University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

A Wild Place.—Enter Mendo and Officers of Justice armed.
1st Officer.

Here, my lord, where the Ebro, swollen with
her mountain streams, runs swiftest, he will try to escape.

Men.

Hunt for him then, leaving neither rock nor thicket
unexplored. (They disperse.)

Oh, what a fate is mine,
Having to seek what most I dread to find,
Once thought the curse of jealousy alone!
The iron king will see my face no more
Unless I bring Don Lope to his feet:
Whom, on the other hand, the gratitude
And love I bear him fain would save from justice.
Oh, how—

Enter some, fighting with Don Lope.
Lope.
I know I cannot save my life,
But I will sell it dear.

Men.
Hold off! the king
Will have him taken, but not slain. And I,
If I can save him now, shall find a mean
To do it afterwards—
Don Lope!

Lope.
I should know that voice, the face
I cannot, blind with fury, dust, and blood.
Or was't the echo of some inner voice,
Some far off thunder of the memory,
That moves me more than all these fellows' swords!
Is it Don Mendo?

Men.
Who demands of you
Your sword, and that you yield in the king's name.

Lope.
I yield?

Men.
Ay, sir, what can you do beside?

Lope.
Slaying be slain. And yet my heart relents
Before your voice; and now I see your face
My eyes dissolve in tears. Why, how is this?
What charm is on my sword?

Men.
'Tis but the effect
And countenance of justice that inspires
Involuntary awe in the offender.

Lope.
Not that. Delinquent as I am, I could,
With no more awe of justice than a mad dog,
Bite right and left among her officers;
But 'tis yourself alone: to you alone
Do I submit myself; yield up my sword
Already running with your people's blood,
And at your feet—

Men.
Rise, Lope. Heaven knows
How gladly would your judge change place with you
The criminal; far happier to endure
Your peril than my own anxiety.
But do not you despair, however stern
Tow'rds you I carry me before the world.
The king is so enrag'd—

Lope.
What, he has heard!

Men.
Your father cried for vengeance at his feet.

Lope.
Where is my sword?

Men.
In vain. 'Tis in my hand.

Lope.
Where somehow it affrights me—as before
When giving you my dagger, it turn'd on me
With my own blood.

Mendo.
Ho there!
Cover Don Lope's face, and carry him
To prison after me. (Aside).
Hark, in your ear,
Conduct him swiftly, and with all secrecy,
To my own house—in by the private door,
Without his knowing whither,
And bid my people watch and wait on him.
I'll to the king— Alas, what agony,
I know not what, grows on me more and more!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

A Room in the Palace.—Enter King.
King.
Don Mendo comes not back, and must not come,
Till he have done his errand. I myself
Can have no rest till justice have her due.
A son to strike his father in my realm
Unaw'd, and then unpunisht!
But by great Heav'n the law shall be aveng'd
So long as I shall reign in Arragon.
Don Mendo!

Enter Mendo.
Mendo.
Let me kiss your Highness' hand—

King.
Welcome, thou other Atlas of my realm,
Who shar'st the weight with me. For I doubt not,
Coming thus readily into my presence,
You bring Don Lope with you.

Men.
Yes, my liege—
Fast prisoner in my house, that none may see
Or talk with him.

King.
Among your services
You have not done a better.
The crime is strange, 'tis fit the sentence on it
Be memorably just.

Men.
Most true, my liege,
Who I am sure will not be warp'd away
By the side current of a first report,
But on the whole broad stream of evidence
Move to conclusion. I do know this charge
Is not so grave as was at first reported.

King.
But is not thus much clear—that a son smote
His father?

Men.
Yes, my liege.

King.
And can a charge
Be weightier?

Men.
I confess the naked fact,
But 'tis the special cause and circumstance
That give the special colour to the crime.

King.
I shall be glad to have my kingdom freed
From the dishonour of so foul a deed
By any extenuation.

Men.
Then I think
Your Majesty shall find it here. 'Tis thus:
Don Lope, on what ground I do not know,
Fights with Don Guillen—in the midst o' the fray,
Comes old Urrea, at the very point
When Guillen was about to give the lie
To his opponent—which the old man, enrag'd
At such unseemly riot in his house,
Gives for him; calls his son a fouler name
Than gentleman can bear, and in the scuffle
Receives a blow that in his son's blind rage
Was aim'd abroad—in the first heat of passion
Throws himself at your feet, and calls for vengeance,
Which, as I hear, he now repents him of.
He's old and testy—age's common fault—
And, were not this enough to lame swift justice,
There's an old law in Arragon, my liege,
That in our courts father and son shall not
Be heard in evidence against each other;
In which provision I would fain persuade you
Bury this quarrel.

King.
And this seems just to you?

Men.
It does, my liege.

King.
Then not to me, Don Mendo,
Who will examine, sentence, and record,
Whether in such a scandal to the realm
The son be guilty of impiety,
Or the sire idle to accuse him of't.
Therefore I charge you have Urrea too
From home to-night, and guarded close alone;
It much imports the business.

Men.
I will, my liege.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene III.

A Corridor in Urrea's House, with three doors in front.—Enter from a side door Violante and Elvira.
Viol.

Ask me no more, Elvira; I cannot answer when
my thoughts are all locked up where Lope lies.

Elv.

And know you where that is? Nearer than you
think; there, in my lord your father's room.

Viol.

There! Oh, could I but save him!

Elv.

You can at least comfort him.

Viol.

Something must be done. Either I will save his
life, Elvira, or die with him. Have you the key?

Elv.

I have one; my lord has the master-key.

Viol.

Yours will do, give it me. I am desperate, Elvira,
and in his danger drown my maiden shame; see him I will
at least. Do you rest here and give me a warning if a footstep
come.

(She enters centre door.)

Scene IV.

An inner Chamber in Urrea's House.—Lope discovered.
Lope.
Whither then have they brought me? Ah, Violante,
Your beauty costs me dear! And even now
I count the little I have yet to live
Minute by minute, like one last sweet draught,
But for your sake. Nay, 'tis not life I care for,
But only Violante.

Violante
(entering unseen).
Oh, his face
Is bathed in his own blood; he has been wounded.
Don Lope!

Lope.
Who is it calls on a name
I thought all tongues had buried in its shame?

Viol.
One who yet—pities you.

Lope
(turning and seeing her).
Am I then dead,
And thou some living spirit come to meet me
Upon the threshold of another world;
Or some dead image that my living brain
Draws from remembrance on the viewless air,
And gives the voice I love to? Oh, being here,
Whatever thou may'st be, torment me not
By vanishing at once.

Viol.
No spirit, Lope,
And no delusive image of the brain;
But one who, wretched in your wretchedness,
And partner of the crime you suffer for,
All risk of shame and danger cast away,
Has come—but hark!—I may have but a moment—
The door I came by will be left unlockt
To-night, and you must fly.

Lope.
Oh, I have heard
Of a fair flower of such strange quality,
It makes a wound where there was none before,
And heals what wound there was. Oh, Violante,
You who first made an unscath'd heart to bleed,
Now save a desperate life!

Viol.
And I have heard
Of two yet stranger flowers that, severally,
Each in its heart a deadly poison holds,
Which, if they join, turns to a sovereign balm.
And so with us, who in our bosoms bear
A passion which destroys us when apart,
But when together—

Elvira
(calling within).
Madam! madam! your father!

Viol.
Farewell!

Lope.
But you return?

Viol.
To set you free.

Lope.
That as it may; only return to me.

[Exit Violante, leaving Lope.

Scene V.

Same as Scene III. Elvira waiting.—Enter Violante from centre door.
Viol.

Quick! lock the door, Elvira, and away with me
on wings. My father must not find me here.

Elv.

Nay, you need not be frightened, he has gone to my
lady Blanca's room by the way.

Viol.

No matter, he must not find me; I would learn too
what is stirring in the business.

Oh, would I ever drag my purpose through,
I must be desperate and cautious too.

[Exit.
Elv.
(locking the door).

Well, that's all safe, and now
myself to hear what news is stirring.

Vicente
(talking as he enters).

In the devil's name was
there ever such a clutter made about a blow? People all
up in arms, and running here and there, and up and down,
and every where, as if the great Tom of Velilla was a ringing.

Elv.

Vicente! what's the matter?

Vic.

Oh, a very great matter, Elvira. I am very much
put out indeed.

Elv.

What about, and with whom?

Vic.

With all the world, and my two masters, the young
and old one, especially.

Elv.

But about what?

Vic.

With the young one for being so ready with his fists,
and the old one bawling out upon it to heaven and earth,
and then Madam Blanca, she must join in the chorus too;
and then your grand Don Mendo there, with whom seizing's
so much in season, he has seized my master, and my
master's father, and Don Guillen, and clapt them all up in
prison. Then I've a quarrel with the king!

Elv.

With the king! You must be drunk, Vicente.

Vic.

I only wish I was.

Elv.

But what has the king done?

Vic.

Why let me be beaten at least fifty thousand times,
without caring a jot: and now forsooth because an old fellow
gets a little push, his eyes flash axe and gibbet. Then,
Elvira, I'm very angry with you.

Elv.

And why with me?

Vic.

Because, desperately in love with me as you are, you
never serenade me, nor write me a billet-doux, nor ask me
for a kiss of my fair hand.

Elv.

Have I not told you, sir, I leave that all to Beatrice?

Vic.

And have I not told you, Beatrice may go hang
for me?

Elv.

Oh, Vicente, could I believe you!

Vic.

Come, give me a kiss on credit of it; in case I lie,
I'll pay you back.

Elv.

Well, for this once.

Enter Beatrice.
Beat.

The saints be praised, I've found you at last!

Vic.

Beatrice!

Elv.

Well, what's the matter?

Vic.

You'll soon see.

Beat.

Oh, pray proceed, proceed, good folks. Never mind
me: you've business—don't interrupt it—I've seen quite
enough, besides being quite indifferent who wears my castoff
shoes.

Elv.

I beg to say, madam, I wear no shoes except my
own, and if I were reduced to other people's certainly
should not choose those that are made for a wooden leg.

Beat.

A wooden leg? Pray, madam, what has a wooden
leg to do with me?

Elv.

Oh, madam, I must refer you to your own feelings.

Beat.

I tell you, madam, these hands should tear your
hair up by the roots, if it had roots to tear.

Vic.

Now for her turn.

Elv.

Why, does she mean to insinuate my hair is as false
as that left eye of hers?

Beat.

Do you mean to insinuate my left eye is false?

Elv.

Ay; and say it to your teeth.

Beat.

More, madam, than I ever could say to yours,
unless, indeed, you've paid, madam, for the set you wear.

Elv.

Have you the face to say my teeth are false?

Beat.

Have you the face to say my eye's of glass?

Elv.

I'll teach you to say I wear a wig.

Beat.

Would that my leg were wood just for the occasion.

Vic.

Ladies, ladies, first consider where we are.

Beat.

Oh ho! I think I begin to understand.

Elv.

Oh, and so methinks do I.

(Spoken together ... )
Beat.

It is this wretch—

Elv.

This knave—

Beat.

This rascal—

Elv.

This vagabond—

Beat.

Has told all these lies.

Elv.

Has done all this mischief.

( ... Spoken together.)
(They set upon and pinch him, &c.)
Vic.

Ladies, ladies—Mercy! oh! ladies! just listen!

Elv.

Listen indeed! If it were not that I hear people
coming—

Vic.

Heaven be praised for it!

Beat.

We will defer the execution then—And in the
mean while shall we two sign a treaty of peace?

Elv.
My hand to it—Agreed!

Beat.
Adieu!

Elv.
Adieu!

[Exeunt Beatrice and Elvira.
Vic.
The devil that seiz'd the swine sure has seiz'd you,
And all your pinches make me tenfold writhe
Because you never gave the king his tithe.

[Exit.

Scene VI.

Donna Blanca's Apartment: it is dark.—Enter the King disguised, and Blanca following him.
Blan.
Who is this man,
That in the gathering dusk enters our house,
Unmaskt and muffled thus? what is't you want?
To croak new evil in my ears? for none
But ravens now come near us—Such a silence
Is not the less ill-omen'd. Beatrice!
A light! my blood runs cold—Answer me, man,
What want you with me?

King.
Let us be alone,
And I will tell you.

Blan.
Leave us, Beatrice—
I'll dare the worst—And now reveal yourself.

King.
Not till the door be lockt.

Blan.
Help, help!

King.
Be still.

Blan.
What would you? and who are you then?

King
(discovering himself).
The king.

Blan.
The king!

King.
Do you not know me?

Blan.
Yea, my liege,
Now the black cloud has fallen from the sun.
But cannot guess why, at an hour like this,
And thus disguis'd—Oh, let me know at once
Whether in mercy or new wrath you come
To this most wretched house!

King.
In neither, Blanca;
But in the execution of the trust
That Heav'n has given to kings.

Blan.
And how, my liege,
Fall I beneath your royal vigilance?

King.
You soon shall hear: but, Blanca, first take breath,
And still your heart to its accustom'd tune,
For I must have you all yourself to answer
What I must ask of you. Listen to me.
Your son, in the full eye of God and man,
Has struck his father—who as publicly
Has cried to me for vengeance—such a feud
Coming at length to such unnatural close,
Men 'gin to turn suspicious eyes on you,—
You, Blanca, so mixt up in such a cause
As in the annals of all human crime
Is not recorded. Men begin to ask
Can these indeed be truly son and sire?
This is the question, and to sift it home,
I am myself come hither to sift you
By my own mouth. Open your heart to me,
Relying on the honour of a king
That nothing you reveal to me to-night
Shall ever turn against your good repute.
We are alone, none to way-lay the words
That travel from your lips; speak out at once;
Or, by the heavens, Blanca,—

Blan.
Oh, my liege,
Not in one breath
Turn royal mercy into needless threat;
Though it be true my bosom has so long
This secret kept close prisoner, and hop'd
To have it buried with me in my grave,
Yet if I peril my own name and theirs
By such a silence, I'll not leave to rumour
Another hour's suspicion; but reveal
To you, my liege, yea, and to heav'n and earth,
My most disastrous story.

King.
I attend.

Blan.
My father, though of lineage high and clear
As the sun's self, was poor; and knowing well
How in this world honour fares ill alone,
Betroth'd the beauty of my earliest years
(The only dowry that I brought with me)
To Lope de Urrea, whose estate
Was to supply the much he miss'd of youth.
We married—like December wed to May,
Or flower of earliest summer set in snow;
Yet heaven witness that I honour'd, ay,
And lov'd him; though with little cause of love,
And ever cold returns; but I went on
Doing my duty toward him, hoping still
To have a son to fill the gaping void
That lay between us—yea, I pray'd for one
So earnestly, that God, who has ordain'd
That we should ask at once for all and nothing
Of Him who best knows what is best for us,
Denied me what I wrongly coveted.
Well, let me turn the leaf on which are written
The troubles of those ill-assorted years,
And to my tale. I had a younger sister,
Whom to console me in my wretched home,
I took to live with me—of whose fair youth
A gentleman enamour'd—Oh, my liege,
Ask not his name—yet why should I conceal it,
Whose honour may not leave a single chink
For doubt to nestle in? Sir, 'twas Don Mendo,
Your minister; who, when his idle suit
Prosper'd not in my sister's ear, found means,
Feeing one of the household to his purpose,
To get admittance to her room by night;
Where, swearing marriage soon should sanction love,
He went away the victor of an honour
That like a villain he had come to steal;
Then, but a few weeks after, (so men quit
All obligation save of their desire,)
Married another, and growing great at court,
Went on your father's bidding into France
Ambassador, and from that hour to this
Knows not the tragic issue of his crime.
I, who perceiv'd my sister's alter'd looks,
And how in mind and body she far'd ill,
With menace and persuasion wrung from her
The secret I have told you, and of which
She bore within her bosom such a witness
As doubly prey'd upon her life. Enough;
She was my sister, why reproach her then,
And to no purpose now the deed was done?
Only I wonder'd at mysterious Heav'n,
Which her misfortune made to double mine,
Who had been pining for the very boon
That was her shame and sorrow; till at last,
Out of the tangle of this double grief
I drew a thread to extricate us both,
By giving forth myself about to bear
The child whose birth my sister should conceal.
'Twas done—the day came on—I feign'd the pain
She felt, and on my bosom as my own
Cherish'd the crying infant she had borne,
And died in bearing—for even so it was;
I and another matron (who alone
Was partner in the plot)
Assigning other illness for her death.
This is my story, sir—this is the crime,
Of which the guilt being wholly mine, be mine
The punishment; I pleading on my knees
My love both to my husband and my sister
As some excuse. Pedro of Arragon,
Whom people call the Just, be just to me:
I do not ask for mercy, but for justice,
And that, whatever be my punishment,
It may be told of me, and put on record,
That, howsoever and with what design
I might deceive my husband and the world,
At least I have not sham'd my birth and honour.

King
(apart).
Thus much at least is well; the blackest part
Of this unnatural feud is washt away
By this confession, though it swell the list
Of knotted doubts that Justice must resolve;
As thus:—Don Lope has revil'd and struck
One whom himself and all the world believe
His father—a believe that I am pledg'd
Not to disprove. Don Mendo has traduc'd
A noble lady to her death; and Blanca
Contriv'd an ill imposture on her lord:
Two secret and one public misdemeanour,
To which I must adjudge due punishment.
Blanca, enough at present, you have done
Your duty; Fare you well.

Blan.
Heav'n keep your Highness!

Don Mendo
(knocking within).
Open the door.

King.
Who calls?

Blan.
I know not, sir.

King.
Open it, then, but on your life reveal not
That I am here.

(King hides, Blanca opens the door.)
Blan.
Who is it calls?

Enter Mendo.
Men.
I, Blanca.

Blan.
Your errand?

Men.
Only, Blanca, to beseech you
Fear not, whatever you may hear or see
Against your son. His cause is in my hands,
His person in my keeping; being so,
Who shall arraign my dealings with him?

King.
(coming forth).
I.

Men.
My liege, if you—

King.
Enough; give me the key
Of Lope's prison.

Men.
This it is, my liege,
Only—

King.
I know enough. Blanca, retire.
Mendo, abide you here. To-night shall show
If I be worthy of my name or no.

[Exit.
Men.
What is the matter, Blanca?

Blan.
Your misdeeds,
And mine, Don Mendo, which just Heaven now
Revenges with one blow on both of us.
After the King! nor leave him till he swear
To spare my Lope, who, I swear to you,
Is not my son, but yours, and my poor Laura's!

Men.
Merciful Heav'ns! But I will save his life
Come what come may to me.

Blan.
Away, away, then!

[Exeunt severally.

Scene VII.

Same as Scene III.—Enter Violante and Elvira at a side door.
Elv.

Consider, madam.

Viol.

No!

Elv.

But think—

Viol.

I tell you it must be done.

Elv.

They will accuse your father.

Viol.

Let them; I tell you it must be done, and now:
I ask'd you not for advice, but to obey me. Unlock the
door.

Elv.

Oh how I tremble! Hark!

Viol.

A moment! They must not find him passing out—
the attempt and not the deed confounding us. Listen!

Elv.
(listening at a side door).

I can hear nothing distinct,
only a confused murmur of voices.

Viol.
Let me—hush!—Hark! they are approaching!

Enter Mendo.
Men.
Anguish, oh! anguish!

Viol.
My father!

Men.
Ay, indeed,
And a most wretched one.

Viol.
What is it, sir?
Tell me at once.

Men.
I know not. Oh, 'tis false!
I know too well, and you must know it too.
My daughter, the poor prisoner who lies there
Is my own son, not Blanca's, not Urrea's,
But my own son, your brother, Violante!

Viol.
My brother!

Men.
Ay, your brother, my own son,
Whom we must save!

Viol.
Alas, sir, I was here
On the same errand, ere I knew—but hark!
All's quiet now.

(A groan within.)
Men.
Listen! What groan was that?

Viol.
My hand shakes so, I cannot—

Lope
(within).
Mercy, O God!

Men.
The key, the key!—but hark! they call again
At either door; we must unlock.

(They unlock the side doors.—Enter through one Blanca and Beatrice, through the other Urrea and Vicente.)
Urr.
Don Mendo,
The king desires me from your mouth to learn
His sentence on my son.

Blan.
Oh, Violante!

Men.
From me! from me! to whom the king as yet
Has not deliver'd it.—
But what is this? Oh, God!

(The centre door opens and Don Lope is discovered, garrotted, with a paper in his hand, and lights at each side.)
Urr.
A sight to turn
Rancour into remorse.

Men.
In his cold hand
He holds a scroll, the sentence, it may be,
The king referr'd you to. Read it, Urrea;
I cannot. Oh, my son, the chastisement
That I alone have merited has come
Upon us both, and doubled the remorse
That I must feel—and stifle!

Urr.
(reading).
“He that reviles and strikes whom he believes
His father, let him die for't; and let those
Who have disgrac'd a noble name, or join'd
An ill imposture, see his doom; and show
Three judgments summ'd up in a single blow.