 | The Physician of his own Honour |  |
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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!
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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!
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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.
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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;
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'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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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,
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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,
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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.
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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—
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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?
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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.
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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,
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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;
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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,
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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!
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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,
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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
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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.
| The Physician of his own Honour | |