University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The open country. A public road at one side, and near it a château. The sound of a hunt is heard from within. The Infante DON ENRIQUE enters tottering, and falls upon the stage. A little after, DON ARIAS and DON DIEGO enter; and last of all, the King DON PEDRO, with his attendants.
ENRIQUE.
Good Heavens! my brain whirls round and round!

[Falls.
ARÍAS.
May Heaven protect your grace!

KING.
How now?

ARÍAS.
His steed has fallen, I know not how,
And thrown the prince upon the ground.

KING.
If in this manner he doth kneel,
Saluting Seville's ancient towers,
Better it were the heavenly powers
Had still detained him in Castile.
Enrique! Brother!

DIEGO.
Lord! and chief!

KING.
Does he not move?

ARÍAS.
Alas! like stone
He lies; his pulse and colour gone.
What sad mischance!

DIEGO.
What bitter grief!

KING.
To yonder pretty country-seat
Beside the public way, advance,
Good Don Arías; there, perchance,
The quiet of the calm retreat
May soon the prince's health restore.
Here you can all remain, and see
The end; but bring a horse to me,
For I have yet to travel more:
This accident has made me wait
Too long already. I must try,
Before the light of day doth die,
To reach as far as Seville's gate—
There you can bring the news to me.

[Exit.
ARÍAS.
This single act that now we know,
More than a thousand proofs will show
How stern and hard his heart must be,
Who could a brother thus neglect,
Leaving him without sense or breath,
And struggling in the arms of death?
By heaven!—

DIEGO.
Be silent. Recollect,
That if at times stone walls may hear,
Trees, Don Arías, sometimes see;
Besides, 'tis naught to you or me,
And might, perchance, soon cost us dear.

ARÍAS.
Thou, Don Diego, quickly go
To yonder villa; bring them word
How that the prince, our gracious lord,
Is thrown from off his horse. But no;
Better that in his present state,
We bear the Infante in.

DIEGO.
You give
Good counsel.

ARÍAS.
Let Enrique live,
I ask no other boon of fate!

Exeunt, the attendants bearing the Infante.

SCENE II.

—A SALOON IN DON GUTIERRE'S VILLA.
Enter DOÑA MENCIA and JACINTA.
MENCIA.
I saw him from the tower below,
The winding road advancing over;
And though I could not well discover
What followed after, well I know
That some misfortune has occurred.
I saw a gallant cavalier
Upon a light steed riding near,
It rather seemed the swiftest bird
That ever on the quick winds flew;
For like a bird's rich plumes, his crest,
Descending o'er his head and breast,
Upon the air its splendour threw:
The earth and sky did both unite
To grace it with their several powers—
The beauteous earth bestowed its flowers,
The wondrous sky its starry light—
Changeful in hue, as chance doth fling,
Or tinted shades, or golden beams,
For now a perfect sun it seems,
And now it seems the painted spring.
The steed that thus did prance and bound
Fell; when another change occurred:
For what did late appear a bird
Lay like a rose upon the ground,—
Thus imitating in one hour
Whate'er is best of bright and fair.
'Twas sun—'twas sky—'twas earth and air:
At once bird, beast, and star, and flower!

JACINTA.
Ah! Señora, hither press
In through the doorway—

MENCIA.
Who?

JACINTA.
A throng,
Crowding confusedly along.

MENCIA.
Why they come here I cannot guess.

Enter DON ARÍAS and DON DIEGO following the attendants carrying the INFANTE in their arms. They place him in a chair.
DIEGO.
In the houses of the noble
Is the royal blood so valued,
So esteemed, it gives us courage
Here to enter in this manner.

MENCIA.
Who is this I see? Oh, Heavens!

[Aside.
DIEGO.
'Tis the Infante, Don Enrique,
Brother of the king, Don Pedro.
At your door his horse has fallen,
And, half dead, we've brought him hither.

MENCIA,
aside.
Help me, Heaven! O sad misfortune!

ARIAS.
Tell us, lady, in what chamber
We can place the prince, our master,
Till he may regain his senses.—
But can I trust my eyes, Señora? ...

MENCIA.
Don Arías?

ARÍAS.
Oh! 'tis certain
This is all a dream, a vision,
That I see thee, that I hear thee:
Can it be that Don Enrique,
The Infante—your adorer—
Now your lover more than ever—
Coming back to thee and Seville,
In so sad a manner meets thee?

MENCIA.
'Tis no dream:—alas! 'tis real.

ARÍAS.
Here what dost thou?

MENCIA.
Thou wilt know it
Presently; but now we cannot
Spare a moment from attending
On the suffering prince, your master.

ARÍAS.
Who'd have said, that thus so strangely
He would come to see you?

MENCIA.
Silence;—
It concerns me, Don Arías.

ARÍAS.
Why?

MENCIA.
It doth affect my honour:—
Enter into yonder chamber,
There you'll find a couch that's covered
With a soft skin, flower-embroidered—
And, although the bed be humble,
There the prince may rest. Jacinta,
Quickly bring the finest linen,
Perfumed with the sweetest odours,
Worthy of such high employment.

Exit Jacinta.
ARÍAS.
While they make their preparations,
Let us leave a while his highness.
We, perchance, may give assistance,
If there's help in this misfortune.

Exeunt Don Arías, Don Diego, and the attendants.
MENCIA.
Now, at length, alone they've left me:
Would, oh! would it were, ye heavens!
With the sanction of my honour.
Now to speak my inmost feelings:
Would that I with words could open
The icy dungeon of my silence,
Where the glowing flame is prisoned;—
That sad dungeon which, in ashes,
Even in its ruins telleth,
Here was Love! What's this I've spoken?
What is this, ye heavenly powers?
Ah! I'm what I am! Return me,
Tell-tale air, the frenzied accents
Thou hast from my pale lips carried;
Since, although I've dared to breathe them,
'Tis not right that thou should'st publish
What I ought to hide in silence;
For I know that now I am not
Mistress of my heart or feelings;
And if I, to-day, indulge in
These my feelings, 'tis but only
That I may the more subdue them;
Since no virtue can be real
That has not been tried. 'Tis only
In the crucible that truly
Gleams the golden ore; the loadstone
Tests the steel, and by the diamond
Is the diamond tried: while metals
Gleam the brighter in the furnace.
Thus my honour, by relying
On itself, shall still grow brighter,
When I come myself to conquer—
Since no honour can be perfect
That has never yet been tested.
Pity!—Powers of goodness, pity!
May I, thus my love concealing,
Live! as now I die, in silence!—
Enrique!—lord!

ENRIQUE,
recovering.
Who calls?

MENCIA.
O! gladness.

ENRIQUE.
Heaven be praised!—

MENCIA.
That you are living
Still, your highness.

ENRIQUE.
Say, where am I?

MENCIA.
Where, at least, is one that feeleth
For your safety.

ENRIQUE.
I believe it,—
If this happiness, for being
Mine, shall not in air evanish:
Since, within myself debating,
I am doubtful at this moment
Whether I awake, am dreaming,
Or asleep, but seem to hear thee:
But why make inquiry further,
Seeming truth still darker clouding?
If 'tis true that now I slumber,
May I never wake from sleeping!
Or if I in truth am waking,
May I never sleep henceforward!

MENCIA.
Let it please your royal highness
Prudently to think but only
Of your health, that it may lengthen
Out your life through years unnumbered.
Phœnix of your deathless glory—
Imitating that strange being,
Bird, and flame, red coal, and glow-worm,
Urn, pile, voice, and conflagration,
Which in fire is generated,
Breathes, and lives, and lasts, and dyeth—
Of itself the child and parent—
Then you'll learn from me hereafter
Where you are.

ENRIQUE.
I do not wish it;
Since if I do live, and see thee,
Greater bliss I cannot hope for;
Nor if I am dead, can ever
Greater happiness delight me,
Since, indeed, it must be heaven
Where so fair an angel dwelleth.
Thus I care not to discover
What the accidents or chances
That my life have hither guided,
Nor what turned thy own life hither;
Since to know that I am with you,
Where you are, is full contentment.
And thus you have naught to tell me,
Nor to aught have I to listen.

MENCIA.
Of so many fair illusions
Time will quickly disabuse thee.
But at present, tell me truly
How your highness is?

ENRIQUE.
Why, never
Have I in my life been better;
Only in this foot, a little
Pain I feel.

MENCIA.
The fall was fearful;
But a little rest will quickly
All your former health restore thee.
And thy bed is now preparing,
Where thou canst repose in safety.
You will pardon me, I pray thee,
For such humble entertainment;
Though, indeed, I stand excused.

ENRIQUE.
Spoken like a noble lady,
Mencia. Are you then the mistress
Of this house?

MENCIA.
Why no, your highness,
But of him who is the master,
I must say I am.

ENRIQUE.
Who is he?

MENCIA.
An illustrious caballero,
Solís Alfonso Gutierre,
Both my husband and your servant.

ENRIQUE.
What!—your husband!

[Rises.
MENCIA.
Yes, your highness.
Do not raise yourself; detain thee.
See, to stand you are not able
On your foot.

ENRIQUE.
Yes, yes, I'm able.

Enter DON ARÍAS.
ARÍAS.
Let me, lord, enfold a thousand
Times your feet in my embraces,
Grateful for the happy favour
Which, in saving thee, has given
Life unto us all.

Enter DON DIEGO.
DIEGO.
Your highness,
Now unto your own apartment
Can retire, where all is ready
That the finest thought could picture
On the fancy.

ENRIQUE.
Don Arias,
Bring me here my horse this instant—
Bring me my horse, good Don Diego:
Hence we must depart this moment.

ARÍAS.
What do you say, my lord?

ENRIQUE.
That quickly
You bring here my horse.

DIEGO.
Consider—

ARÍAS.
Think a moment—

ENRIQUE.
Troy is burning,
And my heart, a new Æneas,
Must I rescue from the ruin!—
Ah! Don Arias, my o'erthrowing
Was not purely accidental,
Rather a prophetic omen
Of my death: indeed, 'twas fitting
That, by Heaven's decree, I hither
Should be carried to my death-bed,
In the house where you are married,
To Mencia.
That at once might then be spoken
Gratulations and condolence,
For your wedding and my burial.
When my horse approached your dwelling
He, with double fire and spirit,
Dared the most surprising actions:
For a rapid bird appearing,
He, with scornful neighings, challenged
Even the lightnings to the combat,
When the swift winds he had conquered;
'Till, before your very threshold,
Jealousy raised unseen mountains,
Over which his proud feet stumbled;
For sharp jealousy will madden
Even the very brute. No rider
Ever sat his horse so firmly,
That he could not from his stirrups
Be cast down at such a moment:
Miracle of thy sweet beauty,
I conceived this fall the saving
Of my life: but now the illusion
Being o'er, it seems the vengeance
Of my death: since it is certain
I, indeed, must die; and never
Miracles are proved by dying.

MENCIA.
He who now would hear your highness
Thus complaining and repining,
Would be forced to treat my honour
With presumptions and suspicions
Most unworthy of it: nathless,
If, perchance, the wind doth carry
Any perfect observation,
Without tearing it asunder
In divided accents, I would
Wish to answer such impeachments;
For whene'er complaints are spoken,
Often will the same breath utter
Explanations too. Your highness,
Liberal in all your fancies—
Generous in all your pleasures—
Prodigal of your affections—
Placed your eyes on me: I know it—
It is true, and I believe it.
You must also know how many
Years of trial and temptation
Has my honour been unvanquished,
Standing like an ice-crowned mountain,
Which the squadrons of the flowers,
Armed by time, were round besieging.
If I married, with what reason
Can you now complain? well knowing
I was one beyond the circle
Of your passions and your wishes:
Far too high to be your mistress,
Far too low to be your consort.
Thus being wholly exculpated
In this matter, as a woman,
Humbly at your feet I ask you,
Not, my lord, to leave this mansion,
Placing at such certain peril
Health and life.

ENRIQUE.
Ah! greater dangers
Do I in this house encounter.

Enter DON GUTIERRE and COQUIN.
GUTIERRE.
Let me to your highness render
Homage, if I dare draw nigh
To the sun that lights the sky
Of Spain with majesty and splendour.
With my heart, and confused and tender,
Sad and joyful, draw I near;
And with eyes both blind and clear,
Where that planet's light is blazing,
Now an eagle, sunward gazing,
Now a dazzled moth appear—
Sad, for that mischance which late,
When you fell, did darkly throw
O'er Castile a cloud of woe—
Joyful, that the hand of Fate
Has unto its former state,
With the charms that health embraces,
Quite restored your lordship's life:
Thus, confused in pleasing strife,
Interchanging mutual graces,
Pain and Pleasure change their places.—
Who till now saw Pleasure's tear?
Who till now saw Sorrow's smile?—
Honour, for a little while,
With your beams this humble sphere;
For the sun, so bright and clear,
Though it light a palace wall,
Still doth not disdain to fall,
With its veil of golden woof,
On the straw-thatched cottage roof,
In its loving care of all:
Thus wilt thou, who dost appear
The sun of Spain, by tarrying here.
'Tis not the splendour that outbreaks,
It is the king the palace makes,
Even as the sun doth make the sphere.

ENRIQUE.
I esteem your pain and pleasure
As you felt it; and for this,
Gutierre Alfonso de Solís,
Gratitude beyond all measure
In my bosom shall I treasure,
Which you yet must feel.

GUTIERRE.
Your grace
Honours me too much.

ENRIQUE.
And though
The greatness of this house did throw
Its ample shadow round the place,
Though 'twere a sphere as great in space,
As it in truth is beauty's sphere,
Still I could not here remain:
This fall will cost my life 'tis plain;
And not the fall alone, for here
I must forego, in doubt and fear,
An object that doth all engage
My mind; and were it but one stage
I must depart; till that is clear,
Every moment is a year,
Every instant is an age.

GUTIERRE.
And can my lord have such a cause
For thus departing hence, that he
Will place in such extremity
A life whose every action draws
Down on itself the world's applause?

ENRIQUE.
I must this day to Seville go.

GUTIERRE.
To pierce your secret well I know
Is wrong, and that would greatly grieve
My sense of right; but I believe
My love, my loyalty are so—

ENRIQUE.
And if the cause I now would own,
What would you say?

GUTIERRE.
I do not seek
The silence of your breast to break;
My lord, I'm not so curious grown.

ENRIQUE.
Listen; the cause shall now be known.
I had a friend, who was to me
A second self—

GUTIERRE.
How blest was he!

ENRIQUE.
To whom, when led by duty's call
Away, I did entrust my all—
My life—my soul—one peerless she!
Say, was it just that he should break
His plighted faith, his friend forsake,
And all his promised care forego,
When I was absent from him?

GUTIERRE.
No.

ENRIQUE.
When for another's will and pleasure,
He gave the keys of that rich treasure;
When to another favoured guest,
He oped that fond and feeling breast
That late was mine! How truly measure
The lover's pain, the friend's regret!
Can the lorn heart so soon forget
Its vanished dreams—its blissful sighs?

GUTIERRE.
No, my good lord!

ENRIQUE.
And then the skies
Conspire to darken and to fret
My heart to-day! Before my eyes
I see my jealous thoughts arise;
In bodily shape they stand before me;
Where'er I look, they threaten o'er me,
With monstrous leer and giant size.
I see them here, and so would fain
Fly from their looks so dark and drear:
Strange though the miracle appear,
They come with me, and yet remain!

MENCIA.
They say a woman's heart and brain
Can best good council feel and give;
And so I pray, my lord, forgive
The freedom that I take, when I
Attempt the adviser's part to try,
And make you once more hope and live.
I leave your jealousy apart,
And say, that you should first attend
The explanation of your friend.
His innocence, fear more than art,
May quick restore him to your heart,
For even in faults such difference lies,
That punishment should not be given
To all alike. Oh! be not driven
Headlong by passion's stormy sighs,
Though jealousy o'erveils thine eyes.
Think that no man has power to move
Another being's will or love.
As to your friend, methinks that I
Have given your doubts a fit reply.
As to the lady, Heaven above
Alone can tell how strong the power
That forced her to forget thy flame.
Oh! call her no unworthy name—
The fickle changeling of an hour.
Judge her not, though suspicion lower—
She may excuse her act.

ENRIQUE.
Ah! well
I know 'tis vain.

DIEGO,
to the INFANTE.
My lord, the steed
Is ready that you bade me lead.

GUTIERRE.
If 'tis the same from which you fell
This morn, my lord, ah! do not sell
Your life so cheap, as him to ride;
Rather accept from me the pride
Of all my stud—a piebald mare—
Swift as the wind and wondrous fair,
Upon whose smooth and glossy side
A palm-leaf is impressed—a sign
That fortune meant her to be thine;
For, even of brutes, the birthdays are
Ruled by a good or evil star.
This wondrous prodigy, in fine,
Is quite proportioned and well made;
Wide in the back, and broad of chest;
Its head and neck, as might be guessed,
Short, and its feet and legs arrayed
In strength, and daring undismayed.
To form this steed, so light and tall,
With its wide chest, and head so small,
The mingled elements conspire—
Its body earth, its soul of fire—
Its foam the sea, and wind for all.

ENRIQUE.
Here the mind is lost, indeed,
At the effort to explain
Which doth lose, or which doth gain,
By this animated diction—
Whether the steed by the description,
Or the description by the steed.

COQUIN.
Here I enter. Please your grace,
Let me your hand or foot embrace,
Though it is hard, as matters stand,
Either to give your foot or hand.

GUTIERRE.
Hence, fool! this moment quit the place.

ENRIQUE.
Why so? Do not his freedom blame—
His humour pleases me.

COQUIN.
I came,
Obedient to your call. You said,
Hither let the steed be led.
Well we, my lord, are both the same.

ENRIQUE.
Then who are you?

COQUIN.
My words declare
My station. I, my lord, am one
Coquin, also Coquin's son;
The livery of this house I wear—
Provider-general of the mare;
I sleep amid its fragrant hay;
In liberal fellowship I share
Its nightly bed and daily fare;
And so, my lord, I come to pay
My compliments upon your day.

ENRIQUE.
My day?

COQUIN.
Why yes, the thing is plain.

ENRIQUE.
They call that day a festival,
Whereon some good event doth fall.
How can the day that brought me pain
Be mine? Good Coquin, pray explain.

COQUIN.
Because you fell on it. They say,
As every body knows, in all
The almanacks, such feasts do fall
On such and such a day. Then pray,
Is this not Saint Enrique's day?

GUTIERRE.
If your lordship is so prest,
That you must go, 'tis best you stay
No longer here; for lo! the day,
Amid the cold waves of the west,
Sinks, to be the sea-god's guest.

ENRIQUE.
Fairest Mencia, Heaven protect you!
And to show that I respect you,
I will seek that lady, driven
By the counsel you have given.
Ah! my grief, must I reject you
[Aside.
From my breast unspoken. Bleed,
Bleed in silence, and restrain
Even the utterance of thy pain.
Sad exchange I've made indeed—
To leave my love and take his steed!

Exeunt the Infante, Don Arías, Don Diego, Coquin, and the attendants.
GUTIERRE.
O dearest Mencia!—brightest—best—
My queen, my mistress, and my wife!
Two souls in each divided life—
Two lives in each divided breast
Have thou and I, my love, possest.
'Tis to that love, that now I feel,
I may securely trust to-day,
For leave to go awhile away,
And at my sovereign's feet to kneel,
Upon his entering Castile.
To give him hearty welcome there,
Should every cavalier repair.
Methinks I should his presence gain
As one of Don Enrique's train;
For it is only just and fair,
That I upon the prince should wait,
Who, from this fall, has given so great
An honour to this house and me.

MENCIA.
Some other cause, I plainly see,
Moves thee to go, than what you state.

GUTIERRE.
Naught else, I swear, by those bright eyes!

MENCIA.
Who doubts that unextinguished sighs
For Leonore—from this dull spot
Drive you away?

GUTIERRE.
Oh! name her not.

MENCIA.
'Tis thus with men, to-day they prize
The thing to-morrow they may shun;
And what was joy to win, when won
Turns in their hearts to cold despair.

GUTIERRE.
Ah! yes, I own the moon looked fair,
Because I did not see the sun;
But now that I behold its light,
And worship its divinest ray,
I cannot so forget the day
As think upon the vanished night,
A flame once burned pure and bright,
Whose lambent breath and shining hair
Lit the sweet region of the air.
The sun unveiled his glorious head,
When lo! amid the orient red,
The roseate blush of morning fair,
The little flame was lost and gone;
No more it sparkled, burned and shone,
Quenched in the sunlight's sea of rays.
Need I explain, with useless phrase,
The little picture I have drawn?
I loved a light, whose flame was seen
Until a greater planet rose—
Which, in the light that planet throws
From off its disk of dazzling sheen,
Vanished as if it ne'er had been.
The flame that once seemed pure and bright,
As in a crucible of light,
Was melted by thy sunnier eyes;
Until the sun appears, we prize
The faintest star that decks the night.

MENCIA.
Oh! what a flatterer thou art—
So metaphysical, and so ...

GUTIERRE.
In fine, you give me leave to go.

MENCIA.
'Tis plain you're anxious to depart;
And yet, I cannot nerve my heart
To bid you go.

GUTIERRE.
Perhaps we two,
In thought, may both depart and stay.
My heart, though I be far away,
Will still be here—

MENCIA.
And mine with you.
Adieu, my lord.

GUTIERRE.
My love, adieu!

[Exit.
Enter JACINTA.
JACINTA.
How sad, my lady, you remain.

MENCIA.
Ah! yes, Jacinta, and with cause.

JACINTA.
I cannot guess what reason draws
The colour from your cheek: 'tis plain
Some hidden grief, some inward pain
Affects you.

MENCIA.
Yes, 'tis even so.

JACINTA.
Will you not trust the cause to me?

MENCIA.
Dost thou desire I trust to thee
My honour and my life, and show
My inmost secrets? Thou shalt know.

JACINTA.
Say on, Señora.

MENCIA.
I was born
In Seville. There Enrique saw
And loved me, by the potent law
That rules the world; subdued my scorn,
And, like a star that doth adorn
The brow of heaven, upraised my name
First in the lover's lists of fame.
My father, by abuse of might,
Restrained and trampled on my right
Of choice, and gave, short time ago,
My hand to Gutierre. Lo!
The prince returns: my heart is pained—
Love I have lost, and honour gained.
And this is all even I do know.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A HALL IN THE ALCÁZAR, AT SEVILLE.
Enter DONA LEONORE and INES, veiled.
INES.
He comes to seek the chapel's calm retreat.
Here wait the king, and kneel before his feet.

LEONORE.
Now shall I gain what I have hoped for long,
If I obtain but vengeance for my wrong.

Enter the KING followed by attendants and petitioners.
VOICES,
within.
Make way!

ONE.
So please your majesty, peruse
This paper.

KING.
I shall do so.

ANOTHER.
Oh! refuse
Not this, your grace.

ANOTHER.
Nor this one, I beseech.

KING.
'Tis well, 'tis well.

SOLDIER,
aside.
He wasteth little speech.
I am—

[Aloud.
KING.
Leave the petition—that will do.

SOLDIER.
I tremble, and cannot my fear subdue.

KING.
What makes you fear.

SOLDIER.
Have I not seen your grace?

KING.
Yes; 'tis enough! What seek you in this place?

SOLDIER.
My lord, I am a soldier: some more pay.

KING.
You ask but little; for your late dismay.
I make you serjeant.

SOLDIER.
Oh! with outstretched palms
I bless you!

OLD MAN.
A poor old man asks your alms.

KING.
Here, take this diamond ring.

OLD MAN.
What! can it be
You give it from your fingers unto me?

KING.
Yes! had I power to aid thy suffering,
I would bestow the world as now this ring.

LEONORE,
kneeling.
My lord, with troubled feet I come
Before your feet to fall.
I come, for honour's sake,
To ask, with weeping eyes,
With sighs soon swallowed up in tears,
With words that end in sighs,
For justice at your hands,
As I on God do call.

KING.
Lady, arise; no fear need thee appal.

LEONORE.
I am ...

[She rises.
KING.
Do not, I pray, address me yet—
Let all who hear me go away.
[The petitioners, and others go out.
Speak now, because if you have fled
To me for honour's sake, as you have said,
It were not just or right
That honour should complain thus in the public sight;
Or that the hand of justice e'er should trace
The slightest blush upon so sweet a face.

LEONORE.

KING.
Lady, your extreme affliction
I compassionate, and justly,
Being one upon whose shoulders,
Atlas-like, the law dependeth:
Since Don Gutierre's married,
He cannot make fit atonement
For your wrong, as you have granted;
But though short of that full measure
Of redress, my power and justice
Are sufficient to compel him
To make partial compensation.
Honour he cannot restore you,
Since, indeed, you never lost it.
On the other side, however,
We must hear his explanation;
For 'tis right a judge should always
Keep his second ear wide open
For the story that comes after.
Trust me, Leonore, that nothing
Shall prevent your cause from being
Fairly tested; and that never
You again will have occasion
To repeat your lamentation,
“I am poor, and he is powerful,”
While Castile doth call me monarch.
Yonder Gutierre cometh;
If with me he chance to see you,
He will know you have informed me:
Hide behind this screen a little,
Till you can come forth in safety.

LEONORE.
I, in everything obey you.

[She conceals herself.
Enter COQUIN.
COQUIN.
On from chamber unto chamber,
In the footsteps of my master,
Who is staying here, I've wandered
Just this far. Defend me, Heaven!
Bless me! 'tis the king in person!
He has seen me, and looks awful.
Heaven but grant that this balcony
Is not very high, for headlong
Must I throw myself this moment.

KING.
Who are you?

COQUIN.
My lord?

KING.
Yes.

COQUIN.
Truly
(Aid me, Heaven), my lord, I'm only
What your majesty would wish me:
Nothing greater, nothing smaller;
For a man of much discretion
Only yesterday advised me,
That I never, in my lifetime,
Should be aught but what you'd wish me;
And so highly do I value
His advice, I mean to use it,
For the present, past, and future.
Thus I was what you'd have had me;
What you'd wish me be, I will be;
What you please, I am—at all times
Your obedient humble servant.
So, my liege, with your permission,
I would wish now to withdraw me;
Since my feet have brought me hither,
I would do as much for them too.

KING.
Notwithstanding your long answer,
You, in truth, have told me nothing.
Who and what you are I asked you.

COQUIN.
And I would have truly answered
To the question you have asked me,
If I did not fear, for telling
Who I am, that you would throw me
From this high balcony downward,
For presuming here to enter
Without knowing why or wherefore,
Being the holder of an office
Which you do not need, I fancy.

KING.
What office do you hold?

COQUIN.
Why, that of
A sort of courier, or footman,
Bearer of all kinds of secrets—
Spy of myriad proceedings,
So that neither monk nor novice
Ever yet escaped my prying.
Just as I get much or little,
Speak I either well or badly.
Every house I make my dwelling;
And though this be so, at present,
I'm content to use the stable
Of Don Alfonso Gutierre,
Where my mid-day meal I share with
A cordovàn of Andalusia.
I'm a brother of Contentment;
Grief to me is quite a stranger,
Not being ever in his service.
Briefly, I am what you see me:
Marjordomo unto Laughter,
Pleasure's gentleman in waiting,
And the chamberlain of Frolic—
Which a glance, indeed, might show you.
This being so, with fear I trembled
Lest your majesty might know me;
For a king who never laugheth
Might have ordered me a hundred
Fisticuffs and bastinadoes
Somewhere underneath the shoulders,
As a vagabond.

KING.
It seemeth
You are, briefly, one whose business
Is but laughter.

COQUIN.
Yes, your lordship,
And that you may be more certain,
This it is to play the jester,
In the palace.

[He puts on his cap.
KING.
Right well, truly;
And since now I know your calling,
Let us make a bargain.

COQUIN.
How so?

KING.
To make one laugh is your profession?

COQUIN.
Yes.

KING.
Well, then, for each occasion
That you make me laugh, I'll give you
A hundred crowns; but on condition,
That if ere a month is over,
You don't make me laugh, that instant
You your teeth to me must render.

COQUIN.
Ah! you make me a false witness,
And the contract is illegal,
Being hurtful to one party.

KING.
Why?

COQUIN.
It will hurt me, with a vengeance.
'Tis said that every man in laughing,
Shows his teeth; but I with weeping
Should show mine—which would be laughing
The wrong way. 'Tis also whispered
That you're so severe a master,
And so biting in your censure,
As to show your teeth to all men.
How, then, is it that you only
Wish to take my grinders from me?
But to come to your proposal,
I accept it, if you let me
Go away in peace at present;
Since a month will pass as quickly
Here as in the street; and even
At the end 'tis but the coming
Of old age a little sooner
To my mouth, as with post-horses.
So I go to practise over
All my jokes. Ah! would to Heaven!
That I could but see you laughing!
But adieu! I'll see thee shortly.

[Exit.
Enter DON ENRIQUE, DON GUTIERRE, DON DIEGO, DON ARIAS, with attendants, soldiers, &c.
ENRIQUE.
Let your majesty permit me
Kiss your hand.

KING.
Thou'rt truly welcome;
How dost thou feel thyself, Enrique?

ENRIQUE.
Why, my lord, the fright was greater
Than the fall. I ne'er felt better.

GUTIERRE.
I pray your majesty to let me
Kiss your hand, if one so humble
May demand so great a favour;
For the ground on which thou walkest
Seems a fair and beauteous carpet,
Which the winds of heaven illumine
With the colour of the rose-leaf.
Mayst thou health and strength bear with thee,
Such as this great kingdom needeth;
For, my lord, all Spain adores you,
Crowned, as now thou art, with laurel.

KING.
Of you! Don Gutierre Alfonso ....

GUTIERRE.
Why thus turn thy back upon me?

KING.
Great complaints but now have reached me.

GUTIERRE.
They are most unjust, I doubt not.

KING.
Tell me, know you Leonora—
One of the chief dames of Seville?

GUTIERRE.
Yes, a fair and noble lady,
'Mong the highest of this country.

KING.
Say what potent obligation
Made you treat so fair a lady
With discourtesy and insult?

GUTIERRE.
I have little need of falsehood;
For, my lord, a man of honour
Knows not how to play the liar,
'Specially before a monarch.
Her I courted, and intended,
Once, to marry, if delaying,
And perhaps my fickle nature,
Had not changed my first ideas.
Her I visited, and often
Entered publicly her dwelling;
So that I would still defend her
Reputation, with my sword-point.
Feeling, then, thus alienated,
I conceived that I might alter
My intent; and, being freed from
This affection, wed in Seville
Doña Mencia de Acûna,
A distinguished lady, with whom
I reside outside the city,
In a country-house of pleasure.
Leonore, through evil counsel—
For all counsel must be evil
Which destroyeth reputation—
Sought to interrupt my marriage;
But the judge who tried the question,
Though most strict, found naught against me;
Which decision she did charge with
Being founded upon favour,
As if favour e'er is wanting
To a young and handsome woman,
If she ever should require it.
Influenced by this delusion,
She has come to claim your succour,
For 'tis plain you know the story.
I, too, throw myself before you,
Firmly trusting to your justice.
For my faith, my sword I offer,
And my head for my allegiance.

KING.
What could have so soon occasioned
Such a change in your affections?

GUTIERRE.
Is man's fickleness so novel
As to cause your wonder? Surely
Every day bears witness to it.

KING.
Yes: but then it seldom happens
That a man who loves should fly from
One extreme unto another,
Without some most powerful reason.

GUTIERRE.
I beseech you not to press me:
I am one who, in the absence
Of a lady, would surrender
Life in preference to speaking
Anything unworthy of her.

KING.
Then it seems you had some reason.

GUTIERRE.
Yes, my lord; but still, believe me,
If for my exoneration,
It this day were needful for me
To declare it,—though depended
Life and soul upon my speaking—
Still a true and faithful lover
Of his honour would not say it.

KING.
But it is my wish to know it.

GUTIERRE.
Ah! my lord ....

KING.
I'm very curious.

GUTIERRE.
Look ....

KING.
No further answer make me!
It doth only irritate me.
By my life!— ....

GUTIERRE.
My lord, I pray thee
Swear not; for 'tis less important
I should change my nature wholly,
Than that I should see you angered.

KING,
aside.
I compel him to lay open
This concealed affair thus loudly,
That, if he in this deceives me,
Leonore may give the answer.
And if he the truth doth utter,
That, persuaded of her error,
Leonore may know it also,—
Speak then.

[Aloud.
GUTIERRE.
To my grief, I do so.—
As one night I sought her dwelling,
Noises reached me from the courtyard;—
I approached, and at the moment
That I entered, saw the figure
Of a man from her balcony
Downward leaping. I pursued him;
But, before I recognised him,
He escaped from me by running.

ARÍAS,
aside.
Bless me, Heaven! What revelation
Comes to light!

GUTIERRE.
And though excuses
Could be made, and though I never
To my wrong gave ample credence,
Still the very apprehension
Was enough to stop my marriage;
For 'tis plain, if love and honour
Are the mind's most powerful passions,
He hath done to love an outrage
Who hath done a wrong to honour—
Any pang that wounds the feelings
To the soul brings anguish also.

Enter LEONORE.
LEONORE.
Your majesty will grant me pardon,
Since I can endure no longer
All the manifold misfortunes
Which in crowds have fallen upon me.

KING,
aside.
As God lives! he has deceived me.—
Well, my stratagem succeedeth.

LEONORE.
And when listening to those charges
Which are brought against my honour,
It were but to act the coward
Not at once to give the answer,
Though it cost me life—'tis little.
For, far worse than death I suffer
From those daring accusations
Which destroy both life and honour.
Don Arías came to visit ....

ARÍAS.
Stay, Señora—speak not further.
Let your majesty permit me
Answer; for it is my duty
To defend this lady's honour.
On that very night resided,
In the house of Leonore,
One with whom I would have married,
If her thread of life the Parcæ
Had not cruelly divided;
I, her beauty's faithful lover,
Fondly followed in her footsteps,
And, with all a lover's daring,
After her the house I entered,
Without Leonore being able
To foresee it or prevent it.
Then Don Gutierre coming,
Leonore, in terror, bade me
Seek a neighbouring apartment,
And I did so.—Ah! a thousand
Errors must that man fall into
Who obeys a woman's counsel.—
As I left, I heard the stranger
Speak; and, thinking 'twas her husband,
Down I leaped from the balcony:
And if I, on that occasion,
Turned my face away, supposing
He was married to the lady—
Now, since he declares he is not,
Face to face I stand before him.
Let your majesty, I pray thee,
Grant a field, whereon to combat
For the fame of Leonore.
This appeal the law concedeth
Unto every caballero.

GUTIERRE,
putting his hand on his sword.
I will follow wheresoever ....

KING.
How!—what's this? And dare you venture
Thus to touch your swords before me?
Does my face awake no terror?
Where I am, can men indulge in
[To the guard.
Pride or haughtiness? But take them
Prisoners, on the very instant;
Lead them to two separate turrets—
And be thankful for the favour
That you are not placed in fetters.

[Exit.
ARÍAS.
If fair Leonore did forfeit
Fame by me, by me she likewise
Will regain it—which is owing
To the honour of a woman.

GUTIERRE.
I do not, in this misfortune,
Feel so much my sovereign's rigour,
As that I, my dearest Mencia,
Cannot hope this day to see thee.

[They are led out by the soldiers.
ENRIQUE,
aside.
Under the pretext of hunting,
And her husband here, this evening
May afford me an occasion
To see Mencia.—Don Diego,
[Aloud.
Come with me;—I am determined
Now to perish or to conquer.

[Exeunt.
LEONORE.
Dead I here remain! God grant that,
Heartless, treacherous, and cruel,
False deceiver and dissembler,
Without faith, or God, or conscience,
As I innocently suffered
Loss of fame and reputation,
Heaven may also grant me vengeance!
May you feel the selfsame sorrow
That I feel! The same dishonour
May you in your blood see bathed!
For 'tis only just you perish
With the weapons that you slay with!
Be it so! amen. So be it!
Woe is me! I've lost my honour!
Woe is me! my death has found me!