 | The Physician of his own Honour |  |
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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.
| The Physician of his own Honour | |