 | The Physician of his own Honour |  |
ACT III.
SCENE I.
—A HALL IN THE ROYAL PALACE.Enter the KING and his attendants, among whom is DON GUTIERRE, who advances.
GUTIERRE.
Pedro, the footsteps of whose throne
Are bathed by India's sun-bright sea,
Alone I wish to speak with thee.
KING
to his attendants, who retire.
Retire awhile: I am alone.
GUTIERRE.
Apollo of this Spanish zone—
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To whose strong shoulders, constantly
The mighty destiny is given
To bear the sapphire orb of heaven,
The diamond globe and pearly sea,—
To thee I come to lay the prize
Of life before thy feet, if I
Can call that life which seems to die
Each moment, stifled in my sighs—
Wonder not then, my lord, these eyes
Of mine are neither cold nor dry:
'Tis said that they whose bosoms prove
Worthy to feel the joys of love,
Or those of honour, still more deep—
Have the proud privilege to weep
Their sorrows, and no man reprove:—
Honour and love have both been mine—
Honour which I have always worn
As being a noble and well born;—
And love, which lately thou didst twine
My marriage, in those bonds of thine:
Thus rich by gain and inheritance,
I saw my happy days advance,
Till clouds that envied such a life,
Darken'd such splendour in my wife—
Such lustre in my confidence:—
But now my tongue can scarce evince
The cause of so much sorrow. Since
He against whom my wrong demands
Justice and rigour at thy hands,
Is your own brother—even the prince:—
Not that he may learn, dread sire,
That outraged honour in its ire
Knows not how to pause or cower,
Even in the regal front of power—
To him who feels that sacred fire
The bare conception will suffice:—
And so I hope by your advice
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And that prevention more than cure
May heal the anguish in a trice:—
For if I could, before I heal it,
From bad to worse increasing feel it,
Then would my wrath, in wilder mood,
Wash out the shameful stain in blood,—
And deep within the earth conceal it:—
Start not! the blood that I shall seek,
Must only trickle from this breast:—
Of Don Enrique be at rest—
On him no vengeance shall I wreak,—
Of that, this witness here shall speak—
This brilliant tongue of glittering steel—
This dagger which I now reveal,
Was his: ah! judge how safe is he,
When even his dagger trusts to me
The proud Infante of Castile!
KING.
Say no more, Don Gutierre,
For the man that Honour crowns
Every hour with never-vanquished
Garlands of respect and love,—
Garlands that in brightness rival
Even the rays of the sun—may live
Satisfied his honour......
GUTIERRE.
Do not,
Please your majesty, my lord,
Make me think that you imagine
I have need to be consoled
Ere my own good name I credit:—
Oh! I have a wife so honest,
Chaste and firm, she leaves behind
Roman Portia and Lucretia,
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But precautions.
KING.
Still precautions
Prove some danger threatens near;
What then saw you, Gutierre?
GUTIERRE.
Nothing, since men formed as I
Do not see—enough they fancy,—
Dream, foreshadow, or suspect,
Feel some instinct—some divining—
Some......I know not what to say:—
For no word could give the meaning
Of what I have felt and feel—
Feelings that resemble atoms—
Too minute to analyze:—
I your majesty consulted,
But for this one cause alone—
To avoid a threatened evil,
Not an actual one to cure;
Had it happened, you may trust me,
I myself would have prescribed
Remedies, instead of asking
Tardy cures at others' hands.
KING.
Since you call yourself Physician
Of your Honour, Gutierre,
Tell me what remedial measures
Have you taken up to this?
GUTIERRE.
Not a jealous word I've uttered
To my wife, but every moment
Seemed to love her more and more.
In a sweet and peaceful villa
Some leagues off she lately lived:
Thinking that, perchance, the lonely
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I to Seville moved my household,
And she now resideth here,
Where she now no more need envy
Those who share its gaieties,
For harsh treatment and reproaches
Are but used by common husbands—
Who when they have told their insults
Lose all further fear of them.
KING.
The Infante hither cometh;
If he sees you here, 'tis certain
That he will from that discover
You have told me your complaints:
But I call to mind another
Day, when one in mournful accents
Made the like complaints of thee—
How behind some flowing curtains
I concealed on that occasion
Her who made me those complaints;
And as similar diseases
Call for corresponding treatment,
Let it be repeated here,
As with you I am desirous
Now to do what then I did;
But be sure let nothing tempt you
To come forth, whate'er is said.
GUTIERRE.
Oh! my lord, thus humbly bending,
At your royal feet I kneel:
I will be the bird depicted
With a pebble in its bill.
[Conceals himself.
Enter the Infante DON ENRIQUE.
KING.
Just in time you come, Enrique,
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Since you find me......
ENRIQUE,
aside.
Oh! I tremble!—
KING.
Full of wrath.
ENRIQUE.
My gracious lord!
Say with whom? what crime compels thee?
KING.
With yourself, Infante—you.
ENRIQUE.
Then my life will be unhappy
If the sun that was its glory
Leaves it dead in dark eclipse.
KING.
Are you not aware, Enrique,
More than once a sword has wash'd out
Private wrongs in royal blood?
ENRIQUE.
For what end, my lord, what purpose
Asks your majesty?
KING.
For you,
You yourself, it is I ask it:
Honour is a sacred place
Which the soul alone inhabits—
I am not the king of souls,—
Saying this I've said sufficient.
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Still I understand you not.
KING.
If your love shows no amendment,
From this very moment ceasing
Vain impracticable efforts
To obtain a certain beauty
Whom a noble vassal's bosom
Loves with lawful sovereign sway,
Not our mutual blood shall save you
From my justice and my wrath.
ENRIQUE.
Though, my lord, your slightest precept
Is a law your tongue impresses
On my heart, as if 'twere written
In the ever-during bronze—
Hear at least my exculpation.
Never should it be forgotten
That a judge's equal ears
Should be open to both parties:—
Yes, my lord, I loved a lady—
For I know of whom you speak,—
Loved her well on slight foundation—
In a word, my lord, I loved her
To the extent......
KING.
And what imports it,
If she is beyond thy reach?
ENRIQUE.
True indeed, but then......
KING.
Be silent.
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Will you not, my lord, permit me
Offer an excuse?
KING.
There's none,
Since she is a peerless beauty
Without blemish.
ENRIQUE.
Beyond doubt:
But as time doth conquer all things,
Love may triumph over all.
KING,
aside.
God! how badly have I acted
In concealing Gutierre!—
Silence! silence!—
ENRIQUE.
Oh! incite thee
Not against me, knowing not
What has driven me on to act so.
KING.
Nay, I know it all right well:—
What a terrible position!
[Aside.
ENRIQUE.
'Tis my right, my lord, to speak:
Yes, I loved her when a maiden—
Who by that is injured?—say,—
Ere a vassal......
GUTIERRE,
aside.
Ah! unhappy!
ENRIQUE.
Took this lady as his wife—
I......
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You must not dare to tell me:
Silence! silence! since I know
You have feigned some wild chimera
Merely to excuse thy fault.—
Come Infante, come Infante,
Let us put an end to this—
Tell me, do you know this dagger?
ENRIQUE.
On returning to the palace
Late one night, I found that I
Had it not.
KING.
And then you know not
Where it was that it was lost?
ENRIQUE.
No, my lord.
KING.
I do: 'twere easy
Where 'twas found to have enstained it
With the best blood of your breast,
If he was not, he who found it,
The most true and loyal vassal
Ever owned by prince or king:—
See you not what noble vengeance
Seeks the man, who though offended
Thus surrenders arms and breast?
Do you see the gold inlaying
Of this dagger's glittering blade?
'Tis an hieroglyph that speaketh
Your offence; of you it comes
To complain, and I must hear it:—
Take its bright steel from the sheath
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You will see your faults.
ENRIQUE.
My lord,
Think, that in your wrath you treat me
So severely, that disturbed......
KING.
Take the dagger.
[Enrique takes the dagger, but in his confusion wounds the king's hand.]
Ah! what mean you,
Traitor?
ENRIQUE.
I?
KING.
What! with my blood
Will you thus your steel ensanguine?
Thou, the dagger which I gave thee
Wilt thou turn against my breast?
Do you then desire to kill me?
ENRIQUE.
Think, my lord, of what you say,
So confused am I......
KING.
So daring
Even to me?—Hold! hold, Enrique,
Turn its point away!—I die!
ENRIQUE.
Such a mournful misconception!—
It is best I now retire
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Even for life, that you again
Ne'er may form the dread delusion
That I meant to shed thy blood:—
I a thousand times unhappy!
[Flings the dagger from him and exit.
KING.
Heaven defend me! what is this?
What intolerable terror!
Bathed I saw me in my blood—
Dead I seemed!—What dismal fancy
Darkly circled me around,
With its horror-folding phantoms,
And with icy weight lay heavy
On my frozen heart and soul!—
God I ask, that these beginnings
May not come to such an end,
That with bloody inundations
All the world be not amazed!
[Exit.
GUTIERRE,
advancing.
Such a wonder is this day!—
So made up of dread surprises,
It is but a trifling matter
That the king forgot me here,
Ah! what words were those that reached me?
But why speak then with the tongue,
When my wrong can be but measured
By the miseries of my life?—
Let me then tear up the hapless
Root of so much woe at once:—
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With her blood her bridal bed!—
And since now this fatal dagger
Gives to me, a second time,
The Infante, with this weapon
Must the fatal deed be done:
[Takes up the dagger.
But 'twere wrong to make it public,
Since I know that secrecy
Ever gains the proudest conquests,
And an outrage which is secret
Doth demand a like revenge:
Mencia indeed must perish,
But the cause must not be known—
Ere the fatal moment cometh,
Heaven in pity take my life!
That I may not see the tragic
End of so much hapless love!—
Why, transparent fields of azure,
Why reserve your lightning bolts?—
Is it not full time to hurl them
Down—with burning points transfixing
Him who'll thank thee for the stroke?—
Skies too tranquil and too cloudless,
Have ye not a death to give
To a being so unhappy?—
Not one flash for such a wretch?
[Exit.
The historical reader need scarcely be reminded, that Don Pedro's presentiments were not without good cause, he having been eventually slain by the hand of his half brother Henry of Trastamara—the Don Enrique of this drama.
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SCENE II.
—A ROOM IN DON GUTIERRE'S HOUSE, IN SEVILLE.Enter DOÑA MENCIA and JACINTA.
JACINTA.
Señora, what deep source of sadness
Darkens thy beauty and denies thee gladness,
That day and night you can do naught but weep?
MENCIA.
The anguish that o'erwhelms me is so deep,
So full of doubtful terror, no allusion
Can ope this dark confusion on confusion,
Or this phantom fear dismember:—
Since that doleful night, if you remember,
When at our country-house residing,
I, Jacinta, unto thee confiding
My secret troubles, came and told to thee,
How Don Enrique spoke but then to me,
When (I know not how my grief to tell)
You said that that was quite impossible—
For at the time I said he spoke to me
He in another quarter spoke to thee:
I am sad and tearful,
Doubtful, distracted, timorous and fearful—
Thinking it must necessarily be
Gutierre who did speak to me.
JACINTA.
Could such an error happen thee without
Thy knowing?
MENCIA.
Yes, Jacinta, now I cannot doubt,—
'Twas night and in low whispering words he spoke,
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And thinking 'twas the prince's voice I heard,
Easily the mistake might have occurred.—
Besides to see him smile and hear him groan,
Joyful with me and weeping when alone,—
The prey of troubles and dark jealousies
Which make such fatal friendship with the eyes,
That from them they nothing can conceal—
All make my heart foreboding terrors feel.
Enter COQUIN.
COQUIN.
Señora.
MENCIA.
Well, what message do you bear?
COQUIN.
To tell its purport I can scarcely dare,—
Don Enrique the Infante......
MENCIA.
Coquin, cease—
No more that name shall scare my bosom's peace,
No more shall waken my scarce slumbering woe,
So much I fear it and abhor it so.
COQUIN.
The message that I bear thee do not fear,
'Tis not of love.
MENCIA.
In that case I shall hear;
Say on.
COQUIN.
Señora, the Infante—who
Was so bootlessly in love with you,
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With the king, his brother; the narration
Should you perchance demand it
I cannot tell, as I don't understand it,—
And if I did, among forbidden things
With jesters, is the sacred talk of kings,—
This by the way:—Enrique summoned me,
And thus addressed me with great secrecy:—
To Doña Mencia speedily depart,
And bear this message to her on my part,—
Tell her that her tyrannous disdain
From me the favour of the king hath ta'en,
And drives me from my native land,
A mourning exile, to a foreign strand—
Where every hope of life shall fly,
Since there, by Mencia hated, I shall die.
MENCIA.
What! must the prince, the favour of the king,
And even his country, lose through me?—a thing
To strike the proudest reputation down!—
Oh! I shall be the babble of the town!—
What shall I do? O Heavens!—
JACINTA.
Be sure,
My lady, it is better to prevent than cure
This evil.
COQUIN.
Yes, how can she? pray explain
JACINTA.
By asking the Infante to remain:—
For if on thy account he leaves this place,
As now is whispered, thy unjust disgrace
Will be made public—since whate'er compels
A prince's absence, rumour ever tells
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The why and wherefore.
COQUIN.
How shall this request
Come to his ears, if off in thought he flies
Booted and spurred, and bearing countless sighs?
JACINTA.
By my lady writing to him now
A letter which will simply tell him how
Her reputation doth require that he
Go not away: and if brought back by thee
Will reach him in full time.
MENCIA.
Alas! although
To palter with one's honour is, I know,
A dangerous experiment—to me
The writing of this letter seems to be
The only hopeful thing that I can do;—
And if an ill, the lesser ill of two,—
If any ill of mine can be called light:—
Both here remain, while I go in and write.
[She draws a curtain aside, and enters an adjoining apartment. The curtain closes behind her.]
JACINTA.
Coquin, how comes it that from day to day
You grow more sad—you once so light and gay?
Say, what can be the sudden cause of it?
COQUIN.
Why, I attempted to become a wit,
For my misfortune, and have got all over
A hypochondria I'll ne'er recover.
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A hypochondria? and what is that?
COQUIN.
'Tis an infirmity the sick world gat
A year or two ago, unknown before—
'Tis one of fashion's fevers and no more;—
From which, fair friend, no lady can excuse her,
Or should she catch it not, to him who wooes her,
She mourning comes, and says to him some day,
Bestow a little hypochondria:—
But my master enters now the room.
JACINTA.
My God!—I fly to tell her he has come.
Enter DON GUTIERRE.
GUTIERRE.
Hold! hold, Jacinta, stay!
Why do you fly my presence in this way?
JACINTA.
I meant but quickly to proclaim
Unto my lady, that your lordship came
Into the house.
GUTIERRE,
aside.
O race of servants! ye
The fostered foes of every family!—
They seem perplexed by my abrupt intrusion:—
Come, tell me what's the cause of this confusion?
Why would you so have fled?
[To Jacinta.
JACINTA.
My lord, I meant to announce, as I have said,
Your coming to my mistress.
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aside.
She doth seal
Her lips—perchance this other may reveal
The truth:—You Coquin, as you are aware,
Have been my trusted servant firm and fast—
Be now obedient to my earnest prayer—
Tell me, good God! quick, tell me what has pass'd?
COQUIN.
My lord, I'd grieve if I but knew a tittle
That I had learned and could reveal so little—
Please God! my master......
GUTIERRE.
Do not speak so high:—
Why were you so disturbed, when I came nigh?
COQUIN.
We're easily frightened—both our nerves are weak.
GUTIERRE,
aside.
With signs, I see them to each other speak;
No feeble cowardice must now be shown:—
Both of you leave me.
[Exeunt Coquin and Jacinta.
Now we are alone,
My honour, you and I, we now must go
At once to end my rapture or my woe:—
Who ever saw a grief like this arise
That hands must kill while tears bedew the eyes!
[He draws the curtain, and Mencia is seen writing at a table—her back is towards him.]
Mencia is writing; I am driven to see
To whom she writes, and what the theme may be:
[He advances cautiously and seizes the letter; Mencia starts up and with a sudden exclamation faints away.]
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O God! O Heaven! assist me in my woe!
GUTIERRE.
She lies a living statue of cold snow!—
[Reads.
“I pray your highness”—Ah! since he is high,
Low on the ground, my honour thou must lie!—
“Do not depart” ......No more my voice impart
This hated prayer that he should not depart:—
So freely now I yield me to my fate,
I almost thank my woes they are so great!—
But shall I now her senseless body slay?
No, I must act in a more cautious way—
First all my servants I must send elsewhere,
That then companioned only by my care
Alone I stay: And she, my hapless wife,
Whom more than all in my unhappy life
I truly loved—I now desire in this
Final farewell—this trembling o'er the abyss
Of death and judgment—she should feel once more
My care, my pity ere her life be o'er—
That latest care affection's zeal supplies,—
That the soul die not when the body dies.
[He writes some lines upon the letter, which he places upon the table, and then leaves the apartment.]
MENCIA,
recovering.
Oh! avert! avert! thy vengeful sword!—
Think me not guilty, my beloved lord,—
For Heaven doth know that I die innocent!
What furious hand! what bloody steel is bent
To pierce my heart! Oh! hold!—thy wrath assuage,
Nor slay an innocent woman in thy rage;—
But how is this? Ah! me, I am alone,
And is he gone? hath Gutierre flown?—
Methought—and who would not have thought with me?
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O God! this fainting, when I gasped for breath,
Was the foreshadow of impending death!—
The illusive truth I doubt and yet believe!—
This letter I shall tear.
[She takes up the letter.
But what do I perceive?
Some writing of my husband placed beneath,—
I feel it is the sentence of my death!
[Reads.
“Love adores thee, but honour abhors thee; and
thus while one condemns thee to death, the other
gives thee this admonition: thou hast but two hours
to live—thou art a Christian,—save thy soul, for as
to thy life it is impossible.”
No one replies, another fatal fear!—
Is there no servant waiting? I shall know.—
Ah! me, the door is locked, I cannot go:
No one in all the house appears to hear me—
Terror and horror shuddering come more near me!
These windows too are barred with iron railings,
In vain to vacant space I utter my bewailings—
Since underneath an outstretch'd garden lies,
Where there is none to heed my frantic cries—
Where shall I go? O whither shall I fly,
Girt by those shades of death that darken heart and eye!
[Scene closes.
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SCENE III.
—A STREET IN SEVILLE.—NIGHT.Enter the KING and DON DIEGO.
KING.
Has Enrique then departed?
DIEGO.
Yes, my lord, he went this morning
Forth from Seville.
KING.
I believe, that
With an arrogant presumption,
He imagined that he only
Could of all the world, defy me:—
And he went.....?
DIEGO.
To Consuegra,
I presume.
KING.
What! to the Infante
The Grand-Master there? their union
Will result in plotting vengeance
Against me.
DIEGO.
They are your brothers:
As their brother they must love thee,
As their king they must respect—
Bound by double bonds of nature
To obey thee.
KING.
And Enrique
Bringeth whom as his companion?
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Don Arías.
KING.
His old friend.
DIEGO.
Down the street there's music sounding.
KING.
Let us then approach it nearer;
What is sung, perchance may gently
Calm my mind.
DIEGO.
Sweet music ever
Is an antidote to ills.
MUSICIANS
sing within.
The Infante Don Enrique
Took his leave of the king to-day:
May God bring to a happy issue
Both his grief and his going away.
KING.
What a mournful voice! Diego,
At the street-end intercept them:—
He must not escape inquiry
Who such dark forebodings sings.
[Exeunt at opposite sides.
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SCENE IV.
—A CHAMBER IN DON GUTIERRE'S HOUSE. AT THE BACK SCENE IS AN ANTE-CHAMBER, THE ENTRANCE TO WHICH IS COVERED BY A CURTAIN.Enter DON GUTIERRE, conducting LUDOVICO, a Surgeon, whose eyes are bound.
GUTIERRE.
Enter without any fear;
Now 'tis time that I unfasten
From your face this needful bandage,
And that I conceal mine own.
[He loosens the bandage and conceals his own face in his cloak.]
LUDOVICO.
God preserve me!
GUTIERRE.
Be not frightened,
Whatsoe'er you see.
LUDOVICO.
My lord,
From my house this night you drew me
Forth, but scarcely had we entered
On the street, when with a dagger
Pointed at my breast, you forced me
Tremblingly to do thy bidding,
Which was to conceal and cover
Up my eyes, and then to yield me
To thy guidance, and you led me
Onward by a thousand windings,
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On my loosening not the bandage;—
Thus an hour I have gone with you
Without knowing where I wandered—
Lost in speechless admiration
At so serious an adventure;—
But now more disturbed and wondering
Do I feel, to find me standing
In a house so richly furnished—
Where there seems no living inmate
But yourself, and you, too, hiding
Close your face within your mantle:—
What's your wish?
GUTIERRE.
That you await me
Here alone for one brief moment.
[Goes into the ante-chamber.
LUDOVICO.
What mysterious termination
Can conclude so many wonders?
God protect me!—
[Don Gutierre comes forth from the chamber, and draws the curtain aside.]
GUTIERRE.
It is time
That you enter here; but listen
Ere you do so: this bright dagger
Will be instantly enamelled
With the best blood of your bosom,
If you disobey my orders;
Come, and look within this chamber:
What do you see in it?
LUDOVICO.
An image
Of pale death—an outstretch'd body,
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At each side a lighted candle
And a crucifix before it,—
Who it is I cannot say,
As the face is covered over
With a veil of tafeta.
GUTIERRE.
To this living corse—this body
Which you see, you must give death.
LUDOVICO.
What are your orders?
GUTIERRE.
That you bleed her—
Freely let the blood flow forth,
Drop by drop the life-stream watching—
Standing by her purple bed-side
Firmly through the horrid scene,
Till from out the little puncture
She doth sink and bleed to death.
Answer not, 'tis vain and useless
To attempt to move my pity—
If you wish to live, obey me.
LUDOVICO.
Oh! my lord, such terror thrills me,
Though I hear you, I have not
Any strength to do thy bidding.
GUTIERRE.
He who, forced by sternest fate,
Dares discharge so dread a duty,
Will know how to kill thee too.
LUDOVICO.
'Tis life's instinct that compels me.
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You do well to yield to it,
Since the world holds many persons
Who but only live to kill:—
From this spot I can behold you—
Ludovico, enter in.
[Ludovico enters the ante-chamber.
This was the most subtle method
To dissemble my affront—
If 'twere poison, it were easy
To investigate the cause—
If 'twere by a wound—the death-mark
Never wholly could be hid:—
Now, her natural death relating,
I can say, a sudden cause
Made the bleeding necessary:
No one can deny that statement,
If it is quite possible
For a band itself to loosen:—
And to have observed the caution
With this man that I have used,
Was required: for if uncovered
Here he came, and saw a woman
Whom he was compelled to bleed—
Then how strong were the presumption:—
Now he cannot even say,
If he speaks of this adventure,
Who the woman was he bled:—
And moreover when I bring him
Forth some distance from my house,
I feel strongly moved to kill him.
I, Physician of my Honour,
Mean to give it health and life
By a bleeding—since now all things
At the cost of blood are cured.
[Exit.
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SCENE V.
—THE STREET.Enter the KING and DON DIEGO at opposite sides. The song is continued by the same voices.
MUSICIANS,
within.
To Consuegra hath departed
The Infante of Castile—
Who knows what scenes may yet be acted
Among the mountains of Montiel?
KING.
Don Diego!
DIEGO.
Sire!
KING.
'Tis certain
They are singing in the street;
Shall we not their names discover?—
Can it be the wind that speaks?
DIEGO.
Do not deign, my lord, to notice
Idle songs like those we hear—
Since to anger you, no better
Can be heard through Seville's streets.
KING.
Two men are advancing hither.
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True, we now can have an answer;
It to-day may be important
To find out who these may be.
Enter DON GUTIERRE, conducting LUDOVICO blindfolded as before.
GUTIERRE,
aside.
Ah! that Heaven should interfere,
To prevent the sure concealment
Of my secret's second key
By this wretch's death!—'Tis needful
I withdraw me from these two—
Nothing could be more disastrous
Than that they should know me now,—
Here I leave him for the present.
[Exit.
DIEGO.
Of the two, my lord, advancing
Hither, one has gone, and one
Here remains.
KING.
For my confusion:—
Since if I can trust the glimmer
Which the pale moon dimly sheds,
Shapeless seem its form and features—
Rudely sculptured, like a bust
Roughly cut from snow-white jasper.
DIEGO.
Stay, I pray your majesty,
I will go to him.
KING.
Permit me,
Don Diego:—Man, thy name?
397
Two confusions are the reason
Why, my lord, I cannot answer:
First, the humbleness of one
In my lowly station feeleth
At conversing with his king.
[Takes off the bandage.
By your voice, my lord, I knew you—
It is a light that makes you known
Unto every one who hears it:—
And the second,—the most novel,
The most wonderful adventure
That the archives of the people
Chronicle in all their annals.
KING.
What has happened?
LUDOVICO.
To you only
Will I tell it—come apart.
KING.
Yonder wait me, Don Diego.
[Ludovico appears to address the king.
DIEGO,
aside.
What surprising circumstances
Have I seen this night! May God
Draw me from its further dangers!
LUDOVICO,
in continuation to the king.
I saw not the face, but only
Heard her mid repeated sobbings
Say, “I die in innocence—
May Heaven ask my life not of you;”
This she said and then expired:—
398
And by all the ways we entered
Issued forth again: and hearing
As we came along this street,
Some one speaking, left me in it:—
I forgot, my lord, to mention
That my hands bathed red and reeking
With the blood he made me shed,
I, pretending to support me
By the walls, impressed their marks
On the doorways as I issued:—
By which bloody signs 'tis easy
To find out the house.
KING.
'Tis well:—
Come and tell me when you find it,
And whatever else you learn;—
Take this diamond ring, present it—
By this token that I give thee,
You can enter and have audience
With me any hour you come.
LUDOVICO.
Heaven, my gracious lord, preserve you!
[Exit.
KING.
Don Diego, let us go.
DIEGO.
What hath happened?
KING.
An occurrence
Stranger than perhaps the world
Ever saw.
399
You seem dejected.
KING.
I must needs indeed be so.
DIEGO.
Then retire to rest: for morning
Now begins to shine amid
The golden clouds.
KING.
I have no power
To take rest, until I learn
Something that I must discover.
DIEGO.
Do you not perceive the sun
Rises brightly now? your person
Will be known.
Enter COQUIN.
COQUIN.
Although you kill me
For my having recognised you,
O my lord! I must speak with you,
Hear me!
KING.
'Tis no time for mirth:
Why this daring? this distraction?
COQUIN.
'Tis an honourable action,
Worthy one of nobler birth:—
For though classed among the mimes,
Jesters, jokers, daft, delirious,
Still, my lord, when things grow serious,
400
Hear me, 'tis no idle chaff,
But the gravest, the most deep,
For I wish to make thee weep,
Since I failed to make thee laugh:—
Gutierre, misinformed
By appearances, became
So unjust to his good fame
As to doubt his wife, and warmed
By suspicion, yesterday
Found her writing (sad mistake)
A request, for honour's sake,
To the Infante, that he'd stay
Some days longer here, and so
Save the breath of scandal blasting
Her good name, by falsely casting
Blame on her, that he should go:—
Guilelessly, without deceit
Asked she, as is known to me:—
Where she wrote it, noiselessly
Gliding in with coward feet,
He, the letter seized, and mocked
By the words whose sense he missed,
Jealously went mad, dismissed
All his servants, and then locked
Up himself with only her:—
I then pitying ('tis but human)
To behold a hapless woman
Persecuted by her star,
Hither come, my lord, to pray thee
That your strong and mighty arm
Save her from some fatal harm.
KING.
Tell me how can I repay thee
For this pity?
COQUIN.
Never after
401
The payment of my teeth, my lord.
KING.
This is not the time for laughter.
COQUIN.
When then is it?
KING.
Since the day
Now grows bright, and well 'tis so—
Let us, Don Diego, go:—
Since I thus the better may
Try a plan that I devise:
'Tis this moment to repair
To his house, and say that there
I would change this night disguise:
Being there, whate'er doth seem
Then indeed to be the fact,
I shall be prepared to act
As a king and judge supreme.
DIEGO.
Better plan was ne'er contrived.
COQUIN.
While you both have thus been speaking,
Here's the house that you are seeking:
At the door we have arrived.
KING.
Don Diego!
DIEGO.
What do you see?
402
See you not the bloody stain
Of a hand on the door?
DIEGO.
'Tis plain.
KING,
aside.
Gutierre evidently
Is the man to whom belongs
This night's unequalled tragedy;
How shall I act? Deliberately
Hath he satisfied his wrongs.
Enter DOÑA LEONORE and INES, veiled.
LEONORE.
I go to Mass, before the day,
In order to avoid the gaze
Of people in the public ways
Of Seville: that my sorrows may
Be quite forgot. But Ines, why
Stands that group yonder? 'Tis the King!
What to this house his grace can bring?
INES.
Draw close your veil till we pass by.
KING.
That precaution is unavailing,
Since you are known, fair Leonore.
LEONORE.
My lord, I drew my thick veil o'er
My face, that I might not be failing
In my respect: to be unknown,
Methought was your desire;—if not,
I would, my lord, upon the spot
My life before your feet have thrown.
403
Concealment is a thing, by Heaven!
Which would have rather suited better
Me than you: I am thy debtor
For injured honour, having given
Thee my word, without evasion
Or postponement to renew it;
Once again, I say I'll do it
On the very first occasion:—
DON GUTIERRE,
within.
Why, oh! why, unpitying Heaven,
Do you leave me thus despairing,
When one flash of thy red lightning
Could reduce me into dust?
[He rushes from the house.
KING.
What is this?
DIEGO.
Don Gutierre
Rushes frantic from his house!
KING.
Whither goest thou, Gutierre?
GUTIERRE.
To embrace thy feet, my lord:—
Hear the most extreme misfortune,
Of all tragedies the rarest
That man's wondering admiration
Ever blended with his fear.
My beloved wife, my Mencia,
She as chaste as she was beauteous,
She as fair as she was pure—
She whose praises time re-echoed—
She my Mencia, whom I worshipped
404
Saw herself this night prostrated
By a sharp and sudden illness,
Which, to prove that she was human
And not all divine, attacked her:
A physician who can boast him
Of the highest name and fame,
And who in the world doth merit
Never-ending deathless praises,
Quick prescribed for her a bleeding,
As he hoped to re-establish
By this means, the healthy action
Of the part thus sorely threatened
By an illness so important:—
So 'twas done; for I in person
Being the only one remaining
In the house, called in a surgeon,
All my servants being absent:—
When, my lord, I went to see her,
Hastening to her room this morning—
(Here my tongue grows mute with sorrow!
Here my trembling breath doth fail me!)
I beheld the bed empurpled
With her blood so sadly fatal,
And her white robe crimsoned over,—
And in it, O God! was lying
Cold and dead, my darling Mencia,
Having bled to death at night;
Which doth prove how very easy
Can itself a bandage open.
But ah! me, why thus presuming
Strive I to reduce to language
Such a sorrowful misfortune?
Turn your pitying gaze then yonder—
There you see the sun looks bloody,
There you see the pale moon darkened—
Robbed of light the starry legions,
Dark with clouds the azure skies—
405
Born for sorrow and misfortune,
Who that I might die while living,
Takes my soul with her to Heaven!
[The door of the house is thrown open, and Doña Mencia is seen lying dead upon a couch.
KING,
aside.
Wonderful occurrence! Now
Prudence is of utmost moment,
Greatly will forbearance cost me;—
What a strange revenge is his!—
Hide this horror so appalling—
[Aloud.
Prodigy so sadly fearful—
Piteous spectacle of wonder—
Hapless symbol of misfortune!
[The door is closed.
Gutierre, consolation
You require, that your bereavement,
Which is great, may be atoned for
By a gain of equal value—
Give your hand to Leonore:—
For 'tis time you satisfy the
Debt you owe to her so long,
And that I fulfil my promise
When a fit occasion offered,
To restore her fame and honour.
GUTIERRE.
Ah! my lord, while yet the ashes
Of so great a fire are glowing
With the scarce fled vital heat,
Let me weep my loss a little;
Have I not a fatal warning?
KING.
It must be; it is enough.
406
Would you wish, my lord, that scarcely
Safe from the howling storm, again
I the angry sea should trust to?
What shall excuse so wild an act?
KING.
Obedience to your King's commands.
GUTIERRE.
Deign, then, to hear, my lord, in private
Still stronger reasons:—
KING.
These excuses
What may they be?
GUTIERRE.
Must I re-enter
Upon a state so full of peril?
What, if I find your royal brother
Disguised at night within my house?
KING.
Do not give faith to mere suspicion.
GUTIERRE.
And if behind the very arras
Of my bed, I find the dagger
Of the Infante Don Enrique?
KING.
Remember there are thousand servants
In the world by gold corrupted,
And thy better sense invoke.
407
How many times then must I do so,
If night and day I see him haunting
The very precincts of my house?
KING.
Complain to me:
GUTIERRE.
And if complaining
A greater grief, by listening, hear?
KING.
What matter if it proves unreal,
And that her beauty stands a fortress,
Ever girt round by walls of virtue,
'Gainst which the winds may blow in vain?
GUTIERRE.
And if, unto my home returning,
I find a certain letter, asking
The Infante not to go?
KING.
There is a remedy for all things.
GUTIERRE.
What! is it possible? for this one?
KING.
Yes, Gutierre.
GUTIERRE.
What, my lord?
408
It is your own.
GUTIERRE.
What is it?
KING.
Bleeding!
GUTIERRE.
What do you say?
KING.
That you had better
Make clean the portals of your dwelling—
A bloody hand is on your doors.
GUTIERRE.
Those who exercise a calling,
Place a scutcheon o'er their doors,
On whose shield their arms are blazoned.
Honour is my calling, so
I my hand in red blood bathed
Placed upon my door, to show
That the secret stains of honour
Can be only washed in blood.
KING.
Give your hand to Leonore,
Since I know her many virtues
Merit it.
GUTIERRE.
I give it, then;
But remember it is bathed
Still with blood, fair Leonore.
409
'Tis no matter; that doth neither
Wake my wonder nor my fear.
GUTIERRE.
Remember, too, I am Physician
Of my own Honour, and my skill
Is not forgotten.
LEONORE.
Cure with it
My life, when deadly danger threatens.
GUTIERRE.
Then, on that express condition
I present it unto you.
ALL THE CHARACTERS.
Thus is ended the Physician
Of his own Honour; pray forgive
All its many imperfections.
It was near the Castle of Montiel, in the year 1369, that the tragedy referred to in the preceding note took place.
END OF THE PHYSICIAN OF HIS OWN HONOUR.
| The Physician of his own Honour | |