University of Virginia Library

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.