
Having no love for homicide, per se,
Save on occasion.
Prince.
Your description
Makes me desire to see that sword.
Laz.
My lord!
Prince.
Indeed it does. Show it me.
Laz.
Oh, my lord,
I have a vow.
Ces.
(aside).
Oh weariness!
Prince.
A vow?
Laz.
Ay, register'd in heaven!
Never to draw this weapon from her sheath
Except on mortal quarrel. If in such
Your Highness' service challenge her, why, then
She shall declare herself.
Ces.
I'm desperate!
But yet one effort more. My lord, you see
(You cannot fail) how your mere word of grace
Has of itself brighten'd me up again;
I do beseech you—
Prince.
Pardon me, my Cesar,
Rather I see the cloud that 'gins to break
Is not entirely gone; nay, will return
If you be left alone—which must not be:
If not for your sake, Cesar, yet for mine,
Who feel for your disquiet as my own;
And since our hearts are knit so close together,
Yours cannot suffer but mine straightway feels
A common pain; seek we a common cure.
To-night I shall expect you. Until then,
Farewell.
[Exit.
Ces.
Fortune! to see a fair occasion
So patiently pursued, so fairly won,
Lost at the very moment of success!
O Lazaro—what will my lady say!
Laz.
That I can't guess.
Ces.
What will she do!
Oh that
Is answer'd far more easily. She'll stand
All night beside the window to no purpose.
Ces.
Why she must say my love was all pretence,
And her offended dignity vindicate,
Rejecting me for ever! Misery!
Laz.
Dear me, sir, what is now become of all
About, “Thou dawning night, benighted day.”
“Thou coachman sun!” etceteretera?
Ces.
Wilt thou be ever fool!
Laz.
If thou be not,
Listen—fool's bolts, they say, are quickly shot—
Who secrets have and cannot hold 'em,
Shall surely rue the day they told 'em.
| Keep Your Own Secret | |