 | The Constant Prince |  |
41
ACT II.
SCENE I.
—A MOUNTAIN DISTRICT NEAR FEZ.Enter PHENIX.
PHENIX.
Estrella! Zara! Rosa! no,
No one answers to my calling!
MULÉY,
entering.
One attends thee, like the falling
Shadow which the sun doth throw
Off its radiant disk. For thou
Dost a sun to me appear—
Who am the shadow that it hath.
As I roamed this mountain path,
Thy sweet voice re-echoed near.
What hath happened lady?
PHENIX.
Hear,
If I can its nature state:
Flattering, free, ungrateful, glides
Sweet and smooth, with peaceful tides,
A crystal fountain, all elate
With waves of molten silver plate.
Flattering, for it proferreth
Speech enough, yet doth not feel;
Smooth, for it can well conceal;
Free, for loud it uttereth;
Sweet, because it murmureth;
And ungrateful, for it flies!
To that fountain's shady place,
Wearied with a wild beast's chase,
Came I with a glad surprise,
For its fresh green canopies
42
Being upon one side bound
By a gentle hillock, crowned
With (as if for jubilation)
Wreaths of jasmine and carnation,
Which a shade of crimson light
Flung upon my emerald bed.
Scarcely had I render'd
Up my soul to the delight
Of solitude, when, 'mid the bright
Leaves, did me a sound alarm;
I attentive looked, and saw
An ancient dame of Africa—
A spirit in a human form,
Marked with all that can deform—
Wrinkles, scowling, haggard, dark—
A living skeleton, a shade;
But as if with features made
Of a tree's trunk, rude and stark,
Wrapt in rough, unpolished bark;
With mingled melancholy and
Sadness—doleful passions these,
That my heart's blood she might freeze,
She did take me by the hand,
I, to be like her, did stand
Tree-like, rooted to the ground;
Ice ran freezing through each vein
At her touch, and through my brain
Venomed horror flew its round.
She, with scarce articulate sound,
Thus appeared to speak to me—
“Hapless woman! fated woe!
Since, with all thy beauteous show,
All the graces crowning thee,
Thou a corse's prize must be!”
Thus she said, and thus I live
Sadly since, or rather die,
Waiting till the prophecy
43
Did with doubtful meaning give—
Which that prophet, through the force
Of fate fulfilled without remorse—
Is fulfilled by destiny.
Woe is me! for I must be
The worthless guerdon of a corse!
Exit.
MULÉY.
It is easy to explain
This illusion, or this dream,
Since, indeed, it doth but seem
An image of my bosom's pain:
Tarudante is to gain
Thee; but though my heart doth burst
At the thought, my wrath and hate
Shall compel his joy to wait.
Never shall occur the worst,
Until he shall slay me first!
I may lose thee, that may be,
But I cannot lose and live:
Since my life I then must give,
Ere I come that hour to see,
The life that must abandon me
Is the price that buyeth thee;
Thou wilt then too surely be
The guerdon of a corse—for I
Shall be seen to pine and die
Through envy, love, and jealousy.
Enter three Christian captives with the Infante DON FERNANDO.
FIRST CAPTIVE.
From the royal gardens near,
Where we work, we saw your Grace
Lately going to the chase,
And together we come here,
At your feet, in tears, to throw us.
44
'Tis the only consolation
Heaven doth grant our situation.
THIRD CAPTIVE.
It, in this, doth pity show us.
FERNANDO.
Friends, come, let my arms enfold you;
And, God knows, if I, with these,
Could your necks a moment ease
Of the knots and bonds that hold you,
They would give you liberty,
Even before myself. But heaven
May this punishment have given
As a favour, it may be,
As a blessing, if we knew it.
Fate may better grow ere long;
No misfortune is so strong
But that patience may subdue it.
Bear with that whatever sorrow
Time or fortune makes you see;
For that fickle deity,
Now a flower, a corse to-morrow,
Ever changing o'er and o'er—
Yours may alter in a trice;
But, O God! to give advice
To the needy, and no more,
Is not wisdom. I would give
Gladly aught that would relieve you,
But, alas, I've naught to give you;
You the want, my friends, forgive.
I, from Portugal, expect
Succour—it will quickly come;
Yours will be whatever sum
May be sent for that effect.
45
If they come to lead away
Me from slavery, I say
That you all must come with me:—
Go, in God's name, to your tasks,
No offence, your masters giving.
FIRST CAPTIVE.
Lord, to know that thou art living,
Is the only joy that asks
Our enslavement.
SECOND CAPTIVE.
May the years
Of the Phenix be but few
To those granted unto you,
Gracious lord, to live.
The captives go out.
FERNANDO.
With tears
Must the soul refuse relief,
Which their wretched state demands,
Bearing nothing from my hands;
Who will succour them? What grief!
MULÉY.
I have stood with admiration,
Seeing the humane affection
With which you the deep dejection
Of these captives' situation
Have relieved.
FERNANDO.
My grief was shown
Truly for the hapless state
Of these captives. By their fate
I may learn to bear my own;
It may be, perhaps, that some
Day the lesson I may need.
46
Says your Highness this indeed?
FERNANDO.
Born an Infante, I have come
To be a slave; and thus, I fear,
That from this, I yet may know
Even a lower depth of woe;
For the distance is less near
From an Infante, a king's brother,
And a captive, than can be
'Twixt degrees of slavery.
One day followeth another,
And thus sorrow follows sorrow,
Pains with pains thus intertwine.
MULÉY.
Would no heavier pain were mine!
You, your Highness, may to-morrow
(Though to-day you here remain
In a brief captivity),
Your dear native country see;
But for me all hope is vain,
Fortune never will be seen
To grow kinder unto me,
Though the moon less fickle be.
FERNANDO.
At the court of Fez I've been
Now some time, yet you have not,
Of the love you once confest,
Told me aught.
MULÉY.
Within my breast
Lie the favours I have got;
47
But to friendship's laws I bow,
Without breaking of my vow,
I a little may reveal:—
Without equal is her scorn,
So the grief my heart doth prove,
For the Phenix and my love
Were without their fellow born.
In seeing, hearing, and concealing
A Phenix, is my every thought;
A Phenix every love-distraught
Apprehension, fear, and feeling;
It is a Phenix that doth ope
The source of every pain and tear.
To feel I merit her yet fear,
A Phenix also is my hope.
The passion that I late revealed
Is now the Phenix I discover;
Thus, as a friend, and as a lover,
I both have spoken and concealed.
Exit.
FERNANDO.
With heart as skilful as discreet,
He thus his lady's name makes plain,
But if a Phenix be his pain,
I with it cannot compete:—
Mine is but a common pain,
And calmly should be borne as such,
Many have endured as much
Without boasts or wailings vain.
Enter the KING.
KING.
By this mountain's brow, your Highness,
Have I to overtake you ridden,
That before the sun in coral
And in pearly clouds is hidden,
48
In the meshes might admire,
For a circle now is closing
Round it by the huntsmen.
FERNANDO.
Sire,
Every moment art thou planning
Means of pleasing me. If this
Is the way thy slaves thou fêtest,
They will not their country miss.
KING.
Captives of such rare endowments,
That they to their owner pay
Highest honour, is the reason
They are treated in this way.
Enter DON JUAN.
DON JUAN.
Come, my lord, unto the sea-shore,
And behold the fairest creature
That the hand of art e'er fashioned,
Or the mystic power of nature.
For, but now, a Christian galley
To our port has come; so fair,
That although her darkened bulwarks
Black and mournful colours wear,
Still, the wonder is how sorrow,
Thus, the eye, like gladness, charms.
From her topmasts gaily flutter
Portugal's emblazoned arms;
Since their Infante is a captive,
Thus they mourn his slavery—
Thus express the people's sorrow,
Though they come to set him free.
49
No, my friend, Don Juan, no;
This is not their cause of mourning,
If they came to set me free,
On the faith of my returning,
Joyful would their signals be.
Enter DON ENRIQUE dressed in mourning, and holding an open paper in his hand.
ENRIQUE
(to the King).
Let me, mighty lord, embrace thee!
KING.
May your Highness' years endure;
FERNANDO
(to Don Juan).
Ah! my death is sure, Don Juan.
KING
(to Muléy).
Ah! Muléy, my joy is sure!
ENRIQUE.
Now that of your royal welfare,
I, your presence may believe;
Thou wilt, to embrace my brother,
Mighty monarch, give me leave.
Ah! Fernando!
They embrace.
FERNANDO.
My Enrique,
Ah! what garb is this?—but stay,
Fully have your eyes informed me,
Nothing need your tongue now say;
Do not weep: if 'tis to tell me
Ever must my slavery be—
50
Thanks you should have asked from me,
And in place of grief and mourning
Worn a gala festal suit.
How is my lord, the King? If well,
Nothing can I dread:—thou'rt mute!
ENRIQUE.
Since our sorrows, when repeated,
Doubly touch affliction's chord,
I desire that you should feel them
Only once. Attend, great lord,
To the King.
For, although a rustic palace
This wild rugged mountain be,
Still, I ask you give me audience,
To this captive liberty,
And attention to my tidings.
Torn, and tempest-tossed, the fleet,
Which, with empty pride, so lately
Trod the waves beneath its feet,
Leaving here in Africa—
Thine and his own thoughts the prey—
The Infante's person taken,
Back to Lisbon took its way.
From the moment that King Edward
Heard the tragic news he pined,
For his heart was covered over
With a sadness, and his mind
Passing from the melancholy
Which oppressed it first, gave way
To a lethargy, and dying,
Gave the lie to those who say
Human sorrows are not mortal—
(Ah! how vainly this is said!)
For our brother, Don Fernando,
For the King himself is dead!
51
Woe is me! how dear hath proved
My detention!
KING.
This misfortune,
Allah knows, my heart hath moved.
Continue:—
ENRIQUE.
In his will when dying,
Thus, my lord, the King did say:—
That for the Infante's person
Ceuta should be given straightway;
Thus it is, that with full powers
From Alphonso I have run
(He the rising star of morning
That supplies the absent sun)
Hither, to yield up that city;
And since .....
FERNANDO.
Ah! do not proceed;
Cease, Enrique, for such language
Is unworthy, not indeed
Of a Portuguese Infante,
Of a knight that doth profess
Christ's religion, but of even
The most vile, whose barbarousness
Never was illuminated
By Christ's everlasting laws.
If my brother, now in heaven,
In his will did leave this clause,
It was not that you should read it
Strictly, but he meant thereby,
That he so desired my freedom:
All proper methods you should try,
Whether peaceable or warlike,
52
For, to say, “Surrender, Ceuta,”
Is to say, to set him free
Prodigies should be effected.
Can it be? Oh! can it be,
That a just and Catholic monarch
Could surrender to a Moor
A fair city which did cost him
Even his own blood to secure;
When, with sword and buckler only,
On its ramparts he was first
To unfurl our country's standard?
And even this is not the worst:
But a city that confesses
The true Catholic faith in God,
Which has raised so many churches,
Consecrated to his laud,
With affection and devotion;—
Would it like a Catholic be?
Were it zeal for our religion?
Were it Christian piety,
Or a Portuguese achievement,
That these sovereign temples, which
Are the Atlases of Heaven,
All their golden glories rich,
Where the sun of grace is shining,
Should give place to Moorish shades,
And that their opposing crescents,
Through the churches' long arcades,
Thus should make these sad eclipses?
Is it right the sacred walls
Of their chapels become stables,
And their holy altars stalls?
Or if this should not so happen,
Turn to mosques! My cheek gross pale;
Here my tongue grows mute with horror,
Here my frightened breath doth fail,
Here the anguish overwhelms me;
53
Such a thrill, my heart is cloven,
And my hair doth stand on end,
And my body trembles over,
For it was not the first time
Stalls and stables gave a lodging
Unto God. But oh! the crime
Of becoming mosques! It seemeth
Like an epitaph—a wide
Mark of infamy undying—
Saying, Here did God abide,
And the Christians now deny it,
Giving it a gift instead
To the demon! Scarcely ever
(As is ordinarily said)
Does a man offend another
In his own house. Can it be,
Crime should enter thus God's mansion,
To offend him there; and we—
We ourselves become his escort—
We admit his impious rout—
And, to let the demon enter,
Driving the Almighty out?
And the Catholics, there dwelling
With their goods and families,
Must prevaricate henceforward
With the faith, or peril these.
Were it proper to occasion
This contingency of sin
By our conduct? And the tender
Little ones that dwell therein,—
Were it right, these helpless Christians,
From the Moors, through our neglect
Should adopt their rites and customs,
And grow up as of their sect
In a miserable thraldom?
Is it right, one life should cost
Many lives? and that one being
54
Who am I? Am I then greater
Than a man? for if to be
An Infante makes distinction,
I'm a slave. Nobility
Cannot be a slave's adornment.
I am one; then wrong is he
Who doth call me an Infante.
And, if so, who gives advice,
That the poor life of a captive
Should be bought at such a price?
Death is but the loss of being,—
I lost mine amid the fight;
That being gone, my life departed,—
Being dead, it is not right
That so many lives should perish
For the ransom of a corse!
So, these vain and idle powers,
Thus I tear without remorse.
Tears the paper.
Let them be the sunbeam's atoms,
Or the sparkles of the fire,—
No, 'tis best that I devour them,
For my soul doth not desire
That there should survive a letter
Which would tell the world, the brave
Lusitanian spirit ever
Thought of this. I am thy slave,
And, O King, dispose and order
Of my freedom as you please,
For I would, nor could accept it
On unworthy terms like these:
Thou, Enrique, home returning,
Say, in Africa I lie
Buried, for my life I'll fashion
As if I did truly die:—
Christians, dead is Don Fernando;
Moors, a slave to you remains;
55
Who to-day doth share your pains:
Heaven, a man restores your churches
Back to holy calm and peace;
Sea, a wretch remains, with weeping
All your billows to increase;
Mountains, on ye dwells a mourner
Like the wild beasts soon to grow;
Wind, a poor man with his sighing
Doubleth all that thou canst blow;
Earth, a corse within thy entrails
Comes to-day to lay his bones.
For King, Brother, Moors and Christians,
Sun, and moon, and starry zones,
Wind and sea, and earth and heaven,
Wild beasts, hills—let this convince
All of ye, in pains and sorrows,
How to-day a constant Prince
Loves the Catholic faith to honour,
And the law of God to hold.
If there were no other reason,
But that Ceuta doth enfold
A divine church consecrated
To the eternal reverence
Of the Conception of our Lady,
Queen of heaven and earth's events,
I would lose, so she be honoured,
Myriad lives in her defence.
KING.
Thankless, thoughtless, both of us,
And of the great pride and glory
Of our kingdom; Is it thus
You deprive me, you deny me
What my heart desires so much?
But if in my realms you govern
More than in your own, can such
56
But that I may now engrave
On your mind, you are my captive,
I will treat you as my slave,—
That your friends here, that your brother,
To their eyes may give belief,
That you kiss my feet as vassal.
Fernando kneels at the King's feet.
ENRIQUE.
What misfortune!—
MULÉY,
aside.
Oh! what grief!
ENRIQUE.
What calamity!
JUAN.
What anguish!
KING.
Now thou art my slave.
FERNANDO.
'Tis true,
Small in this, though, is your vengeance,
For as if all mankind do,
Man one day doth leave earth's bosom,
'Tis but to return to her
At the end of various journeys;
But to thank you, I prefer
To reproachings. Since you teach me,
Even in this way, how best
By the shortest road to reach to
My eternal wished-for rest.
57
Being now a slave, you cannot
Titles hold, or rents possess;
Ceuta now is in thy power,
If, as slave, thou dost confess
That as master I am thine,
Why not, therefore, give me Ceuta?
FERNANDO.
Because 'tis God's, and is not mine.
KING.
Is it not a well-known precept,
That a slave in all things must
Be obedient to his master?
Be so now.
FERNANDO.
In all things just,
Heaven, no doubt, commands obedience,
And no slave should fail therein;
But, if it should chance, the master
Should command the slave to sin,
Then there is no obligation
To obey him: he who sins
When commanded, no less sinneth.
KING.
Thou must die.
FERNANDO.
Then life begins.
KING.
That this blessing may not happen,
Rather dying live: thou'lt see
I can be cruel.
FERNANDO.
And I patient.
58
Thou'lt never gain thy liberty.
FERNANDO.
Thou'lt never be the lord of Ceuta.
KING.
Ho! there.
Enter SELIM.
SELIM.
My lord?
KING.
Immediately
Let this captive here be treated
Like the others: let him be
Laden neck and feet with fetters;
Let him tend my horses' stall,
And the baths and gardens; so that
He be humbled as are all;
Let him wear no silken dresses,
But poor lowly serge instead;
Let him eat black bread, and swallow
Brackish water; let his bed
Be in dark and humid dungeons,
And to all who on him wait,
Let this sentence be extended:—
Hence remove them!
ENRIQUE.
What a fate!
MULÉY,
aside.
How unmerited!
JUAN.
What sorrow!
59
Now I'll see, 'twixt thee and me,
Barbarian, if thy patience lasteth
Like my wrath.
FERNANDO.
Yes, thou shalt see,
For with me it is eternal.
He is led out.
KING.
Enrique, as my hand is given,
I permit thee to withdraw,
And to Lisbon, back returning,
Leave the sea of Africa;
Say at home, that their Infante,
Their Grand Master, dwells with me,
Occupied about my horses,
Let them come to set him free.
ENRIQUE.
They will do so. If I leave him
In this wretched misery,
And my heart bleeds, that I cannot
In it his companion be,
'Tis because I hope the sooner,
Coming in an army's van,
To return to give him freedom.
KING.
Well, thou'lt do so, if you can.
MULÉY,
aside.
Now has come a fit occasion
All my gratitude to show,
Life I owe unto Fernando,
And I'll pay the debt I owe.
Exeunt.
60
SCENE II.
—THE KING'S GARDEN.Enter SELIM and DON FERNANDO dressed as a slave, and in chains.
SELIM.
The King commands that you assist
In this garden; do thou not resist,
Disobeying what he hath decreed.
Exit.
FERNANDO.
My patience shall his cruelty exceed.
Enter some Christian captives; one sings while the others dig in the garden.
FIRST CAPTIVE
sings.
To the conquest of Tangiers,
'Gainst the tyrant king of Fez,
The Infante Don Fernando
Did the king, his brother, send.
FERNANDO.
There's not a moment but my story will
The sorrowing memory of mankind fill!
I am sad and troubled sore.
SECOND CAPTIVE.
Captive, why to sorrow thus give o'er?
Do not weep—be cheerful—the Grand Master
Said, he would bring from out of this disaster
Back to his country every captive here.
FERNANDO,
aside.
How soon this cheering hope must disappear!
61
Console yourself, and trust to fortune's powers,
Assist me now to irrigate these flowers,
Take thou two pails, and water bring this way
From yonder pond.
FERNANDO,
aside.
I struggle to obey:—
A fitting burden have you bid me bear,
Since it is water that you ask me, which my care
Sowing sorrows, cultivating sighs,
Can fill from out the currents of mine eyes!
Exit.
SECOND CAPTIVE.
To the prison quarters they are leading
Other captives.
Enter DON JUAN and other captives.
JUAN.
Let us look with careful heeding,
If these shady gardens screen him,
Or, perchance, these captives may have seen him,
For when in his company,
Less our sorrow and our grief will be,
And more our consolation:
Tell me, friend, and may heaven compensation
Grant you for it! Have you seen his grace
Fernando, the Grand Master, working in this place?
SECOND CAPTIVE.
No, friend, him I have not seen.
62
Scarcely can I, my tears and sorrow screen.
THIRD CAPTIVE.
I repeat, they ope our prison bounds,
And lead new captives to these garden grounds.
Enter DON FERNANDO carrying two pails of water.
FERNANDO,
aside.
Mortals, do not wonder at surveying
A grand master of Avis, an Infante, playing
Such an ignoble part; for Time
Oft acts these tragic scenes upon his stage sublime.
JUAN.
It is my lord!—but oh! 'tis past belief
I see your Highness in this state: with grief,
Within my breast, my heart doth burst in twain!
FERNANDO.
May God forgive you, for the unconscious pain,
Don Juan, you have caused in thus revealing
Who I am. I hoped, my rank concealing,
Among my countrymen to live unknown,
And make their wretched poverty my own.
FIRST CAPTIVE.
My lord, for pardon I most humbly sue,
Being but now so rude and blind to you.
THIRD CAPTIVE.
Let me embrace your feet, my lord.
63
My friend,
Arise: these ceremonies now must end.
JUAN.
Your Highness.....
FERNANDO.
Highness! how can one be so,
Condemned to lead a life so meanly low?
See that an humbler name I crave,
For I will live among you as a slave,
Only as an equal and a friend
I must be treated.
JUAN.
Why does Heaven not send
Its dreadful bolt to crush me with the slain?
FERNANDO.
A man of noble soul should ne'er complain
Of fate, Don Juan: who distrusts in heaven?
Now an example should by us be given
Of prudence, valour, fortitude, my friend.
Enter ZARA with a basket.
The lady Phenix hither doth descend,
And commands, with flowers of various shade,
A garland for this basket should be made.
FERNANDO.
I hope to bring them to her, presently;
First in this pleasing service let me be.
FIRST CAPTIVE.
Let us, at least, assist you as you cull.
ZARA.
Here I await you, while the flowers you pull.
64
Pay me no idle courtesy,
Henceforth your pains and mine must equal be.
And if our sight to-day a difference strike,
Death comes to-morrow and makes all things like.
It were not wisdom, then, but cause of sorrow
Not to do now what must be done to-morrow.
Exeunt the INFANTE and the Captives, they following him respectfully.
Enter PHENIX and ROSA.
PHENIX.
Have you ordered they should choose me
Some fresh flowers?
ZARA.
I so have ordered.
PHENIX.
In my troubled and disordered
State, their colours may amuse me.
ROSA.
Lady, I in wonder lose me,
Seeing fantasies continue
Thus to melancholy win you.
ZARA.
What controls thee thus, what law?
PHENIX.
Ah, it was no dream I saw
When I lay with frozen sinew,
But my own impending woe.
When a wretch doth dream with pleasure
That he owns some wished-for treasure,
Zara, I avow and know
65
But if he continues dreaming
That his fortune hath forsaken,
And that ruin hath o'ertaken,
Though both good and evil wind
Through his dreams, the wretch doth find
But the last when he doth waken!
Thus will be my fate; ah! me,
Pitiless, without remorse.
ZARA.
What remaineth for a corse,
If now you mourn thus piteously?
PHENIX.
Ah! 'tis the fate reserved for me.
The guerdon of a corse!—what eye
Ever saw such misery?
Naught remains to me but sighs;
Must I be a corse's prize?
Who will be that corse then?—
Enter FERNANDO with the flowers.
I!
PHENIX.
Who is this, O heavens! I view?
FERNANDO.
What disturbs thee?
PHENIX.
Hearing, seeing
Such a wretched state of being?
FERNANDO.
I can well believe that true:
Wishing, lady, upon you
66
I have brought thee flowers, whose beauty
Typifies my fate, Señora;
They are born with Aurora,
And they perish ere the dew.
PHENIX.
When this marvel came to light
It was given a fitting name.
FERNANDO.
Is not every flower the same
That I bear thee in this plight?
PHENIX.
It is true, but say whose spite
Caused this novelty?
FERNANDO.
My fate.
PHENIX.
Is it then so strong?
FERNANDO.
So great.
PHENIX.
You afflict me.
FERNANDO.
Do not grieve.
PHENIX.
Why?
FERNANDO.
Because a man doth live
Death and fortune's abject mate.
67
Are you not Fernando?
FERNANDO.
Yes.
PHENIX.
Changed by what?
FERNANDO.
The laws that wring
Captive souls.
PHENIX.
By whom?
FERNANDO.
The King.
PHENIX.
Why?
FERNANDO.
My life he doth possess.
PHENIX.
To-day I saw him thee caress.
FERNANDO.
And yet he doth abhor me now.
PHENIX.
How can it be that he and thou
So late conjoined, twin stars of light,
But one short day could disunite?
FERNANDO.
These flowers have come to tell thee how.—
68
At early dawn, when stars began to set—
At eve they leave us but a fond regret,—
Locked in the cold embraces of the night.
These shades that shame the rainbow's arch of light,
Where gold and snow in purple pomp are met,
All give a warning, man should not forget,
When one brief day can darken things so bright.
'Tis but to wither that the roses bloom—
'Tis to grow old they bear their beauteous flowers,
One crimson bud their cradle and their tomb.
Such are man's fortunes in this world of ours;
They live, they die, one day doth end their doom.
For ages past but seem to us like hours!
PHENIX.
Horror, terror, make me fear thee;
I nor wish to see nor hear thee.
Be thou then the first of those
Whose woe hath scared another's woes.
FERNANDO.
And the flowers?
PHENIX.
If they can bear thee
Emblems of mortality,
Let them broken, scattered be;—
They must know my wrath alone.
FERNANDO.
For what fault must they atone?
PHENIX.
Like to stars they seem to me.
FERNANDO.
Then you do not wish them?
69
No;
All their rosy light I scorn.
FERNANDO.
Why?
PHENIX.
A woman is, when born,
Subject to life's common foe,
And to fortune's overthrow,
Which methought this star did figure.
FERNANDO.
Are the stars like flowers?
PHENIX.
'Tis so.
FERNANDO.
This I do not see, although
I myself have wept their rigour.
PHENIX.
Listen.
FERNANDO.
Speak, I wish to know.
PHENIX.
These points of light, these sparkles of pure fire,
Their twinkling splendours boldly torn away
From the reluctant sun's departing ray,
Live when the beams in mournful gloom retire.
These are the flowers of night that glad Heaven's choir,
And o'er the vault their transient odours play.
For if the life of flowers is but one day,
In one short night the brightest stars expire.
70
Even from this flattering spring-tide of the skies,
'Tis good or ill, as sun or star survives.
Oh! what duration is there? who relies
Upon a star? or hope from it derives,
That every night is born again and dies?
Exit.
Enter MULÉY.
MULÉY.
Until Phenix had departed,
Here I hid me from her sight,
For the most adoring eagle
Flieth sometimes from the light;
Are we now alone?
FERNANDO.
Yes.
MULÉY.
Hear me!
FERNANDO.
Brave Muléy, what is thy will?
MULÉY.
That you know—that faith and honour
Warm a Moorish bosom still.
I know not how first to speak of,
How to think of, such a crime!—
How to tell the pain I've suffered
For this fickle frown of Time!
For this ruin, this injustice!
This dark boon that Fortune grants,
This, the world's most sad example,—
This inconstancy of chance!
But I run some risk if people
See me speaking here to thee,
71
Is the king's proclaimed decree;
And thus, leaving to my sorrow
What my voice would fain repeat,
Let it tell, I come to throw me,
As thy slave, before thy feet.
I am thine, and thus, Infante,
I come here, but not to show
Favour to a fallen foeman,
But to pay the debt I owe!
The existence you have given me
I return thee, for indeed
A good action is a treasure
Guarded for the doer's need:
And since here I stand foot-fastened
By the unseen chains of fear—
And above my neck and bosom
Knife and cord hang threatening near—
I desire, in briefest language,
To inform you in one word,
That to-night I will have ready
By the shore, a vessel moored,
Full equipped; and in the loop-holes
Of the cells, I shall prepare
Instruments, which will unfasten
Those unworthy chains you wear.
On the outside of your dungeons
I myself the locks will break;
So that you and all the captives
Prisoned now in Fez, may take
Your departure for your country;
And be certain, that I stay
Here in Fez secure from danger;
Since I easily can say
That they overpowered their masters,
And escaped amid the strife.
Thus we two will put in safety
I my honour, you your life;
72
The King's ear, I let thee fly—
He will treat me as a traitor;
But I shall not grieve to die:
And as money may be needful
To conciliate the will
Of those near you, see these jewels,
Golden treasures amply fill
Their minute, but rich proportions;
This, Fernando, is the way
That I give to thee my ransom,
Thus my obligation pay.
For a true and noble captive
Ne'er should rest, until he bring
Payment back for such a favour.
FERNANDO.
I would wish indeed to thank you
For my freedom; but the King
Cometh to the garden.
MULÉY.
Has he
Seen you with me?
FERNANDO.
No.
MULÉY.
If seen,
'Twere suspicious.
FERNANDO.
Of these branches
I will make a rustic screen,
Which will hide me while he passes.
Conceals himself.
73
KING,
aside.
Ah! in secret stand Muléy
And Fernando! why in seeing
Me, does one thus go away,
And the other thus dissemble?
There is some concealment here,
Be it certain or not certain,
I must be secure from fear
Of all treason. [Aloud.]
I am happy......
MULÉY.
Lord, I greet thee on my knee.
KING.
Here to find thee!
MULÉY.
Speak thy orders.
KING.
Much it grieves me, not to see
Ceuta mine.
MULÉY.
Then to its conquest,
Crowned with wreaths of laurel, wend;
For their swords against thy valour
Badly can its walls defend.
KING.
By a more domestic warfare
I expect to gain my end.
MULÉY.
In what manner?
74
In this manner,
I, Fernando's pride must bend,
Giving him such rigid treatment
That he must, or swiftly die,
Or to me surrender Ceuta;
Know then, friend Muléy, that I
Have some cause to fear the person
Of the Grand Master not secure,
Now in Fez. The captives, seeing
Him dishonoured thus, and poor,
Will, I do not doubt, soon murmur,
And break out in mutiny:
Were this not so, it is certain
Powerful interest has he;
And the strongest cells will open
Ever to a golden key.
MULÉY,
aside.
I desire now to confirm him
In the thought that this can be,
That he may have no suspicion
Of myself. [Aloud.]
It seems to me
You are right—they mean to free him.
KING.
There remains one remedy,
That my power may not be outraged.
MULÉY.
And it is, my lord?
KING.
To thee—
To thy charge, Muléy, to trust him—
To thy care and custody—
Let not fear nor interest move thee,
75
Thou art the Infante's guardian,
Look to it, thou guard him well,
In what circumstance soever
You must be accountable.
Exit.
MULÉY.
Without any doubt, our concert
By the King was overheard:
Bless me, Allah!
Enter FERNANDO.
What afflicts thee?
MULÉY.
Have you heard him?
FERNANDO.
Every word.
MULÉY.
Then why is it that you ask me
What afflicts me? Suffering
In a blind and dark confusion,
And, between my friend and king,
Seeing friendship thus and honour
With each other combating;
If to thee I should be loyal,
I to him must traitor be;
If to him continue faithful,
Fail in gratitude to thee.
What then can I do? O heavens!
At the very time I came
To restore you to your freedom
He my confidence should claim,
Thus the better to secure thee.
76
Of our secret is discovered
By the King himself! From thee
Do I ask advice and counsel,
Tell me what I ought to do?
FERNANDO.
Brave Muléy, both love and friendship
Are inferior to those two—
Loyalty and upright honour.
No one equals to a king,
He alone himself doth equal;
This then is my counselling:
Heed not me, but serve him truly,
And that you may disregard
Any fears about your honour,
I myself will be its guard.
Should another come to offer
Freedom, I do promise thee
Not to take it—that your honour
Rest inviolate with me.
MULÉY.
Do not counsel me, Fernando,
As loyally, as courteously;
To you, I know, my life is owing,
And that to pay you is but right.
And so, the plan that I projected,
I will prepare against the night;
Be thou free, my life remaineth
Here to suffer in the stead
Of thy death: secure thy freedom,
After that I nothing dread.
FERNANDO.
Were it just that I should be
So tyrannic, and so cruel
With the man that pities me?
77
Who to me is giving life?
No: and thus I wish to make you
Umpire of my cause and life.
Do thou give me counsel also;
Ought I take my liberty
From a man who stays to suffer
In my place? and let him be
Cruel to his dearest honour?
What do you advise?
MULÉY.
I know not
Which to say, or yea or nay;
If the latter, it will grieve me
That I e'er that word could say;
If the former—there is something
In my bosom that doth tell,
That in saying “yes” unto thee,
I do not advise thee well.
FERNANDO.
So advise; my God obeying,
And what his religion says,
I a constant Prince will show me
Here in servitude in Fez.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
| The Constant Prince | |