Pedro Calderon de la Barca

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DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Don Alonso
Donna Clara	} his Daughters.
Donna Eugenia
Don Torribio	his Nephew.
Mari NuÑo	} his Servants.
Brigida
OtaÑez
Don Felix	} Gallants.
Don Juan
Don Pedro
Hernando	Don Felix’s Servant.

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ACT I

Scene I.—A Room in Don Alonso’s House at Madrid.

Enter Alonso and OtaÑez, meeting.

OtaÑ. My own dear master!

Alon. Welcome, good OtaÑez,

My old and trusty servant!

OtaÑ. Have I lived

To see what I so long have longed to see,

My dear old master home again!

Alon. You could not

Long for ’t, OtaÑez, more than I myself.

What wonder, when my daughters, who, you know,

Are the two halves that make up my whole heart,

Silently called me home, and silently

(For maiden duty still gagged filial love)

Out of the country shade where both have grown,

Urged me to draw the blossom of their youth

Where it might ripen in its proper day.

OtaÑ. Indeed, indeed, sir. Oh that my dear lady

Were but alive to see this happy hour!

Alon. Nay, good OtaÑez, mar it not recalling

What, ever sleeping in the memory,

Needs but a word to waken into tears.

God have her in his keeping! He best knows

How I have suffered since the king, my master,

Despatching me with charge to Mexico,

I parted from her ne’er to see her more;

And now come back to find her gone for ever!

You know ’twas not the long and roaring seas

Frighted her for herself, but these two girls—

For them she stayed—and full of years and honour

Died, when God willed! and I have hastened home

Well as I may, to take into my hands

The charge death slipped from hers.

OtaÑ. Your own good self!

Though were there ever father, who could well

Have left that charge to others, it was you,

Your daughters so religiously brought up

In convent with their aunt at AlcalÁ.

Well, you are come, and God be praised for it!

And, at your bidding, here are they, and I,

And good old Mari NuÑo—all come up

To meet you at Madrid. I could not wait

The coach’s slower pace, but must spur on

To kiss my old master’s hand.

Alon. Myself had gone

To meet them; but despatches of the king’s

Prevented me. They’re well?

Voices (within). Make way there—way!

OtaÑ. And lovely as the dawn. And hark! are here

To answer for themselves.

Enter Clara, Eugenia, Mari NuÑo, as from travel.

Clara (kneeling). Sir, and my father—by my daily prayers

Heaven, won at last in suffering me to kiss

These honoured hands, leaves me no more to ask,

Than at these honoured feet to die,

With its eternal blessing afterward.

Eug. And I, my father, grateful as I am

To Heaven, for coming to your feet once more,

Have yet this more to ask—to live with you

For many, many happy years to come!

Alon. Oh, not in vain did nature fix the heart

In the mid bosom, like a sun to move

Each circling arm with equal love around!

Come to them—one to each—and take from me

Your lives anew. God bless you!

Come, we are here together in Madrid,

And in the sphere where you were born to move.

This is the house that is to be your own

Until some happy lover calls you his;

Till which I must be father, lover, husband,

In one. Brigida!

Enter Brigida.

Brig. Sir?

Alon. My daughters’ rooms

Are ready?

Brig. Ay, sir, as the sky itself

For the sun’s coming.

Alon. Go and see them then,

And tell me how you like what I have bought,

And fitted up for your reception.

Clara. I thank you, sir, and bless this happy day,

Though leaving my loved convent far away.

Eug. (aside). And I twice bless it, that no longer hid

In a dull cell; I come to see Madrid.

[Exeunt Clara and Eugenia.

Mari NuÑo. Now the young ladies, sir, have had their turn,

Shall not I kiss your hand?

Alon. Oh, welcome too,

Good Mari NuÑo; who have been so long

A mother to them both. And, by the by,

Good Mari NuÑo, now we are alone,

I’d hear from you, who know them both so well,

Their several characters and dispositions,

And not as ’twere, come blindfold to the charge

That Heaven has laid upon me.

Mari. You say well, sir.

Well, I might say at once, and truly too,

That nothing need be said in further praise

But that they are your daughters. But to pass,

Lest you should think I flatter,

From general to individual,

And to begin with the eldest, Donna Clara;

Eldest in years and in discretion too,

Indeed the very pearl of prudence, sir,

And maidenly reserve; her eyes still fixt

On earth in modesty, or heaven in prayer;

As gentle as a lamb, almost as silent;

And never known to say an angry word:

And, such her love of holy quietude,

Unless at your desire, would never leave

Her cloister and her missal. She’s, in short,

An angel upon earth, whom to be near

And wait on, one would sell oneself a slave.

So much for her. Donna Eugenia,

Though unexceptionable in heart and head,

As, God forgive me, any child of yours

Must be, is different,—not for me to say

Better or worse,—but very different:

Of a quick spirit, loving no control;

Indeed, as forward as the other shy;

Quick to retort, and sharply; so to speak,

Might sometimes try the patience of a saint;

Longing to leave a convent for the world,

To see and to be seen; makes verses too;

Would not object, I think, to have them made

(Or love, may be) to her—you understand;

Not that I mean to say—

Alon. Enough, enough.

Thanks for your caution as your commendation:

How could I fortify against weak points

Unless I knew of them? And, to this end,

Although Eugenia be the younger sister,

I’ll see her married first; husband and children

The best specific for superfluous youth:

And to say truth, good Mari, the very day

Of my arrival hither, I despatch’d

A letter to my elder brother’s son,

Who still maintains our dwindled patrimony

Up in the mountains, which I would reclaim,

Or keep it rather in its lawful line,

By an alliance with a child of mine,

All falls out luckily. Eugenia

Wedded to him shall make herself secure,

And the two stems of Cuadradillos so

Unite and once more flourish, at a blow.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—A Room in Don Felix’s House.

Don Felix, and Hernando dressing him.

Hern. Such fine ladies, sir, come to be our neighbours.

Fel. So they ought to be, such a noise as they made in coming.

Hern. One of them already betrothed, however.

Fel. So let her, and married too, if she would only let me sleep quiet. But what kind of folks are they?

Hern. Oh, tip-top. Daughters of the rich old Indian has bought the house and gardens opposite, and who will give them all his wealth when they marry, which they say he has brought them to Madrid expressly to do.

Fel. But are they handsome?

Hern. I thought so, sir, as I saw them alighting.

Fel. Rich and handsome then?

Hern. Yes, sir.

Fel. Two good points in a woman, at all events, of which I might profit, such opportunities as I have.

Hern. Have a care, sir, for the old servant who told me this, told me also that the papa is a stout fiery old fellow, who’d stick the Great Turk himself if he caught him trifling with his daughters.

Fel. That again is not so well; for though I’m not the Great Turk, I’ve no mind to share that part of his fortune. But of the two girls, what said your old servant? who, as such, I suppose told you all that was amiss in them at least.

Hern. Well, you shall judge. One, the oldest, is very discreet.

Fel. Ah, I told you so.

Hern. The other lively.

Fel. Come, that sounds better. One can tackle her hand to hand, but the grave one one can only take a long shot at with the eyes.

Hern. Whichever it be, I should like to see you yourself hit one of these days, sir.

Fel. Me? The woman is not yet cast who will do that. If I meddle with these it is only because they lie so handy.

Hern. And handsome as well as handy!

Fel. Pooh! I wouldn’t climb a wall to pluck the finest fruit in the world. But hark! some one’s at the door. See who ’tis.

Enter Don Juan in travelling dress.

Juan. I, Felix, who seeing your door open, could not but walk in without further ado.

Fel. You know that it and my heart are ever open to you. Welcome, welcome, Don Juan! all the more welcome for being unexpected: for though I had heard we might one day have you back, I did not think to see you yet.

Juan. Why, the truth is I got my pardon sooner than I expected.

Fel. Though not than I prayed for. But tell me all about it.

Juan. You know I was obliged to fly to Italy after that unlucky duel. Well, there the great duke of Terranova, who (as good luck would have it) was then going ambassador to Hungary, took a fancy to me, and carried me with him; and, pleased with what service I did him, interested himself in my fortunes, and one good day, when I was least expecting it, with his own hand put my pardon into mine.

Fel. A pardon that never should have needed asking, all of an unlucky quarrel at cards.

Juan. So you and the world suppose, Felix: but in truth there was something more behind.

Fel. Ah?

Juan. Why the truth is, I was courting a fair lady, and with fair hope of success, though she would not confess it, urging that her father being away at the time, her mother would not consent in his absence. Suddenly I found I had a rival, and took occasion of a casual dispute at cards to wipe out the score of jealousy; which I did with a vengeance to both of us, he being killed on the spot, and I, forced to fly the country, must, I doubt, ere this, have died out of my lady’s memory, where only I cared to live.

Fel. Ay, you know well enough that in Madrid Oblivion lies in the very lap of Remembrance, whether of love or loathing. I thank my stars I never pinned my faith on woman yet.

Juan. Still the same sceptic?

Fel. Ay, they are fine things, but my own heart’s ease is finer still; and if one party must be deceived, I hold it right in self-defence it should not be I. But come; that you may not infect me with your faith, nor I you with my heresy, tell me about your journey.

Juan. How could it be otherwise than a pleasant one, such pageants as I had to entertain me by the way?

Fel. Oh, you mean our royal master’s nuptials?

Juan. Ay!

Fel. I must hear all about them, Juan; even now, upon the spot.

Juan. Well then, you know at least, without my telling you, how great a debt Germany has owed us—

Enter Don Pedro hastily.

Ped. My dear Don Felix!

Fel. Don Pedro! By my faith, my door must be the door of heaven, I think; for all the good keep coming in by ’t. But how comes your University term so soon over?

Ped. Alas, it’s not over, but—

Fel. Well?

Ped. I’ll tell you.

Juan. If I be in your way—

Ped. No, no, sir, if you are Felix’s friend you command my confidence. My story is easily told. A lady I am courting in AlcalÁ is suddenly come up to Madrid, and I am come after her. And to escape my father’s wrath at playing truant, I must beg sanctuary in your house awhile.

Fel. And this once will owe me thanks for your entertainment, since I have Don Juan’s company to offer you.

Juan. Nay, ’tis I have to thank you for Don Pedro’s.

Fel. Only remember, both of you, that however you may amuse one another, you are not to entertain me with your several hearts and darts. Hernando, get us something to eat; and till it comes you shall set off rationally at least, Juan, with the account of the royal nuptials you were beginning just as Don Pedro came in.

Juan. On condition you afterwards recount to me your rejoicings in Madrid meanwhile.

Fel. Agreed.

Ped. I come in happy time to hear you both.

Juan. You know, as I was saying, what a debt

Germany has owed us since our fair Maria

Her title of the Royal Child of Spain

Set in the crown of Hungary—a debt

They only could repay us as they do,

Returning us one of the self-same stock,

So like herself in beauty and desert,

We seem but taking what we gave away.

If into Austria’s royal hand we gave

Our royal rose, she now returns us one

Sprung of the self-same stem, as fair, as sweet—

In maiden graces; and if double-dyed

In the imperial purple, yet so fresh,

She scarce has drunk the dawns of fourteen Aprils.

The marriage contract signed, the marriage self

Delayed, too long for loyal Spain’s desire,

That like the bridegroom for her coming burned,

(But happiness were hardly happiness

Limped it not late,) till her defective years

Reached their due blossom—Ah, happy defect,

That every unconditioned hour amends!

At last arose the day—the day of days—

When from her royal eyrie in the North

The imperial eaglet flew. Young Ferdinand,

King of Bohemia and Hungary

Elect, who not in vain Rome’s holy hand

Awaits to bind the laurel round his brow,

As proxy for our king espoused her first,

And then, all lover-like, as far as Trent

Escorted her, with such an equipage

As when the lords and princes of three realms

Out-do each other in magnificence

Of gold and jewel, ransackt from the depths

Of earth and sea, to glitter in the eye

Of Him who sees and lights up all from heaven.

So, like a splendid star that trails her light

Far after her, she crossed fair Italy,

When Doria, Genoa’s great Admiral,

Always so well-affected to our crown,

Took charge of her sea-conduct; which awhile,

Till winds and seas were fair, she waited for

In Milan; till, resolved on embarkation,

The sea, that could not daunt her with his rage,

Soon as her foot was on his yellow shore,

Call’d up his Tritons and his Nereids

Who love and make a calm, to smooth his face

And still his heaving breast; on whose blue flood

The golden galley in defiance burn’d,

Her crew in wedding pearl and silver drest;

Her silken sail and cordage, fluttering

With myriad flags and streamers of all dye,

Sway’d like a hanging garden over-head,

Amid whose blossoms stood the royal bride,

A fairer Venus than did ever float

Over the seas to her dominions

Arm’d with the arrows of diviner love.

Then to the sound of trump and clarion

The royal galley, and with her forty more

That follow’d in her wake as on their queen,

Weigh’d, shook out sail, and dipp’d all oars at once,

Making the flood clap hands in acclamation;

And so with all their streamers, as ’twere spring

Floating away to other hemispheres,

Put out to sea; and touching not the isles

That gem the midway deep—not from distrust

Of friendly France in whose crown they are set,

And who (as mighty states contend in peace

With courtesies as with hard blows in war)

Swell’d the triumphal tide with pageantries

I may not stop to tell—but borne upon,

And (as I think) bearing, fair wind and wave,

The moving city on its moving base

With sail and oar enter’d the Spanish Main,

Which, flashing emerald and diamond,

Leap’d round the golden prow that clove between,

And kiss’d the happy shore that first declined

To meet its mistress. Happy Denia,

That in her golden sand holds pearly-like

The first impression of that royal foot!

I will not tell—let Felix, who was here,

And has new breath—how, landed happily,

Our loyal Spain—yea, with what double welcome—

Received the niece and consort of our king,

Whom, one and both, and both in one, may Heaven

Bless with fair issue, and all happiness,

For years and years to come!

Enter Hernando.

Hern. Sir, sir!

Fel. Well?

Hern. Your two new neighbours—just come to the window.

Fel. Gentlemen, we must waive my story then, for as the proverb goes, ‘My Lady first.’ (He looks out.) By Heaven, they are divine!

Juan. Let me see. (Aside.) By Heaven, ’tis she!

Ped. Come, it is my turn now. (Aside.) Eugenia! I must keep it to myself.

Fel. I scarce know which is handsomest.

Juan. Humph! both pretty girls enough.

Ped. Yes, very well.

Fel. Listen, gentlemen; whether handsome, or pretty, or very well, or all three, you must not stare at them from my window so vehemently; being the daughters of a friend of mine, and only just come to Madrid.

Juan (aside). That the first thing I should see on returning to Madrid, is she for whose love I left it!

Ped. (aside). That the first thing I see here is what I came for the very purpose of seeing!

Hernando (entering). Table is served, sir.

Fel. To table, then. I know not how it is with you, gentlemen, but for myself, my appetite is stronger than my love.

Juan (aside to Felix). You jest as usual; but I assure you it is one of those very ladies on whom my fortune turns!

[Exit.

Fel. Adieu to one then.

Ped. All this is fun to you, Felix; but believe me, one of those ladies is she I have followed from AlcalÁ.

[Exit.

Fel. Adieu to both then—unless indeed you are both of you in love with the same. But, thank God,

I that am in love with neither,

Need not plague myself for either.

The least expense of rhyme or care

That man can upon woman spare.

But they are very handsome nevertheless.

[Exit.

Scene III.—An Apartment in Don Alonso’s House.

Enter Clara and Eugenia.

Clara. Is ’t not a pretty house, Eugenia,

And all about it?

Eug. I dare say you think so.

Clara. But do not you then?

Eug. No—to me it seems

A sort of out-court and repository,

Fit but for old Hidalgos and Duennas,

Too stale and wither’d for the blooming world,

To wear away in.

Clara. I like its quietude;

This pretty garden too.

Eug. A pretty thing

To come for to Madrid—a pretty garden!

I tell you were it fuller of all flowers

Than is a Dutchman’s in his tulip-time,

I want the lively street whose flowers are shops,

Carriages, soldiers, ladies, cavaliers,

Plenty of dust in summer, dirt in winter,

And where a woman sitting at her blind

Sees all that passes. Then this furniture!

Clara. Well—surely velvet curtains, sofas, chairs,

Rich Indian carpets, beds of Damascene,

Chandeliers, gilded mirrors, pictures too—

What would you have, Eugenia?

Eug. All very well,

But, after all, no marvellous result

Of ten years spent in golden India.

Why, one has heard how fine a thing it is

To be my Lord Mayor’s daughter; what must be,

Methought, to own a dowry from Peru!

And when you talk about the furniture,

Pictures, chairs, carpets, mirrors, and all that—

The best of all is wanting.

Clara. What is that?

Eug. Why, a coach, woman! Heaven and earth, a coach!

What use is all the money-bonds and gold

He has been boasting of in all his letters,

Unless, now come at last, he plays the part

We’ve heard so long rehearsing?

Clara. Not to spare

Your father even, Eugenia! For shame!

’Tis time to tie your roving tongue indeed.

Consider, too, we are not in the country,

Where tongue and eyes, Eugenia, may run wild

Without offence to uncensorious woods;

But in a city, with its myriad eyes

Inquisitively turn’d to watch, and tongues

As free and more malicious than yours

To tell—where honour’s monument is wax,

And shame’s of brass. I know, Eugenia,

High spirits are not in themselves a crime;

But if to men they seem so?—that’s the question.

For it is almost better to do ill

With a good outward grace than well without;

Especially a woman; most of all

One not yet married; whose reputation

One breath of scandal, like a flake of snow,

May melt away; one of those tenderest flowers

Whose leaves ev’n the warm breath of flattery

Withers as fast as envy’s bitterest wind,

That surely follows short-lived summer praise.

Ev’n those who praise your beauty, grace, or wit,

Will be the first, if you presume on them,

To pull the idol down themselves set up,

Beginning with malicious whispers first,

Until they join the storm themselves have raised.

And most if one be given oneself to laugh

And to make laugh: the world will doubly yearn

To turn one’s idle giggle into tears.

I say this all by way of warning, sister,

Now we are launcht upon this dangerous sea.

Consider of it.

Eug. ‘Which that all may do

May Heaven—’ Come, Clara, if the sermon’s done,

Pray finish it officially at once,

And let us out of church. These homilies

In favour of defunct proprieties,

Remind one of old ruff and armour worn

By Don Punctilio and Lady Etiquette

A hundred years ago, and past with them

And all their tedious ancestors for ever.

I am alive, young, handsome, witty, rich,

And come to town, and mean to have my fling,

Not caring what malicious people say,

If nothing true to say against my honour.

And so with all sail set, and streamers flying,

(A coach shall be my ship, and I will have it!)

I mean to glide along the glittering streets

And down the Prado, as I go along

Capturing what eyes and hearts I find by the way,

Heedless of every little breath of scandal

That such as you turn back affrighted by.

I’ll know the saints’ days better than the saints

Themselves; the holidays and festivals

Better than over-done apprentices.

If a true lover comes whom I can like

As he loves me, I shall not turn away:

As for the rest who flutter round in love,

Not with myself, but with my father’s wealth,

Or with themselves, or any thing but me,

You shall see, Clara, how I’ll play with them,

Till, having kept them on my string awhile

For my own sport, I’ll e’en turn them adrift

And let them go, the laugh all on my side.

And therefore when you see—

Clara. How shall I dare

To see what even now I quake to hear!

Enter Alonso.

Alon. Clara! Eugenia!

Both. Sir?

Alon. Good news, good news, my girls! What think you? My nephew, Don Torribio Cuadradillos, my elder brother’s elder son, head of our family and inheritor of the estate, is coming to visit me; will be here indeed almost directly. What think you now?

Eug. (aside). One might have thought, from such a flourish of trumpets, the king was coming at least.

Alon. Mari NuÑo!

Mari (entering). Sir?

Alon. Let a chamber be got ready for my nephew, Don Torribio, directly. Brigida!

Brig. (entering). Sir?

Alon. See that linen be taken up into Don Torribio’s room. OtaÑez, have dinner ready for my nephew, Don Torribio, directly he arrives. And you two, (to his daughters,) I expect you will pay him all attention; as head of the family, consider. Ay, and if he should take a fancy to one of you—I know not he will—but if he should, I say, whichever it be, she will take precedence of her sister for ever. (Aside.) This I throw out as a bait for Eugenia.

Eug. It must be Clara, then, sir, for she is oldest you know.

Clara. Not in discretion and all wife-like qualities, Eugenia.

Eug. Clara!

Alon. Hark! in the court!

Don Torribio (speaking loud within). Hoy! good man there! Can you tell me if my uncle lives hereabout?

Alon. ’Tis my nephew, surely!

Torr. (within). Why, fellow, I mean of course Don Alonso—who has two daughters, by the token I’m to marry one of ’em.

Alon. ’Tis he! I will go and receive him.

[Exit.

Torr. (within). Very well then. Hold my stirrup, Lorenzo.

Eug. What a figure!

Enter Alonso and Torribio.

Alon. My nephew, Don Torribio, giving thanks to Heaven for your safe arrival at my house, I hasten to welcome you as its head.

Torr. Ay, uncle, and a head taller, I promise you, than almost any body in the parish.

Alon. Let me introduce your cousins to you, who are so anxious for your acquaintance.

Torr. Ah, that’s proper of ’em, isn’t it?

Both. Welcome, sir.

Alon. And how are you, nephew?

Torr. Very tired, I promise you: for the way is long and my horse a rough goer, so as I’ve lost leather.

Alon. Sit down, and rest till they bring dinner.

Torr. Sitting an’t the way to mend it. But, however—— (Sits.) Nay, though I be head of the house, I an’t proud—you can all of you sit down too.

Clara (aside). Amiable humility!

Eug. (aside). No wonder the house is crazy if this be its head!

Torr. Well, now I come to look at you, cousins, I may say you are both of you handsome girls, indeed; which’ll put me to some trouble.

Clara. How so, cousin?

Torr. Why, didn’t you ever hear that if you put an ass between two bundles of hay, he’ll die without knowing which to begin on, eh?

Alon. His father’s pleasant humour!

Clara. A courteous comparison!

Eug. (aside). Which holds as far as the ass at least.

Torr. Well, there’s a remedy. I say, uncle, mustn’t cousins get a dispensation before they marry?

Alon. Yes, nephew.

Torr. Well then, when you’re about it, you can get two dispensations, and I can marry both my cousins. Aha! Well, but, uncle, how are you? I had forgot to ask you that.

Alon. Quite well, in seeing you in my house at last, and to reap, I trust, the fruits of all my travel.

Torr. Ah, you may say that. Oh, cousins, if you could only see my pedigree and patent, in a crimson velvet case; and all my forefathers painted in a row—I have it in my saddle bags, and if you’ll wait a minute—

Enter Mari NuÑo.

Mari. Dinner’s ready.

Torr. (looking at Mari). Lord a’mercy, uncle, what’s this? something you brought from India, belike; does it speak?

Alon. Nay, nephew, ’tis our Duenna.

Torr. A what?

Alon. A Duenna.

Torr. A tame one?

Alon. Come, come, she tells us dinner’s ready.

Torr. Yes, if you believe her; but I’ve heard say, Duennas always lie. However, I’ll go and see for myself.

[Exit.

Clara. What a cousin!

Eug. What a lover!

Mari. Foh! I wonder how the watch came to let the plague into the city!

[Exit.

Alon. You are silent, both of you?

Both. Not I, sir.

Alon. I understand you; Don Torribio

Pleases you not—Well, he’s a little rough;

But wait a little; see what a town life

Will do for him; all come up so at first,

The finest diamonds, you know, the roughest—

Oh, I rejoice my ancestor’s estate

Shall to my grandchildren revert again!

For this I tell you—one, I care not which,

But one of you, shall marry Don Torribio:

And let not her your cousin does not choose,

For one more courtly think herself reserved;

By Heaven she shall marry, if e’er marry,

One to the full as rough and country-like.

What, I to see my wealth, so hardly won,

Squander’d away by some fine town gallant,

In silks and satins! see my son-in-law

Spend an estate upon a hat and feather!

I tell you I’ll not have it. One of you

Must marry Don Torribio.

[Exit.

Clara. I’ll die first.

Eug. And I’ll live an old maid—which much is worst.

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ACT II

Scene I.—A Room in Don Felix’s House.

Felix and Hernando; to whom enter Juan.

[Exit.

Fel. And does he think

Because his memory of her is quick,

Hers is of him? Aha!

Hern. Nay, if he like it,

‘Oh, let him be deceived!’

Fel. ’Twas wisely said

By him who self-deception used to call

The cheapest and the dearest thing of all.

Ha! here’s the other swain! and now to see

How he has prosper’d. I begin to think

My house is turn’d into a Lazar-house

Of crazy lovers.

Enter Pedro.

Good day, Don Pedro.

Ped. As it needs must be

To one who hails it in your house, and opposite

My lady’s! Oh, you cannot think, my Felix,

With what a blessed conscience of all this

I woke this morning! I can scarce believe ’t.

Why, in your house, I shall have chance on chance,

Nay, certainty of seeing her—to-day

Most certainly. But I’ll go post myself

Before the door; she will be out betimes

To mass.

Fel. Well, you will find Don Juan there.

Ped. Eh? Well, so much the better, I can do ’t

With less suspicion, nay, with none at all

If you will go with us. Only, Don Felix,

Breathe not a word to him about my love.

As he is going, re-enter Juan.

Fel. Juan again?

Juan. I only came to ask

What church we go to? (Aside to Felix.) Let us keep at home.

Fel. Don Pedro, what say you?

Ped. Oh, where you please.

(Aside.) Stir not!

Fel. (aside). How easy to oblige two friends

Who ask the same, albeit with divers ends!

(Aloud.) What, are your worships both in love, perhaps,

As Spanish cavaliers are bound to be,

And think I’ve nothing else to do, forsooth,

Than follow each upon his wildgoose chase?

Forgetting I may take ’t into my head

To fall in love myself—perhaps with one,

Or both, of those fair ladies chance has brought

Before my windows. Now I think upon ’t,

I am, or mean to be, in love with one;

And, to decide with which, I’ll e’en wait here

Till they both sally forth to church themselves.

So, gentlemen, would you my company,

I must not go with you, you stay with me.

Ped. Willingly.

Juan. Oh, most willingly! (Aside to Felix.) How well

You managed it.

Ped. (aside to Felix). ’Tis just as I could wish.

Fel. (aside). And just as I, if thereby I shall learn

Whether they love the same; and, if the same,

Whether the one—But come, come! ’tis too late

For wary me to wear love’s cap and bells.

Juan. Since we must do your bidding on this score,

We’ll e’en make you do ours upon another,

And make you tell us, as you promised both,

And owe to me—what, when our Queen was landed,

You fine folks of Madrid did in her honour.

Ped. Ay, if you needs will fetter our free time,

Help us at least to pass it by the story

You had begun.

Fel. Well then, to pick it up

Where Juan left it for us, on the shore.

There, when our Queen was landed, as I hear,

The Countess Medellin, her Chamberlain,

Of the Cordona family, received her,

And the Lord Admiral on the king’s part,

With pomp that needed no excuse of haste

And such a retinue (for who claims not

To be the kinsman, friend, or follower,

Of such a name?) as I believe Castile

Was almost drain’d to follow in his wake.

Oh, noble house! in whom the chivalry

Of courage, blameless worth, and loyalty,

Is nature’s patent of inheritance

From generation to generation!

And so through ringing Spain, town after town,

And every town a triumph, on they pass’d.

Madrid meanwhile—

Juan. Stop, stop! They’re coming out!

Ped. Where! Let me see.

Juan. The servant only.

Fel. Nay,

They’ll follow soon.

Juan. Till when, on with your story.

Fel. Madrid then, sharing in the general joy

Of her king’s marriage, and with one whose mother

Herself had nurst—though, as you said, half sick

Of hope deferr’d, had, at the loyal call,

That never fails in Spain, drawn to her heart

The life-blood of the realm’s nobility

To do her honour; not only when she came,

But, in anticipation of her coming,

With such prelusive pomps, as if you turn

Far up time’s stream as history can go,

In hymeneals less august than these,

You shall find practised—torchÈd troop and masque,

With solemn and preliminary dance,

Epithalamium and sacrifice,

Invoking Hymen’s blessing. So Madrid,

Breathing new Christian life in Pagan pomp,

With such epithalamium as all Spain

Raised up to Heaven, into sweet thunder tun’d

Beyond all science by a people’s love,

Began her pageant. First, the nightly masque,

So fair as I have never seen the like,

Nor shall again; nor which, unless you draw

On your imagination for the type

Of what I tell, can I depict to you;

When, to the sound of trumpet and recorder,

The chiming poles of Spain and Germany

Beginning, drew the purple mountain down,

Glittering with veins of ore and silver trees,

All flower’d with plumes, and taper-starr’d above,

With monster and volcano breathing fire,

While to and fro torch-bearing maskers ran

Like meteors; all so illuminating night,

That the succeeding sun hid pale in cloud,

And wept with envy, till he dawn’d at length

Upon the famous Amphitheatre,

Which, in its masonry out-doing all

That Rome of a like kind in ruin shows,

This day out-did itself,

In number, rank, and glory of spectators,

Magnificence of retinue, multitude,

Size, beauty, and courage, of the noble beasts

Who came to dye its yellow dust with blood;

As each horn’d hero of the cloven hoof,

Broad-chested, and thick-neckt, and wrinkle-brow’d,

Rush’d roaring in, and tore the ground with ’s foot,

As saying, ‘Lo! this grave is yours or mine!’

While that yet nobler beast, noblest of all,

Who knights the very knighthood that he carries,

Proud in submission to a nobler will,

Spurn’d all his threats, and, touch’d by the light spur,

His rider glittering like a god aloft,

Turn’d onset into death. Fight follow’d fight,

Till darkness came at last, sending Madrid

Already surfeited with joy, to dream

Of greater, not unanxious that the crown

And centre of the centre of the world

Should not fall short of less renowned cities

In splendour of so great a celebration;

While too the hundreds of a hundred nations,

In wonder or in envy cramm’d her streets;

Until her darling come at last, whose spouse

Shall lay his own two empires at her feet,

And crown her thrice; as Niece, and Spouse, and Queen.

Juan. A charming story, finisht just in time,

For look! (They look out.)

Fel. That is the father, Don Alonso.

Juan. Indeed!

Ped. (aside). That’s he then! But that strange man with him,

Who’s he?

Hern. Oh, I can tell you that;

His nephew, an Asturian gentleman,

Betroth’d to one of the daughters.

Juan (aside). Not to mine!

Ped. (aside). Not my Eugenia, or by Heaven—

But we shall scarcely see them, Felix, here,

Wrapt in their mantles too.

Fel. And I would pay

My compliment to Don Alonso.

Juan. Come,

Let us go down with you into the street.

(Aside.) Oh love, that in her memory survive

One thought of me, not dead if scarce alive!

Ped. (aside.) Oh, may her bosom whisper her ’tis still

Her eyes that draw me after where they will!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—Street between the Houses of Alonso and Felix.

Alonso and Torribio waiting.

Alon. If you really affect Eugenia, nephew—— (aside) as I wished,—I will communicate with her after church, and if all be well (as I cannot doubt) get a dispensation forthwith. But they are coming.

Enter from Alonso’s door Clara, Eugenia in mantles, the latter with a handkerchief in her hand; Mari NuÑo, Brigida, and OtaÑez behind; and at the same time Felix, Juan, and Pedro opposite.

Clara. Cover your face, Eugenia. People in the street.

Eug. Well, I’m not ashamed of it. (Aside.) Don Pedro! and Don Juan!

Fel. (whispers). Which is it, Don Juan?

Juan. She with the handkerchief in her hand. I’ll go wait for her at the church.

[Exit.

Ped. (to Felix). That is she with the white kerchief in her hand. I’ll follow them.

Fel. (aside). The same, then!

Clara. Eugenia, lend me your handkerchief, it is hot. (Takes the handkerchief and uncovers her face towards Felix.) And let us go, and do not you look behind you.

Fel. And she I most admired.

[Exeunt Clara, Eugenia, etc., Pedro after them.

Torr. Uncle, what are these fellows hanging about our doors for?

Alon. Nay, ’tis the public street, you know.

Torr. What, my cousins’ street?

Alon. To be sure.

Torr. I’ll not suffer any one I don’t like to hang about it, however, and least of all these perfumery puppies.

Alon. But if they happen to live here, nephew?

Torr. Don’t let ’em live here, then.

Alon. But if they own houses?

Torr. They mustn’t own houses, then.

Fel. Don Alonso, permit me to kiss your hand on your arrival among us. I ought indeed first to have waited upon you in your own house; but this happy chance makes me anticipate etiquette.

Torr. Coxcomb!

Alon. Thank you, sir; had I known you intended me such a favour, I should have anticipated your anticipation by waiting upon you. Give me leave to present to you my nephew, Don Torribio de Cuadradillos, who will also be proud of your acquaintance.

Torr. No such thing, I shan’t at all.

Alon. Nephew, nephew!

Fel. I trust you are well, sir?

Torr. Oh, so, so, thank ye, for the matter of that, neither well nor ill, but mixt-like. (Alonso salutes Felix and exit with Torribio.)

Fel. Now then, I know both face, and dress, and name,

And that my rival friends both love the same;

The same too that myself of the fair pair

Thought yester-eve the fairest of the fair:

Was ’t not enough for my two friends that they

Turn enemies—must I too join the fray?

Oh, how at once to reconcile all three,

Those two with one another, and with me!

Re-enter Juan hastily.

Juan. On seeing me, my friend, her colour chang’d:

She loves me still, Don Felix! I am sure

She loves me! Is not the face—we know it is,

The tell-tale index of the heart within?

Oh happiness! at once within your house,

And next my lady’s! What is now to do

But catch the ball good fortune throws at us!

You know her father, you will visit him

Of course, and then—and then—what easier?

Draw me in with you, or after you—or perhaps

A letter first—ay, and then afterward—

But why so dumb?

Fel. I scarce know how to answer.

Juan, you know I am too much your friend

To do you any spite?

Juan. How could I dream it?

Enter Pedro hastily.

Ped. Oh, Felix, if my love—

Fel. (aside). The other now!

He must be stopt. A moment, gentlemen,

Before you speak, and let me tell you first

A case of conscience you must solve for me.

You both have mighty matters, I doubt not,

To tell me, such a warm young gentlemen

Are never at a loss for in Madrid;

But I may have my difficulties too.

(Aside.) The same will serve for both.

Ped. Well, let us hear.

Fel. Suppose some friend of yours, dear as you will,

Loving your neighbour’s daughter—— (such a case

Will do as well as any)—ask’d of you

To smuggle him, his letters, or himself,

Into that neighbour’s house, there secretly

To ply a stolen love; what would you do?

Ped. Do it of course!

Juan. Why not?

Fel. Well, I would not.

Ped. But why?

Fel. Because, however it turn’d out,

I must do ill; if one friend’s love succeeded

I had play’d traitor to the other still;

If unsuccessful, not that cost alone,

But also, without counter-profiting,

Him whom I sacrificed so much to serve.

Ped. If that be your determination,

I have no more to say.

[Exit.

Juan. Nor I: farewell;

I must find other means.

[Exit.

Fel. Of all the plagues,

For one with no love profit of his own

Thus to be pester’d with two lovers’ pains!

And yet, what, after all, between the two—

Between the three, perhaps, am I to do?

Fore Heaven, I think ’twill be the only way

To get her to untie who drew the knot;

No woman ever at a loss

To mend or mar a matter as she wills.

Yet ’tis an awkward thing to ask a lady,

‘Pray, madam, which of these two sighing swains

Do you like best? or both? or neither, madam?’

Were not a letter best? But then who take it?

Since to commit her letter, would so far

Commit her honour to another’s hands?

By Heaven, I think I’ve nothing left to do,

But ev’n to write it, and to take it too;

A ticklish business—but may fair intent

And prudent conduct lead to good event!

[Exit.

Scene III.—An Apartment in Don Alonso’s House.

Enter Clara, Eugenia, Mari NuÑo, etc.

Clara. Here, take my mantle, Mari. Oh, I wish we had a chaplain of our own in the house, not to go abroad through the crowded streets!

Eug. And I, that church were a league of crowded street off, and we obliged to go to it daily.

Mari. I agree with SeÑora Clara.

Brigida. And I with SeÑora Eugenia.

Mari. And why, pray?

Brig. Oh, madam, I know who it is deals most in sheep’s eyes.

Enter Don Alonso.

Alon. (talking to himself as he enters). How lucky he should have pitcht on the very one I wanted! (Aloud.) Oh, Eugenia, I would speak with you. Nay, retire not, Clara, for I want you to pardon me for the very thing Eugenia is to thank me for.

Clara. A riddle, sir. I pardon you?

Alon. Listen, both of you. Your cousin Don Torribio has declared his love for Eugenia: and though I could have wished to marry you, Clara, first, and to the head of our house too, yet my regret at your missing it is almost cancelled by the joy of your sister’s acceptance.

Clara. And so with me, believe me, sir. I am well content to be slighted so long as she is happy: which may she be with my cousin these thousand years to come. (Aside.) Oh, providential rejection!

[Exit.

Torribio (peeping in). Ah! what a wry face she makes!

Alon. And you, Eugenia, what say you?

Eug. (aside). Alas! surprise on surprise! (Aloud.) Nay, sir, you know, I hope, that I am ever ready to obey you.

Alon. I looked for nothing else of you.

Torr. Nor I.

Alon. Your cousin is waiting your answer in his chamber. I will tell him the good news, and bring him to you.

[Exit.

Eug. Only let him come! Alas!

Torr. (entering). How lightly steps a favour’d lover forth! Give you joy, cousin.

Eug. The wretch!

Torr. Being selected by the head of your house.

Eug. Sir, one word, I wouldn’t marry you if it should cost me my life.

Torr. Ah, you are witty, cousin, I know.

Eug. Not to you, sir. And now especially, I mean to tell you sober truth, and abide by it, so you had better listen. I tell you once again, and once for all, I wouldn’t marry you to save my life!

Torr. Cousin! After what I heard you tell your father?

Eug. What I said then was out of duty to him; and what I now say is out of detestation of you.

Torr. I’ll go and tell him this, I declare I will.

Eug. Do, and I’ll deny it. But I mean it all the same, and swear it.

Torr. Woman, am I not your cousin?

Eug. Yes.

Torr. And head of the family?

Eug. I dare say.

Torr. An Hidalgo?

Eug. Yes.

Torr. Young?

Eug. Yes.

Torr. Gallant?

Eug. Very.

Torr. And disposed to you?

Eug. Very possibly.

Torr. What do you mean then?

Eug. Whatever you choose, so long as you believe I mean what I say. I’ll never marry you. You might be all you say, and fifty other things beside, but I’ll never marry any man without a capacity.

Torr. Capacity! without a Capacity! I who have the family estate, and my ancestors painted in a row on the patent in my saddle-bags! I who—

Enter Alonso.

Alon. Well, nephew, here you are at last; I’ve been hunting every where to tell you the good news.

Torr. And what may that be, pray?

Alon. That your cousin Eugenia cordially accepts your offer, and—

Torr. Oh, indeed, does she so? I tell you she’s a very odd way of doing it then. Oh uncle, she has said that to me I wouldn’t say to my gelding.

Alon. To you?

Torr. Ay, to me—here—on this spot—just now.

Alon. But what?

Torr. What? why, that I had no Capacity! But I’ll soon settle that; I either have a Capacity or not—If I have, she lies; if not, I desire you to buy me one directly, whatever it may cost.

Alon. What infatuation!

Torr. What, it costs so much, does it? I don’t care, I’ll not have it thrown in my teeth by her or any woman; and if you won’t, I’ll go and buy a Capacity, and bring it back with me, let it cost—ay, and weigh—what it will.

[Exit.

Alon. Nephew, nephew! Stop him there!

Enter Clara and Eugenia.

Clara. What is the matter, sir?

Alon. Oh, graceless girl, what have you been saying to your cousin?

Eug. I sir? Nothing.

Alon. Oh! if you deceive me! But I must first stop his running after a Capacity!

[Exit.

Eug. What can I have done?

Clara. Nay, attempt not dissimulation with me, who know how you would risk even your advancement for a sarcasm.

Eug. It was all for your sake, if I did, Clara.

Clara. For my sake! oh, indeed, you think I can have no lovers but what you reject? Poor little fool! I could have enough if I chose to lay out for them as some do; but many will pluck at an apple who will retire from a fortress.

Eug. Hark! they are coming back; I dare not face them both as yet.

[Exit.

Enter Don Felix.

Fel. Permit me, madam—

Clara. Who is this?

Fel. One, madam,

Who dares to ask one word with you.

Clara. With me?

Fel. Indeed with you.

Clara. You cannot, sir, mean me.

Fel. Once more, and once for all, with you indeed;

Let me presume to say so, knowing well

I say so in respect, not in presumption.

Eug. (peeping). Why, whom has my staid sister got with her?

Clara. With me! My very silence and surprise

Bid you retire at once.

Fel. Which I will do

When you will let this silence speak to you

With less offence perhaps than could my tongue.

(Offering her a letter.)

Eug. Oh, if he would but try if fort or apple!

Clara. A letter too!—for me!

Fel. And, madam, one

It most imports your honour you should read.

For, that being once in question, I make light

That my friends’ lives, Don Juan and Don Pedro,

Are in the balance too.

Eug. Don Juan! Don Pedro!

Clara. What, sir, is this to me, who neither know

Don Juan, nor Don Pedro, nor yourself?

Fel. Having then done my duty to my friends,

And (once again I say ’t) to yourself, madam,

Albeit in vain—I’ll not offend you more

By my vain presence. (Going.)

Clara. Nay, a moment—wait.

I must clear up this mystery. Indeed,

I would not be discourteous or ungrateful:

But ere I thank you for your courtesy,

Know you to whom you do it?

Fel. To Donna Eugenia.

Clara. Well, sir?

Eug. Oh, the hypocrite!

Fel. You are the lady?

Clara. Enough—give me the letter, and adieu.

Eug. I can forbear no longer. (Coming out.) Sister, stop!

Oh! what to do!—the letter—

Clara. Well?

Eug. I tell you

My father and my cousin are coming up,

And if they see—

Clara. Well, if they see? what then!

I wish them both to see and hear it all.

(Calling.) Sir! Father! Cousin! OtaÑez!

Alon. (within). Clara’s voice?

Fel. What to do now?

Eug. Alas, to tell the truth,

When I but wish’d to lie!

Clara (calling). This way, sir, here!

Eug. Will you expose us both? In here! in here!

[She hides Felix behind arras.

Enter Alonso, Torribio, Mari NuÑo, OtaÑez, etc.

Alon. What is the matter?

Clara. There is some one in the house, sir. A man—I saw him stealing along the corridor, towards the garret.

Brigida. It must be a robber.

Alon. A robber?

Mari. What more likely in a rich Indian’s house?

Alon. I’ll search the house.

Torr. I’ll lead the forlorn hope, though that garret were Maestricht itself. Now, cousin, you shall see if I’ve a Capacity or not.

[Exeunt Alonso and the men.

Clara. Do you two watch in the passage. (Exeunt Mari NuÑo and Brigida.) And now, sir, the door is open, give me the letter and begone.

Fel. Adieu, madam, neglect not its advice.

Eug. Alas, alas, she has it!

Fel. She’s all too fair! come, honour, come, and shame False love from poaching upon friendship’s game!

[Exit.

Re-enter Alonso, etc.

Alon. We can see nothing of him, daughter.

Clara. Nay, sir, he probably made off when the alarm was given. Take no more trouble.

Alon. Nay, we’ll search the whole house.

Torr. What do you say to my Capacity now, cousin?

[Exeunt Alonso, Torribio, etc.

Clara. You see, Eugenia, in what your enterprises end. At the first crack, you faint and surrender. I have done all this to show you the difference between talking and doing. And now go; I have got the letter, and want to read it.

Eug. And so do I! but—

Clara. Go! I am mistress now. (Exit Eugenia.) May they not have written to me under cover of her name? let me see. (Reads.) ‘Let not him offend honour by the very means he takes to secure it; at least let his good intention excuse his ill seeming. Don Juan, more than ever enamoured of you, hangs about your doors; Don Pedro follows every step you take; they are both in my house; it is impossible but the secret must soon escape both, who must then refer their rivalry to the sword, and all to the scandal of your name. You can, by simply disowning both, secure their lives, your own reputation, and my peace of mind as their friend and host. Adieu!’

Oh what perplexing thoughts this little letter

Buzzes about my brain, both what it says,

And leaves unsaid!—oh, can it be for me?

And is the quiet nun really belov’d

Under the cover of an idle flirt?

Or is it but for her—the vain, pert thing,

Who thinks her eye slays all it looks upon?

If it be so, and she, not I, is lov’d,

I yet may be reveng’d—

Eug. (entering). On whom?

Clara. Eugenia!

This letter that has fallen to my hands,

But meant for you—

Eug. Oh, I know all about it.

Clara. Know all about it! know then that two men

Are even now following your steps like dogs

To tear your reputation between them,

And then each other for that worthless sake,

And yet—

Eug. A moment, you shall see at once

How easily I shall secure myself,

And them, and supersede your kind intentions.

Signor Don Pedro! (Calls at the window.)

Clara. What are you about?

Eug. Listen and you will hear.

Clara. You dare not do it!

Eug. My father’s safely lockt up in his room,

(Thanks to the gout your false alarm has brought.)

My cousin gone to buy capacities,

And now’s my time. (Calling at the window.)

Don Pedro! Signor Don Pedro!

Ped. (coming below to the window).

He well may wait to have his name thrice call’d

When such a goddess—

Eug. Listen, sir, to me.

It is because, I say, because this room,

Away from father’s and duenna’s ears,

Allows some harmless speech, it also bars

All nearer access than the ears and eyes

Of father or duenna both could do.

But, seeing harm of harmless trifling come,

I now entreat, implore, command you, sir,

To leave this window and my threshold clear,

Now and for ever!

Ped. Hear me—

Eug. Pardon me,

I cannot.

Ped. But this once—

Eug. If you persist

I must be rude.

Ped. Oh, how do worse than—

Eug. (shutting the blinds down). Thus!

Clara. And to your other gallant?

Eug. Why not think

If he were here, I’d do the same to him?

Oh, Clara, be assured my levities

Are but the dust on youth’s butterfly wing,

Though prudes and sinners too take fright at them;

Like that benighted traveller, you know,

Who, frighted by a shallow brook that jump’d

And bubbled at his right, swerved to the left

And tumbled into one that lay quite still,

But deep enough to drown him for his pains.

[Exit.

Clara and Mari NuÑo.

Clara. It is so, indeed.

Mari. You know you can always rely on my old love to you. But indeed I cannot but wonder at your sister’s forwardness.

Clara. Yes; to think of two cavaliers after her at once! I look upon it as my duty to set all to right; to do this I must once more speak to him who warned me of it; and I want you to give him this letter—in her name, remember—this will bring him here to-night, and I shall undeceive him for ever. But hark! some one—

Torribio is about to enter.

Mari. ’Tis that wretch. Stay, sir, no man comes in here.

Torr. Away, troublesome duenna.

Mari. It’s not decent, I tell you.

Torr. An’t my cousin decent; and an’t I?

Clara. What is the matter?

Torr. This old woman won’t let me come in.

Clara. She is right, unless my father be with you.

Torr. Oh, I understand—

Clara. Well, since she who is in, and may grin, is not here, you have no business neither. For me, what grudge I have against you, be assured I can and will repay. Mari, remember.

[Exit.

Mari. Hark! some one at the door.

[Exit.

(Re-enter Mari NuÑo with a letter.)

(Deals him a blow, and calls.)

Enter Eugenia, Clara, Alonso, Brigida, etc.

Alon. What is the matter now?

Mari. Don Torribio, sir, because I wouldn’t let him have my young lady’s letter, has laid violent hands on me.

Torr. I?

All. Don Torribio!

Torr. I tell you—

Alon. Indeed, nephew, your choleric jealousy carries you too far. A respectable female in my house!

Torr. I tell you that it is me who—

Alon. I know—enough—make not the matter worse by worse excuses. Give me the letter has been the cause of such unseemly conduct.

Eug. (aside). If it should be from one of them!

Clara (aside to Eugenia). Nothing I hope from your gallants.

Alon. (reads). ‘My dear nieces, this being the day of the Queen’s public entry, I have engaged a balcony, and will send my coach for you directly to come and see it with me.’ This, you see, nephew, is all your suspicions amount to! My cousin, Donna Violante, inviting my daughters to witness this august ceremony! If you still suspect; here, take it, and read it for yourself.

Torr. (after looking at the letter). I tell you what, uncle, if they wait till I’ve read it, they’ll not see the sight at all.

Alon. Why so?

Torr. Because I can’t read.

Alon. That this should be!

Torr. But that’s no matter neither. They can teach me before they go.

Alon. What, when it’s to-day? almost directly?

Torr. Can’t it be put off?

Alon. ’Tis useless saying more. Daughters, such a ceremony happens, perhaps, but once in a life; you must see it. On with your mantles, whether Don Torribio approve or not. I am lame, you see, and must keep at home; to hear about it all from you on your return.

Clara. At your pleasure, sir.

Eug. Shall I stay with you, sir, while Clara—

Alon. No, no. Both of you go.

Clara. (aside to Mari, while putting on her mantle). Remember the letter!

Mari. Trust to me.

Eug. (aside). I wonder if they will be there!

[Exeunt all but Torribio.

[Exit.

Scene II.—A Room in Felix’s House.

Felix and Hernando.

Hern. Not going to see the Entry, sir?

Fel. What use going to a festival if one has no spirits for it?

Hern. Humph, what makes you out of spirits?

Fel. Why should you ask?

Hern. Nay, then, you have already answer’d me. You are in love.

Fel. I scarce know whether you are right or wrong, Hernando. I have indeed seen a lady whose very beauty forbids all hope of my attaining it.

Hern. How so, sir?

Fel. She who has enslaved Don Juan and Don Pedro has fetter’d me, at last! I should care little for their rivalry, had not each made me keeper of his love, so that—Hark!

Mari NuÑo (within). Don Felix!

Fel. Who is that?

Hern. Some one calling you.

Mari. (within). SeÑor Don Felix!

Fel. Well?

Mari. (within). From Donna Eugenia!

[A letter is thrown in at the window.

Fel. From Eugenia! (Reads.) ‘Grateful to you for your advice, I have already begun to follow it; but, in order to that, I must see you once again, this evening! Adieu!’ Here’s a dilemma! For if—

Hern. Don Juan!

Enter Juan.

As they are going out, enter Pedro.

[Exeunt wrangling.

Scene III.—Alonso sitting.

Enter Torribio.

Torr. Oh, uncle!

Alon. Well, what now?

Torr. Oh, such a thing! I suspected it!

Alon. Well, tell me.

Torr. Such a thing!

Alon. Speak, man.

Torr. When we were searching the house for the man cousin Clara told us of—

Alon. Well?

Torr. Passing by cousin Eugenia’s room, I saw— I have not breath to say it!

Alon. Speak, sir.

Torr. Those men in the house—those dandies about the door—I know how they get in now—when I found in my cousin’s room—behind her very bed—

Alon. Don Torribio!

Torr. The very ladder they climb up by!

Alon. A ladder?

Torr. Ah, and a very strong one too, all of iron and cord.

Alon. If this were true—

Torr. Wait till I show it you, then.

[Exit.

Alon. Not in vain did Mari NuÑo warn me of her dangerous disposition! If he have such a proof of her incontinence how will he marry her?

Re-enter Torribio with a fardingale.

Torr. There, uncle, there it is, hoops, and steps, and all!

Alon. This a ladder?

Torr. Ah, that, if it were all let out, would scale the tower of Babel, I believe.

Alon. I can scarce control my rage. Fool! this is a fardingale, not a ladder.

Torr. A what-ingale?

Alon. A fardingale, fool![10]

Torr. Why, that’s worse than the ladder!

Alon. You will fairly drive me out of my senses! Go, sir, directly, and put it back where you took it from, and for Heaven’s sake, no more of such folly!

[Exit.

Torr. Well—to think of this! and my cousin that looked so nice too!

Voices (within). Coach there! coach!

Enter Mari NuÑo.

Mari. They are come back. I must get lights. Who’s this?

Torr. Nobody.

Mari. What are you doing with that fardingale; and where did you get it?

Torr. Nothing, and nowhere.

Mari. Come, give it me at once, lest I give you the fellow of the cuff I gave you before.

Torr. For fear of which, take that upon your wrinkled chaps. (Strikes her, and calls out.) Help! help! Murder! murder! Help!

Enter Alonso, Clara, Eugenia, etc. in mantles.

Alon. What now?

Torr. Mari NuÑo there, only because I wished her good night, laid violent hands on me.

Mari. Oh the wretch! he wanted to make love to me—and worse—declaring he would none of any who used such a thing as this. (Showing fardingale.)

Alon. Let us hear no more of such folly. There is something else to-day to tell of. Well, (to his daughters,) you have seen this procession?

Eug. Ay, sir; the greatest sight, I believe, that Spain has seen since she was greatest of nations.

Alon. I, who could not go myself, am to see it, you know, in your recital.

Eug. As best we can, sir.

Clara (aside to Mari NuÑo). Have you seen Don Felix?

Mari (aside). Enough, he will be here. But when?

Clara. When the story is done, and all weary are gone to bed.

Mari. Good.

[Exit; the rest sit down.

Alon. Well done, well done, both of you, in whose lively antiphony I have seen it all as well as if I had been there.

Torr. Well, for my part I neither wanted to see it nor hear of it.

Alon. No? why so, nephew?

Torr. Lord, I’ve seen twice as good as that down in my country many a time, all the boys and girls dancing, and the mayor, and the priest, and—

Alon. Peace, peace. Come, Brigida, light me to my room, I am sleepy.

Eug. And I; with sight-seeing, and sight-telling, I suppose. (Aside.) And with a heavy heart, alas!

[Exeunt Alonso, Eugenia, and Brigida.

Clara. Will not you to bed too, sir?

Torr. Not till I’ve had my supper, I promise you. Oh, I don’t care for all your sour looks, not I, nor your threats of revenge neither.

Clara. You don’t?

Torr. No, I defy you.

Clara. Not if I were to prove to you that she you slighted me for loves another?

Torr. Oh, cousin Clara!

Clara. Shall I prove it to you?

Torr. Oh, if my ancestors could hear this, what would they say?

Clara. I don’t know. But you may hear if you like what she says to your rival.

Torr. Ha!

Clara. Go into this balcony, and you will hear her talking to him in the street.

Torr. I knew! I guessed! the ladder!

(He goes into the balcony and she shuts him in.)

Clara. There cool yourself in the night till I let you out. And now to have you safe too. (Locks Eugenia’s door.) And now, all safe, for the first time in my life Love and I meet in fair field. Mari NuÑo! (Enter Mari.) Where is the Cavalier?

Mari. Waiting in my chamber.

Clara. Bring him. You understand it is all for Eugenia’s good?

Mari. I understand.

[Exit, and returns with Felix.

Fel. I fly, madam, to your feet. (Kneels.)

Clara. Rise, sir, ’tis about your letter I sent to you.

Fel. Alas, madam, all is worse than ever!

Clara. What has happened?

Fel. Not only did my two friends fall out with each other, as I expected, but with me for the very good services I was doing them; insulted me till I could withhold my sword no longer; we went out to fight; were seen, pursued, and disperst by the alguazils. I returned home to await them, but as yet know nothing more of them.

Clara. Alas, sir, what do I not owe you for your care on my behalf?

Fel. More perhaps than you imagine.

Clara. Tell me all at least, that I may at least know my debt, if unable to repay it.

Fel. Alas, I dare not say what is said in not saying.

Clara. Said, and not said? I do not understand.

Fel. I, alas, too well!

Clara. Explain to me then, sir.

Fel. No, madam. If what I feel is so much on my friends’ account, it is still more for their sakes that I keep it unsaid.

Clara. Hark! what noise is that? Mari NuÑo, what is the matter?

Enter Mari NuÑo.

Mari. Oh, madam, some one is getting over the garden wall! Your father has heard the noise; and is got up with his sword.

Clara. If he should find you!

Fel. He need not. This balcony—

Clara. No, no!

Torribio (within). Thieves! Murder! Help! (He opens the balcony; Torribio falls forward on him, pushed in by Juan with his sword drawn.)

(Confusion, in which enter Alonso with drawn sword, OtaÑez, Brigida, etc.)

Alon. Two! Torribio, to my side!

Fel. Wait! wait! Let me explain.

Alon. Don Felix!

Fel. Listen to me, all of you, I say! I was sent for to prevent, not to do, mischief, by Donna Eugenia herself—

Enter Eugenia.

Eug. By me, sir!

Clara. Hold, hold, Eugenia!

Eug. I will not hold when my name is in question without my—Sent for by me, sir!

Fel. Not by you, madam; by Donna Eugenia, (pointing to Clara) to prevent—

Alon. and Eug. Clara!

Torr. Ah, ’twas she put me to freeze in the balcony, too.

Clara (to Felix). Sir, you come here to save another from peril. Leave me not in it.

Fel. I leave you, madam, who would lay down my life for you! and all the rather if you are not Donna Eugenia.

Alon. None but her father or her husband must do that.

Fel. Then let me claim to do it as the latter. (Kneels to Clara.)

Alon. But Clara?

Clara. Sir, I am ready to obey my father—and my husband.

Eug. And I, sir. And to prove my duty, let me marry my cousin at once, and retire with him to the mountains.

Torr. Marry me! No, indeed! No Capacities, and ladders, and—what-d’ye-call-’ems—for me. I’ll e’en go back as I came, with my ancestors safe in my saddle-bags, I will.

Juan (to Alonso). Permit me, sir. I am Don Juan de Mendoza; a name at least not unknown to you. I have loved your daughter long; and might have had perchance favourable acceptation from her mother long ago, had not you yourself been abroad at the time.

Alon. I now remember to have heard something of the kind. What say you, Eugenia?