University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—THE GARDEN OF DON GUTIERRE'S VILLA.—NIGHT.
Enter JACINTA, conducting DON ENRIQUE.
JACINTA.
Silently advance.

ENRIQUE.
I scarcely
Place my feet upon the ground.

JACINTA.
'Tis the garden we have entered:—
Since the night with dusky mantle
Wraps your Highness round, and since
Now Don Gutierre lieth
In his prison, there's no doubt
But that you can safely compass
Love's so gentle victories.

ENRIQUE.
If the liberty, Jacinta,
I have promised thee, appears
Small reward for such a service,
Ask me more, I'll not refuse,
Since to thee I am indebted,
From this hour, for life and soul.

JACINTA.
Here my lady is accustomed
To descend, to spend a portion
Of the cool, calm summer night.

ENRIQUE.
Hush! oh, hush! another sentence
Do not add, because I tremble
That the very winds should hear us!

JACINTA.
That I may avoid suspicion
By my absence, and avoid
Needless blame, I think it better
Now to leave you.

[Goes into the house.
ENRIQUE.
Love encourage
My attempt. These verdant leaves
Will conceal and screen me wholly;
For I will not be the first,
Who, beneath such shelter, cheated
Even the solar rays: Actæon
With Diana exculpate me.

[Conceals himself.
Enter DOÑA MENCIA with her attendants.
MENCIA.
Jacinta! Silvia! Theodora!

JACINTA.
Your orders, Lady?—

MENCIA.
Here bring lights,
And a while with me remaining,
Labour to divert my sorrow
For the absence of my husband,
Now that nature doth presume
These delicious grounds to darken:—
Theodora!

THEODORA.
Lady mine!

MENCIA.
With your gentle voice divert me
From my sadness.

THEODORA.
I shall gladly
Sing your favourite words and tune.
[The lights are placed upon a small table, Doña Mencia reclines upon a sofa beside it, and Theodora sings.]
Nightingale, whose joyous strain
Gladdens all these sleeping flowers,
Oh! depart not from these bowers,
For thy absence gives me pain!

[While the song is continued and repeated, Doña Mencia falls asleep.]
JACINTA.
Sing no more, for see, sweet slumber
Hath poured out upon her soul
Rest and peace; and since her troubles
Have this calm asylum found,
Let us leave and not awake her.

THEODORA.
Yes, in silence leave her here.

JACINTA,
aside.
Thus I act, that he may freely
Venture forth to seek her now;—
O ye servants! what unnumber'd
Noble and illustrious houses
Have been lost by means of you!

[Exeunt Jacinta and the others.
DON ENRIQUE,
advancing.
She remains alone. No longer
Doubt should cloud such happiness;
Oh! I must not let this moment
Pass without the happy chance
That the time, the place secure me:—
Fairest Mencia!

MENCIA,
awaking.
Heaven defend me!

ENRIQUE.
Be not frightened;—

MENCIA.
Who is this?

ENRIQUE.
One whose daring must be pardoned
For his many years of hope.

MENCIA.
You, my lord! ...

ENRIQUE.
Oh! be not troubled!

MENCIA.
In this way to ....

ENRIQUE.
Nor alarmed:—

MENCIA.
Dare to enter ....

ENRIQUE.
Nor be angry.

MENCIA.
This my house, without the fear
That you may destroy the honour
Of a woman, and a noble,
Generous vassal's pride offend.

ENRIQUE.
I but follow your own counsel,
Since you counselled me to hear
The excuses of that lady:—
And I hither come to learn
How it is you exculpate you
From the wrongs my love hath borne.

MENCIA.
Ah! 'tis true, I was in error;
But if I would deign to give
Any reason for my actions,
Does your highness doubt, 'tis only
For my honour's sake alone?

ENRIQUE.
Can you then presume, I know not
The respect that is your due,
From your blood and many virtues?—
A pretext of sport has led me
Here, a seeming hunter, now.
But 'twas neither fawn nor falcon
Wiled me forth ere dawn of day;
No, it was thyself, proud heron—
Thou, that soarest up so high
Through the azure fields of heaven,
That you seem to touch the golden
Balustrades that gleam and glisten
Round the palace of the sun.

MENCIA.
My lord, your highness doth correctly
Attribute to this cautious bird
The efforts you describe: the heron
Presumes so much upon its instinct,
That flying even up to heaven,—
A flash of feathers without light—
A bird of flame, with soul and spirit—
A wingéd cloud endued with instinct—
A dark-grey comet without fire;
It seeks by every means to baffle
The strong wings of the royal hawks:—
Nay, 'tis said, although it flies from
All the falcons that pursue,—
It doth know, amid the many,
In whose talons it must die;
And before the final struggle
Is commenced, it trembles o'er—
Throbs its boding heart with terror,
And on ruffled plumage flies:—
Thus at seeing here your highness,
I stand mute and motionless—
Full of terror—full of horror—
Since my fear cannot ignore—
Since no doubt can terror leave me
Who it is will cause my death.

ENRIQUE.
To speak with you I came hither,
Time and chance must not be lost.

MENCIA.
That the heavens this wrong should suffer!
I shall cry for aid.

ENRIQUE.
And so,
Be thy honour's worse defamer.

MENCIA.
Oh! will not the wild beasts come
To protect me with their favour?

ENRIQUE.
No, they fear to wake my wrath.

DON GUTIERRE,
within.
Coquin, hold the reins, while I
Alight: knock loudly at the gate.

MENCIA.
O heavens! my bodings come too late!
My end of life at length draws nigh,
'Tis Gutierre!—What a fate!

ENRIQUE.
Born for misfortune I must be!

MENCIA.
What, my lord, becomes of me
If he meets you?—what his ire?

ENRIQUE.
Say what can I do?

MENCIA.
Retire.

ENRIQUE.
Retire? conceal myself before
The face of any man?

MENCIA.
Much more
A woman's honour doth require:
You cannot go—(my life is o'er!)
Since my servants, little knowing
All the evil they were doing,
Have reclosed the garden door:
Now you cannot go away.

ENRIQUE.
How to act in this confusion......

MENCIA.
In this arbour's green seclusion
Lies a room of mine, you may
There conceal you.

ENRIQUE.
Until now,
I a notion ne'er could have
What was meant by fear. How brave
Ought a husband feel?

[Conceals himself.
MENCIA.
And how
Timid ought the guilty be,
When a guiltless woman even
Dreads the angry wrath of heaven,
Nor can shun adversity?

Enter DON GUTIERRE, COQUIN, and JACINTA.
GUTIERRE.
Dearest, let my fond caresses
Once and many a time enfold thee!

MENCIA.
Envy, I cannot withhold thee
From my heart, whose happy place is
In the midst of such embraces.

GUTIERRE.
Said you not, that I would fly
To see you?

MENCIA.
And to prove thereby
The firm fond heart your breast doth cover.

GUTIERRE.
I do not cease to be thy lover,
My life, because thy spouse am I;
For that dear tie, so proudly pure,
Chills not affection's tender core,
But ever feeds it more and more,
And makes its wavering pulse secure,
And doth, at every risk, procure
Means, the belovéd form, for seeing,
And closer binds his grateful being.
He who holds the Alcaide's station,
Being a friend and a relation,
Has, my body's prison freeing,
Thrown it round my soul, for he
Gives me in this secret way
The happy privilege to pay
This hurried visit unto thee.

MENCIA.
What a joy it is!

GUTIERRE.
To me—
Although if I deliberate,
The boon he gave was not so great
To let me hither come to thee,
Because in my captivity,
My soul, on unseen wings elate,
Had flown to thee in chainless flight—
Joy of my heart! 'twas only right
That for the period I should be
Wholly captive, or wholly free,
And thus my life and soul unite;
For otherwise in tiresome strife,
With all division's sorrows rife,
The two should seek a separate goal,
In one prison were my soul,
And in another were my life.

MENCIA.
Two instruments, I've heard it stated;
When strung and tuned in unison;
The dulcet notes evoked by one,
By echo are communicated,
Similarly modulated,
To the other, so that even
If you wake but one alone,
On the silent lyre, the tone
Which the skilful hand hath given
Is waken'd by the winds of heaven!
An equal concord doth appear
'Twixt blended hearts, how far or near,
This would experience soon declare,
For the same blow that struck thee there
Would reach and kill me even here.

COQUIN.
Señora, wont you give your hand
Unto a fellow-prisoner,
Who sighs and mourns and sheds the tear,
Without the power to understand
Why into tears he is trepanned?
And who his death is now awaiting,
Without the power of calculating
Why or when this grisly friend
Of mortals......

GUTIERRE.
Coquin, to what end?—

COQUIN.
'Tis my own end that I'm relating:—
But if the king, who doth admire
Your humble servant, in his ire
Puts you to death without remorse,
You'll be a sort of knight-errant corse,
Since you will bring with you a squire.

MENCIA,
to Gutierre.
You must partake of some collation;
Excuse my want of preparation,
No guest expecting now: and so
I go for this.

GUTIERRE.
A slave can go.

MENCIA.
Holds not the one who goes, that station?
Yes, I am one, and love to be:
Do thou, Jacinta, come with me:—
O fortune! fortune, be obedient,
[Aside.
Since this desperate expedient,
Honour, I but make for thee!

[Exeunt Doña Mencia and Jacinta.
GUTIERRE.
Coquin, here you must remain,
And a little while restrain
Your pleasantries: Remember we
Are bound by every tie to be
Back within our cell again
Ere the dawn, which now is nigh.

COQUIN.
I shall faithfully attend you,
But would wish to recommend you
A stroke of ingenuity—
The most subtle, the most high
Ever thought of amongst men,
Oh! how clever!

GUTIERRE.
Tell it then.

COQUIN.
By which safe and sound you may
Easily from prison stay.

GUTIERRE.
How?

COQUIN.
Never to go back again.—
Better wind and limb to save
Than keep the promise that you gave.
Safe and sound outside you've got;
Stay as you are.

GUTIERRE.
Upon the spot,
My hand shall kill thee, villain! knave!—
Dare you thus to counsel me
To act with such base treachery
Towards the Alcaide: in this way
His kind confiding to betray?

COQUIN.
No doubt, there's some perplexity;
But since I have become observant
Of the king's humour—fierce and fervent
Is my desire to escape his claws.
As to a breach of honour's laws,
No one will mind it in a servant;
But even so, I am, to-day,
Resolved to take the safer track,
To leave you here, and not go back.

GUTIERRE.
To leave me?

COQUIN.
And why not, I pray?

GUTIERRE.
And what of thee will people say?

COQUIN.
Must I then prematurely die,
To earn a word or two of praise?
If I could act like him who plays
At cards, who puts the small ones by,
Preferring for success to rely
On those of greater power and name;—
Then, my lord, for you I durst
Give up a few poor days at first,
Which afterwards I might reclaim:—
But is not life a different game?
The cards once gone, then all is gone;
How could I then get back the stake
That thus I perilled for thy sake?
As at piquet, death would have won
Every point to a hundred and one.

Enter MENCIA, exclaiming.
MENCIA.
Help! help! my lord.

GUTIERRE.
What mean these cries?
May heaven my love from danger shield!

MENCIA.
A man......

GUTIERRE.
Quick! quick!

MENCIA.
I found concealed
Within my room, whose face and eyes
Were hid beneath a thick disguise;
For this I called you.

GUTIERRE.
What do you say?
O Heavens! my very heart's congealed;—
Disguised in my house?

MENCIA.
The moon revealed
His presence.

GUTIERRE.
Coquin, lead the way,
Take the light with you.

COQUIN.
I?

GUTIERRE.
You may
Fear nothing, since with me you go.

MENCIA,
to Coquin.
Coward thou art, to tremble so!—
I shall conduct thee—draw thy sword;
Ah me! the light has fallen, my lord.

[She designedly drops the light, and they remain in total darkness.]
GUTIERRE.
No matter, I shall find my foe
Even in the dark: I go alone.

[While Don Gutierre enters the house by one door, Don Enrique, conducted by Jacinta, leaves it by the other.]
JACINTA.
Follow me, my lord, you may
Escape securely by this way,
Since all the house to me is known.

[As they go out at the opposite side, Don Gutierre returns, and meeting with Coquin, who is groping about in the dark, seizes him.]
COQUIN,
aside.
I can see neither stick nor stone.

GUTIERRE.
Ah! I have met the man!

COQUIN.
My lord,
Take heed, I pledge to thee my word ....

GUTIERRE.
By heavens! I shall not let thee go,
Until thy name and state I know,
Then thou shalt perish by my sword.

COQUIN.
But look! I am ....

MENCIA,
aside.
What speechless terror
Now doth my trembling soul affright!
Can it be he?

GUTIERRE.
What, ho! a light!
[Enter Jacinta, with a light.]
Who art thou, man?

COQUIN.
I've got no mirror,
But think I'm Coquin!

GUTIERRE.
What an error!
What a mistake!

COQUIN.
I told thee so.

GUTIERRE.
I heard and knew thy voice, although
I did not think thou wert the same
I held:—O blind abyss! O shame!
That I must tamely wait to know!

MENCIA,
aside.
Has he gone forth, Jacinta?

JACINTA.
Yes.

MENCIA,
to Gutierre.
Can thy absence have tempted this?
Look well through all the house, lest some
Who knew perchance thou wert from home,
Some thieves have dared this hardiness.

GUTIERRE.
I go to make suspicion clear:—
Kind heaven dispel the boding fear
[Aside.
That makes my heart feel chill and numb,
To think that any man should come
Into my house, and I not here!

[Exit with Coquin.
JACINTA.
That was a daring stroke, attended
With danger of a great disaster,
Which you now ventured with my master.

MENCIA.
More than my life on it depended.

JACINTA.
What was the object you intended?

MENCIA.
This was intended: to dispel
The clear presumption there would be
Of some arranged complicity—
If Gutierre's heart should feel
What I should die, or else conceal—
In such a strange perplexity,
I found but little difficulty
The simple project to conceive,
And thus make truth itself deceive.

[Don Gutierre returns from the house, holding a dagger concealed beneath his cloak.]
GUTIERRE.
Some mere illusive phantasy
Mocked you—some fancied form of air;
Through all the house I have gone with care,
Searched every room, but could not meet
The shadowy phantom of deceit
Which you but now imagined there:—
But I deceive myself:—ah! me—
[Aside.
This dagger, gracious heavens! which I
Found in her room—with jealousy
The herald of my fate must be,
Which a more fitting hour will see:—
My love, my life, I must away,
[Aloud.
For lo! the night, its cloak of grey
Loosely around its neck unties—
And like a trembling coward flies
Before the beauteous light of day;—
Ah! how I grieve it must be so,
Not only that I needs must go,
And longer leave you lonely here,
But worse—a prey to causeless fear.

MENCIA.
Will you not once your fond arms throw
Round her who loves you?

GUTIERRE.
Proud I may:—

[As he throws open the cloak, she perceives the dagger in his hand.]
MENCIA.
Ah! stay, my lord! in pity, stay!
Your dagger, is it turned on me?
I never have offended thee,
Turn then your vengeful hand away,—
Hold!

GUTIERRE.
What makes my Mencia fear?
My joy, my treasure, and my wife.

MENCIA.
At thus beholding you, my life
Seemed to depart: I did appear
Bathed in my blood to perish here.

GUTIERRE.
When lately through the house I flew,
This dagger from its sheath I drew.

MENCIA.
My very life is an illusion!

GUTIERRE.
'Twas but a fancy—a delusion.

MENCIA.
I never have offended thee.

GUTIERRE.
How needless this apology;
But often in a great confusion
We feel a fear we can't explain.

MENCIA.
My troubled sadness, as it seems,
Chimeras and unreal dreams
Doth picture on my heart and brain.

GUTIERRE.
To-night, I will return again
To see thee, if I can: adieu!

MENCIA.
May God, my lord, depart with you!—
Oh! what a fear my bosom pains!

[Aside.
GUTIERRE,
aside.
Ah! honour—honour, much remains
To say, but only 'twixt us two!

[They go out at opposite sides.

SCENE III.

—A HALL IN THE ALCÁZAR.
Enter the KING and DON DIEGO, the former carrying a shield, and dressed in a coloured cloak, which during the representation he changes for a black one.
KING.
Take this buckler, Don Diego.

DIEGO.
Late your majesty returns.

KING.
I have spent the night in going
All around this city's streets,
Wishing thus to know the nature
Of the many strange adventures
Which in such a place as Seville
Happens every night that falls:
That I thus may know the better
To prevent or punish crime.

DIEGO.
You do well, my lord, in this,
For a king should he an Argus,
Watching o'er the realm he rules,
And the eyes upon his sceptre
Should but symbolize his own.
Please your majesty, what saw you?

KING.
I saw many a sly gallant—
Many a waiting, watchful lady—
Music-ringing feasts and dancing—
Many gambling-houses, whence
Loud resounding voices published,
Better than the painted tablet,
Here is gaming, wanderer:
I saw bullies without number,
And there's nothing that so grieves me
As to see this crowd of bullies
Swagger openly, as if
They a lawful calling followed;
But that they should never praise me
For neglecting to examine
So important a communion,
I a troop of them encounter'd
In the open street alone.

DIEGO.
That was wrong, my lord,—imprudent.

KING.
No, 'twas right, because they carried
Blazoned in their blood from me ....

DIEGO.
What?

KING.
The charter of their body.

Enter COQUIN.
COQUIN,
aside.
I have not the tower re-entered
With my master, since I wish
To find out what says the public
Of his prisonment: but pause!
For the noblest dog stands yonder
Of the celebrated breed
Of the true Castilian mastiff—
'Tis the king himself—Don Pedro,
I must pause, his paws to shun.

KING.
Coquin!

COQUIN.
Majesty!

KING.
How goes it?

COQUIN.
I will answer like the student.

KING.
How is that?

COQUIN.
De corpore bene,
Sed male de pecuniis.

KING.
Tell me something pleasant, Coquin,
Since if you can make me laugh,
You a hundred crowns will pocket.

COQUIN.
It seems that we enact to-night
The famous comedy, entitled,
From your promise, “The Crown Prince;”
Notwithstanding all, I bring thee
Now a little tale, that neatly
Endeth in an epigram.

KING.
If 'tis yours, it must be truly
Elegant: unfold the tale.

COQUIN.
I saw yesterday a eunuch,
On his getting out of bed,
Put a cover on his whiskers;
Laugh now at the bare idea!
Seeing so much needless care
On a crop of such poor promise
Made me make the epigram:—
I don't ask thee, mighty Pedro,
For houses or vineyards,—all I ask
Is that you, by way of earnest,
Will your blessed laughter give
Unto a bashful gracioso;—
Floro, your house must needs be poor
And badly furnished all within,
Since in this way you're forced to pin
A lying ticket on the door.
Can there be rind without the core?
Good nuts without the kernel?—no.
He cannot reap who cannot sow,—
Why then waste time? A harvest yields
The ploughing of the fallow fields,
But fallows faces never—no!—

KING.
A cold conceit:

COQUIN.
A hot one, rather.

Enter DON ENRIQUE, the Infante.
ENRIQUE.
Give me your hand, my lord.

KING.
Infante,
How do you find yourself?

ENRIQUE.
Quite well;
Content, my liege, if I but find you
In the good health that I enjoy:—
And now, my lord, permit my asking
For Don Arías ....

KING.
He, I know,
Has the privilege of your friendship;
Free him from prison then, and thou
Make them again be friends, Enrique,
Since 'tis to you they owe their lives.

[Exit.
ENRIQUE.
May thine own by Heaven be guarded
Until thou makest even of time
A never-ending bright inheritance!
Don Diego will please to go
To the tower, and to the Alcaide,
And command him, hither to bring
Both his prisoners.
[Exit Don Diego.
The heavens give me
Patience under misfortunes like these,—
And prudence amid so many evils:
Coquin, I perceive you are here.

COQUIN.
I would be better away in Flanders.

ENRIQUE.
Why?

COQUIN.
The king is a prodigy
'Mong all the animals on the earth.

ENRIQUE.
How?

COQUIN.
Because indulgent Nature
Doth permit the bull to bellow,
The lion to roar—the ox to low—
The ass to bray—the bird to warble—
The dog to bark—the cat to mew—
The horse to indulge himself in neighing—
The wolf to howl, and the pig to grunt,
But man alone it only permitteth
To laugh, and Aristotle thus,
As the most perfect definition,
Calls him the laughing animal:—
But the king, 'gainst the order of nature,
And sometimes of art, doth never laugh.
Grant me, Heaven, to draw but one chuckle
Out of his throat, the pincers of wit!

Enter DON GUTIERRE, DON ARÍAS, and DON DIEGO.
DIEGO.
Behold, my lord, I bring to thee
The prisoners.

GUTIERRE.
Thy feet we kiss.

ARÍAS.
You raise us to the skies by this.

ENRIQUE.
The king, my gracious lord, to me
Has given, what with humility
I asked for, both your lives to-day:
Once more be mutual friends, I pray.

GUTIERRE.
Thus honour is conferred by thee.
[He perceives that the sword of the prince is of the same design as the dagger which he found in Mencia's apartment.]
But what is this, O God! I see?

[Aside.
ENRIQUE.
Shake hands.

ARÍAS.
Behold I lead the way,
Here then is mine.

GUTIERRE.
And mine: all traces
Of our late difference now must lie
Hid 'neath the friendly knot we tie,
'Till death the twisted bond displaces.

ARÍAS.
And may these mutual embraces
Confirm the friendships that they show.

ENRIQUE.
It gladdens me that this is so:—
As cavaliers the strife begun,
As cavaliers you both have done
All that nice honour bade you do:—
'Tis therefore right that you should be
True friends, and he who now will dare
This to deny, had best prepare
In deadly fight to answer me.

GUTIERRE.
The friendships which, my lord, for thee
I now rewaken, must endure,
I my obedience shall procure,
Nor can I doubt that you will give
This crowning honour, to believe
That of me you may be sure:—
A potent enemy are you,
And leaving loyalty apart,
Fear were enough to keep my heart
From breaking what it swore to do:—
You and I 'gainst some other two,
Oh! 'twere delightful then to show
To all the world, how well I know
Obedient to my word to be;—
But with you for an enemy—
Oh! who would dare to venture?—who?—
So much would fear my senses scare—
So strangely darken and control
My cautious and attentive soul,
That it would not have power to dare
To look at you:—If unaware
My sword should ever cross with thine,
Such fearful instinct shall be mine,
Such terror shall o'ercloud mine eyes—
That I must fail to recognise
Your grace, though noontide's sun may shine.

ENRIQUE,
aside.
In those hints and sighs I trace
The clearest marks of jealousy:—
Come! Don Arías, I with thee
[Aloud.
Have business in another place.

DON ARÍAS.
I attend upon thy grace.

[Exeunt Don Enrique, Don Diego, and Don Arías.
GUTIERRE,
alone.
Enrique answered naught, and so
Even by his silence he doth show
My fear is not an idle guess:—
Can I bewail my grief?—ah, yes!
But to console my anguish, no:—
I am now alone, and therefore
Can commune with my own mind:—
Is there one, O God! that knoweth
To reduce to one discourse—
Or to heal with one idea
Such a numerous host of evils—
Such a progeny of pain,
That in coward crowds assail me—
That in daring troops surround:—
Now, oh! now's the moment, valour,
That the soul its wail repeating,
Tombed in burning tears and sighs,
Cometh to the open portals
Of the soul, which are the eyes:—
And indeed, on this occasion,
Eyes, you fitly melt in weeping,
That you may wash out my shame!—
Now, my valour, now's the moment,
You can prove how well you know
For the curing of my honour
To call prudence to thy aid:
But a truce to barren feeling,
Forced by honour, forced by valour,
I must not thus weakly yield me
Up to mere complaints and sighs;
He but dallies with his grievance
Who but asks for its redress;—
Let me first think o'er the matter—
It, perchance, can be explained:
Oh! I ask of God to grant it,
Would to God it may be so!—
'Tis true, last night, when unexpected,
I went home,—but then the doors
Opened quickly, and in quiet
Found I there my tranquil wife.
Then the sudden exclamation
That a man was in the house,—
Strange, no doubt, but still remember
That 'twas she who told me so:—
But the light, too, was extinguished—
Yes, but still what proof have I
That, indeed, it did not happen
Through an actual accident?—
Next, the question of this dagger—
It is possible it may
Have been left there by a servant,
And although (oh! woe is me!)
In its fashion, it resembles
Closely the Infante's sword,
Other swords it may resemble,
As the form is not so strange
But a thousand more may have it:
Deeper let me sift the matter,
And confess (ah! me) that it
Was the Infante's—nay, even further,
That he was himself there hid,
Though my hot eyes could not see him;
But supposing all this true,
Still may Mencia be guiltless?
Gold, that magic master-key,
In the bribed hand of a servant
Opens wide the closest doors:—
Oh! how glad I am for having
Found this subtle argument;—
So, abridging our reflections,
Let us make the points converge
Thus, that Mencia is Mencia,
And that I am who I am;—
Nothing could a moment tarnish
Light like hers so bright and pure;
If I thought so, it were error,—
Then a cloud could stain the sun,
Which it dulls not, though it troubleth,
Nor eclipses, though it chills:—
What unrighteous law would punish
Innocence with pains and death?—
But still, honour, thou'rt in danger,
There is not an hour but may
Bring the crisis on: thou'rt living
In thy sepulchre, sustained
By a woman's breath, and treading
On the edge of thine own grave:—
I have now to cure thee, honour:
First, the symptoms clearly show
How excessive is the danger;
Let the first prescription be
To prevent all new infection,
And to drive the old one forth:—
So the Physician of his Honour
Thus prescribeth and ordains,
First, the sparing diet of silence,
To keep cool both tongue and mouth
By the gentle aid of patience.
Which doth mean, that you apply
To your wife all soft endearments,
Kindness, fondness, friendship, love,
Flatteries too, which are a powerful
Safeguard, that the fell disease
May not grow the more through harshness
For contentions and displeasures,
Insults, jealousies, suspicions,
As indeed they ought to do,
Ever give unto a woman
The disease they meant to cure.
I to-night shall seek my dwelling,
Secretly shall enter there,
To examine more minutely
The disease, and while inquiring,
To dissemble, if I can,
This misfortune, this affliction,
This extremity, this wrong,
This offence, this aggravation,
This amazement, this delirium,
This oppression, this affront,
Finally, this jealousy—
Jealousy! what have I uttered?
Badly, madly uttered:—back!
Back! again into my bosom
Fly that venom'd word! but no;—
For if it indeed be poison
That's engendered in my breast—
Since it did not kill in coming,
It might kill in going back.
As 'tis written of the viper,
That it dies by its own poison
If outside itself it meets it:—
Said I jealousy? Oh! said I
Jealousy? It is enough!
When, alas! a wretched husband
Comes to know that he is jealous,
Science then is unavailing,
Then remains the final cure
To be tried, to be applied by
The Physician of his Honour!

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

—THE HOUSE OF DOÑA LEONORE.
Enter DON ARÍAS and DOÑA LEONORE.
ARÍAS.
Do not think, fair Leonore,
That I meant not to come nigh thee,
Thereby meaning to deny thee
The great debt that, o'er and o'er,
Claims thy honour: no, I plead
Even its magnitude, the better
To explain why I, thy debtor
(Not to pay the debt indeed),
Have but now before thee come;
For 'twere folly, desperation,
To expect such obligation
Could be paid by any sum:—
Though I cannot pay the debt
Of atonement that I owe thee,
Still I venture here, to show thee
My repentance and regret.

LEONORE.
Señor, I must at once declare
I feel obliged for this, though you,
In the account betwixt us two,
Have scarcely struck the balance fair;
Though you deprived me, I confess,
Of a fond lover that I loved,
Still, the blessing you removed
May have increased my happiness
Since it is better lose even life—
Honour, fame, and reputation,
Than to assume the hapless station
Of an abhorred and hated wife.
I blame my destiny—not thee;—
'Tis true I feel a lasting pain,
But then I only must complain
Of evil stars.

ARÍAS.
This must not be:
No, beauteous Leonore, to take
This fault from me, is to remove
The chance of telling thee the love
I long have cherished for thy sake.
Then in the briefest, simplest way
Let me declare, nor thou reprove me,
That 'tis thy love that now doth move me
To come with trembling lips to say,
That since I have occasioned thee
So many griefs, such sorrows cost—
If a spouse through me you lost,—
Accept a husband now through me.

LEONORE.
Señor, with reason do I feel
The motive that compels thee now,
At such a moment, to avow
The choice your flattering words reveal;
But though I prize this act of thine,
You will permit me to reply
Respectfully, Señor, that I
Your courteous offer must decline;
For, though it were, at any time,
An honour, still, as you have said,
Through you was Gutierre led
To think me guilty of a crime
Against love's laws, and if he saw
Me married unto you, this fact
Following the former fancied act
Would proof from mere suspicion draw.
It were but wantonness to tempt
The censure of the world; so clear
The demonstration would appear
That I deserved its deep contempt:
No, I shall never yield the strong
Just privilege of complaint, that they
Who blame me now should have to say
I gave occasion for my wrong.
Then would the guilty party fill
The place from which the guiltless fell—
No one must think he acted well,
Who as I know did act so ill.

ARÍAS.
This reply of yours doth prove,
Fair Leonore, quite frivolous,
Since though it clearly proved 'tween us
The existence of an ancient love,
It, at the same time, blotteth out
The slightest shadow of a stain;
But see how worse you will remain
If he who now thy truth doth doubt,
Will still doubt on, and ne'er discover
The reparation that thy heart
Refuses?

LEONORE.
It is not the part
Of a wise or prudent lover,
Don Arías, to advise
What I feel is for my ruin;
For, the wrong that he is doing,
Naught can alter or undo;
Nay 'twere even worse, since he
From doubt would rise to certainty.
As little were it right in you
To act thus either.

ARÍAS.
As for me,
I, from my full confidence
In your bosom's innocence,
Ever satisfied will be;
In my life, I never knew
Any jaundiced jealous lover
Who in trifles could discover
Gravest faults, when married too,
That the Heavens did not chastise:—
Gutierre, Leonore,
Can on this point tell thee more,
He whose overwatchful eyes,
On a stranger's dwelling thrown,
Could a man detect, and be
Outraged so, had better see
What is passing in his own.

LEONORE.
Don Arías, I cannot hear
This falsehood or this bold untruth—
Don Gutierre is in sooth
The model of a cavalier,
One who knows on all occasions
How to live and how to die,
Making word and act comply
With his knightly obligations.
He, a man whose strong bright steel,
Whose sense of right as bright and strong,
Would ne'er have borne the slightest wrong
From an Infante of Castile;
If you thought by this address
Me to flatter, and awaken
Base revenge, you are mistaken:—
Nay, if I the truth confess,
You have lost your chance of me.
If a noble nature's token
You possess'd, you ne'er had spoken
In this way of your enemy;—
For though such my indignation
For his doubting me, I could
Wash out my insult in his blood,
A disloyal imputation
'Gainst his honour wounds me still.
Even for vengeance, time doth tell,
He who loveth once and well
Never seeks the lov'd one's ill.

[Exit.
ARÍAS.
I know not what reply to make:
In honour's schools it is confess'd
Woman's tongue can argue best,
I'm convinced by my mistake.
To the prince I shall direct
Now my steps, and humbly pray
That in his pursuits he may
Hence some other friend select.
Lo! his beams the day doth bury
Tombed within the western main.
I shall die ere I again
Seek the house of Gutierre.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

—THE GARDEN OF DON GUTIERRE'S VILLA BY NIGHT, AS IN THE FORMER SCENE. DOÑA MENCIA IS SEEN RECLINING UPON A COUCH ASLEEP, BESIDE HER IS A TABLE WITH A LIGHTED LAMP UPON IT. DON GUTIERRE IS SEEN DESCENDING FROM THE GARDEN-WALL, WHICH HE HAS CLIMBED.
GUTIERRE.
In the mute silence of this breathless night,
Which fills my breast with terror and delight—
Whose dusky shades, and glimmering stars, at strife,
Build the dark sepulchre of human life,
Here to my house in secret have I come—
Here I approach to Mencia and to home.
No tidings of my freedom reached her ear,
Lest (woe is me!) she should expect me here.
I call myself, Physician of my Honour,
Since I procure the cure of my dishonour.
And so I come, my visit here to pay,
At the same hour I did on yesterday,
To see if jealousy's sharp, sudden pain
Hath left the patient, or doth still remain.
For this I've leapt the garden's barrier o'er,
Lest I be seen when entering the door.
Oh God! what falsehood doth the whole world taint,
That no man dare examine his complaint,
Without the danger of perpetual fears!
Badly he spoke who said, the wretch has tears
To shed for his misfortunes. 'Tis untrue
That he who feels the jealous shaft pierce through
His heart can e'er be silent thereupon.
It may be, that that man has never known
What 'twas to feel that agony of pain;
But knowing that, he must perforce complain.
This is the place, within whose cool retreat
She loves at night to rest; and though the feet
Make no sharp echo 'neath those boughs of gloom,
Let us tread gently, Honour, since we've come.
For prying thus, beneath o'ershadowing leaves,
Oft jealous men must use the step of thieves.
[He sees Mencia sleeping.
Ah! fairest Mencia—ah! my gentle dove,
Badly you meet my constancy and love!
Another time I will return again;
My honour I find well, and freed from pain.
Now that 'tis so, it needs no other cure,
And in its health I feel myself secure.
But—not a slave attends upon her here—
Perhaps she watcheth for some stranger near;—
O, slanderous breath! vile terror! cruel thought!
Still this suspicion chains me to the spot,
And, till by sifting it, it pass away,
Here must my doubting footsteps lingering stay.
The light I quench, and treading through the night,
[Extinguishes the light.
Come doubly blind, bereft of sense and light.
My voice, too, sinks its usual pitch beneath;
And thus I whisper, with my gentlest breath—
Mencia!

[Awakes her.
MENCIA.
My God! Who's there?

GUTIERRE.
My love, speak low.

MENCIA.
Who's there?

GUTIERRE.
'Tis I. And does my life not know?

MENCIA.
Ah! yes, my lord, no other would have dared......

GUTIERRE.
She knows me, then. What agony is spared!

[Aside.
MENCIA.
To venture here. If any one but you
Did dare so much, this hour I would imbrue
My hands in the hot blood that warms his frame,
Defending thus my honour and my name.

GUTIERRE,
aside.
Oh! joy—how sweetly am I undeceived!
Well does he act who probes where he is grieved.
Mencia, dear Mencia, do not now persist
[Aloud.
In fear.

MENCIA.
How badly, terror, I resist
The feeling!

GUTIERRE.
Ever in my heart shall live
Your worth.

MENCIA.
Say what excuse, thou now shalt give?......

GUTIERRE.
None.

MENCIA.
For your highness daring to come here?

GUTIERRE,
aside.
Highness! Oh God, what word is this I hear?
She knows me not. I struggle once again
With doubt, misfortune, misery, and pain!

MENCIA.
Would'st thou a second time behold my death?
Think'st thou each night......

GUTIERRE,
aside.
I gasp—I faint for breath!

MENCIA.
Thou canst conceal thyself?

GUTIERRE,
aside.
O Heavens!

MENCIA.
And by
Extinguishing the light......

GUTIERRE,
aside.
Now let me die!

MENCIA.
At my extremest peril, from this place
Escape before Don Gutierre's face?

GUTIERRE,
aside.
I doubt my own existence, since I live;
And that my breath her death-stroke doth not give.
She does not chide the prince for being here:
No coyness doth she feel, but only fear,
Lest he, perchance (oh! bitter, bitter pain),
Should be compelled to hide himself again!
Oh! let my heart be firm, my hand be strong,
To make my vengeance equal to my wrong!

MENCIA.
My lord, I pray your highness to retire.

GUTIERRE,
aside.
Oh! God, I feel myself all rage—all fire!

MENCIA.
Risk not again your safety, I implore.

GUTIERRE,
aside.
Who for such care but would return once more?

MENCIA.
This hour, Don Gutierre I expect.

GUTIERRE,
aside.
Who would not now all patience quite reject?
Ah! only he who waits a fitting time,
To wreak his vengeance, and to punish crime!—
He will not come. I left him late to-day,
[Aloud.
Engaged in business. By the public way,
A friend of mine doth keep a strict look-out;
He will not come unnoticed, do not doubt.

Enter JACINTA.
JACINTA,
aside.
Trembling I come to see who speaketh here.

MENCIA.
Methinks I hear some footsteps drawing near.

GUTIERRE.
What shall I do?

MENCIA.
Retire, retire, your grace,
Not to my chamber, but some other place.

[Don Gutierre retires to the back of the stage.
JACINTA.
My lady!

MENCIA.
The cool air that trembling crept
Amid these whispering branches, while I slept,
Blew out the lamp: you may again retire
And bring a light.

[Jacinta goes into the house.
GUTIERRE,
aside.
Enkindled in my fire!—
If I remain here, when the light is shown
She must behold me, and then all is known,—
Because then Mencia will know
And understand my soul's overwhelming woe.
This can not be, I must at any price
Prevent the pang of being offended twice,
Once by the intent,
And once by the thought I knew, and could consent
Her well-earned death one moment to delay,
So I must needs dissemble in this way:—
[He advances and continues in a loud voice,
Ho! how is this? What, no one from the whole
Household attends!—

MENCIA,
aside.
Rejoice, my coward soul,
'Tis Gutierre, not the dreaded fate
You feared.

GUTIERRE.
No lamp lit yet, and it so late!

Enter JACINTA with a light. DON GUTIERRE advances as if from the garden-gate.
JACINTA.
Here is the light.

GUTIERRE.
Ah! Mencia, my dear wife!

MENCIA.
My husband! joy and glory of my life!

GUTIERRE,
aside.
Her false caresses strike my bosom chill,
But heart and soul we must dissemble still.

MENCIA.
How did you enter, my dear lord?

GUTIERRE.
This key
Through the small garden-gate admitted me;
My love! my life! but tell me how
You here enjoy yourself?

MENCIA.
I came but now
Down to this garden, where the winds of night,
Cooled by these fountains, have blown out the light.

GUTIERRE.
I do not wonder at it, darling mine,
Because the air that killed this light of thine
Was breath'd out by a zephyr wild and bold,
And then ran circling round so icy cold
That, of this, you need have little doubt,
Not lights alone, but lives it could blow out.
Had you slept then, my wife,
Its poisoned breath might have destroyed your life.

MENCIA.
I wish to understand you, but I find
Your thoughts too subtle, or too dull my mind.

GUTIERRE.
Have you not seen a burning flame expire,
Struck by the air, and quenched before your eyes,
Which, by the embers of another fire,
Is soon relit, while that which lights it dies?
Thus death and life the quick combustion finds,
And so the flattering tongue of wanton winds
May kill the light with thee,
And, the same moment, kindle it for me.

MENCIA.
'Tis plain, your words two meanings must conceal.
Can it be jealousy, my lord, you feel?

GUTIERRE,
aside.
Too soon my sorrows to my lips arise,—
But then the jealous never yet were wise;—
Jealousy? Know you then what jealousy is?
[Aloud.
As the Heavens live! I know no pang like this,—
For if I could, from any reason, know
What jealousy was ....

MENCIA,
aside.
Alas! O bitter woe!

GUTIERRE.
If I had grounds to fancy what may be
This phantom terror you call jealousy—
That it were more than a mere dream of night
That some poor slave or handmaid doth affright,
Whoe'er the object, I would cruelly tear
Out bit by bit the warm heart she doth bear;
Then as the quivering fragments came
Reeking with blood and liquefied in flame,
I would the red drops as they fell,
Drink with delight and eat the heart as well;—
Nay, her very soul I forth would snatch,
Which with a thousand wounds I would despatch,
If souls, by pain, can e'er be visitéd:—
But heavens! what words are these my lips have said?

MENCIA.
You overwhelm my trembling heart with fear.

GUTIERRE.
O God! O God! my Mencia, Mencia dear!
My good, my wife,—the glory of my skies!
Dear mistress mine, oh! pardon by thine eyes
This wild disorder, this strange burst of grief,
Which past conception, past all sane belief,
A mere chimera of the brain did cause,
Making my thoughts o'erleap all natural laws;
But by thy life, I swear to thee, my dear,
I still look on thee with respect and fear,
Yes, notwithstanding this my strange offence:—
Heavens! how I must have been bereft of sense!

MENCIA,
aside.
Fear, terror, dread, as if with poisoned breath
Breathe o'er my soul the pestilence of death.

GUTIERRE.
I called myself Physician of my Honour.
And in the earth shall bury my dishonour.

[Exeunt.