  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
ACT IScene I.—A Room in Don Luis’ palace at Naples.Enter Don Luis and Don Juan meeting. Luis. Once more, a thousand times once more, Don Juan, Come to my heart. Juan. And every fresh embrace Rivet our ancient friendship faster yet! Luis. Amen to that! Come, let me look at you— Why, you seem well— Juan. So well, so young, so nimble, I will not try to say how well, so much My words and your conception must fall short Of my full satisfaction. Luis. How glad am I To have you back in Naples! Juan. Ah, Don Luis, Happier so much than when I last was here, Nay, than I ever thought that I could be. Luis. How so? Juan. Why, when I came this way before, I told you (do you not remember it?) How teased I was by relatives and friends To marry—little then disposed to love— Marriage perhaps the last thing in my thoughts— Liking to spend the spring time of my youth In lonely study. Luis. Ay, ay, I remember: Nothing but books, books, books—still day and night Nothing but books; or, fairly drowsed by them, By way of respite to that melancholy, The palette and the pencil— In which you got to such a mastery As smote the senseless canvas into life. O, I remember all—not only, Juan, When you were here, but I with you in Spain, What fights we had about it! Juan. So it was— However, partly wearied, partly moved By pity at my friends’ anxieties, Who press’d upon me what a shame it were If such a title and estate as mine Should lack a lineal inheritor, At length I yielded— Fanned from the embers of my later years A passion which had slept in those of youth, And took to wife my cousin Serafina, The daughter of Don Pedro Castellano. Luis. I know; you show’d me when you last were here The portrait of your wife that was to be, And I congratulated you. Juan. Well now Still more congratulate me—as much more As she is fairer than the miniature We both enamoured of. At the first glance I knew myself no more myself, but hers, Another (and how much a happier!) man. Luis. Had I the thousand tongues, and those of brass, That Homer wished for, they should utter all Congratulation. Witty too, I hear, As beautiful? Juan. Yourself shall judge of all, For even now my lady comes; awhile To walk the Flora of your shores, and then Over your seas float Venus-like away. Luis. Not that, till she have graced our gardens long, If once we get her here. But is she here? Juan. Close by—she and her father, who would needs See her aboard; and I push’d on before To apprize you of our numbers—so much more Than when I first proposed to be your guest, That I entreat you— Luis. What? Juan. —to let us go, And find our inn at once—not over-load Your house. Luis. Don Juan, you do me an affront— What if all Naples came along with you?— My heart—yes, and my house—should welcome them. Juan. I know. But yet— Luis. But yet, no more ‘but yets’— Come to my house, or else my heart shall close Its doors upon you. Juan. Nay, I dare not peril A friendship— Luis. Why, were ’t not a great affront To such a friendship—when you learn besides, I have but held this government till now Only to do you such a courtesy. Juan. But how is this? Luis. Sickness and age on-coming, I had determined to retire on what Estate I had—no need of other wealth— Beside, Alvaro’s death—my only son— Juan. Nay, you have so felicitated me, I needs must you, Don Luis, whose last letter Told of a gleam of hope in that dark quarter. Luis. A sickly gleam—you know the ship he sail’d in Was by another vessel, just escaped The selfsame storm, seen to go down—it seem’d With all her souls on board. Juan. But how assured ’Twas your son’s ship?— Luis. Alas, so many friends Were on the watch for him at Barcelona, Whither his ship was bound, but never came— Beside the very messenger that brought The gleam of hope, premised the tragedy— A little piece of wreck, That floated to the coast of Spain, and thence Sent to my hands, with these words scratcht upon ’t— ‘Escaped alive, Alvaro.’ Juan. When was this? Luis. Oh, months ago, and since no tidings heard, In spite of all inquiry. But we will hope. Meanwhile, Serafina—when will she be here? Juan. She must be close to Naples now. Luis. Go then, Tell her from me— I go not forth to bid her welcome, only That I may make that welcome sure at home. Juan. I’ll tell her so. But— Luis. What! another ‘But’? No more of that. Away with you.—Porcia! [Exit Juan. Enter Porcia. Daughter, you know (I have repeated it A thousand times, I think) the obligation I owe Don Juan Roca. Porcia. Sir, indeed I’ve often heard you talk of him. Luis. Then listen. He and his wife are coming here to-day— Directly. Por. Serafina! Luis. Yes. To be our guests, till they set sail for Spain; I trust long first— Por. And I. How glad I am! Luis. You! what should make you glad? Por. That Serafina, So long my playmate, shall be now my guest. Luis. Ay! I forgot—that’s well, too— Let us be rivals in their entertainment. See that the servants, Porcia, dress their rooms As speedily and handsomely as may be. Por. What haste can do (which brings its own excuse) I’ll do—’tis long a proverb hereabout That you are Entertainer-general, Rather than Governor, of Naples. Luis. Ay, I like to honour all who come this way. Enter Leonelo. Leonelo. Peace to this house!—and not only that, but a story beside.—A company of soldiers coming to a certain village, a fellow of the place calls out for two to be billeted on him. ‘What!’ says a neighbour, ‘you want a double share of what every one else tries to shirk altogether?’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘for the more nuisance they are while they stay, the more glad one is of their going.’ In illustration of which, and also of my master’s orders, I crave your Lordship’s hand, and your Ladyship’s foot, to kiss. Luis. Welcome, good Leonelo. I was afraid I had overlooked you in receiving your master. Por. And how does marriage agree with you, Leonelo? Leon. One gentleman asked another to dine; but such an ill-ordered dinner that the capon was cold, and the wine hot. Finding which, the guest dips a leg of the capon into the wine. And when his host asks him what he’s about—‘Only making the wine heat the capon, and the capon cool the wine,’ says he. Now just this happened in my marriage. My wife was rather too young, and I rather too old; so, as it is hoped— Por. Foolery, foolery, always!—tell me how Serafina is— Leon. In a coach. Por. What answer is that? Leon. A very sufficient one—since a coach includes happiness, pride, and (a modern author says) respectability. Por. How so? Leon. Why, a certain lady died lately, and for some reason or other, they got leave to carry her to the grave in a coach. Directly they got her in,—the body, I mean,—it began to fidget—and when they called out to the coachman—‘Drive to St. Sepulchre’s!’—‘No!’ screams she,—‘I won’t go there yet. Drive to the Prado first; and when I have had a turn there, they may bury me where they please.’ Luis. How can you let your tongue run on so! Leon. I’ll tell you. A certain man in Barcelona had five or six children: and he gave them each to eat— (Voices within.) ‘Way there! way!’ Por. They are coming. Leon. And in so doing, take that story out of my mouth. Enter Julia. Julia. Signor, your guests are just alighting. Luis. Come, Porcia— Leon. (No, no, stop you and listen to me about those dear children.) Por. They are coming upstairs—at the door— Enter Don Juan leading Serafina, Don Pedro and Flora—all in travelling dress. Luis. Your hand, fair Serafina, whose bright eyes Seem to have drawn his lustre from the sun, To fill my house withal;—a poor receptacle Of such a visitor. Por. Nay, ’tis for me To blush for that, in quality of hostess; Yet, though you come to shame my house-keeping, Thrice welcome, Serafina. Serafina. How answer both, Being too poor in compliment for either! I’ll not attempt it. Pedro. I am vext, Don Luis, My son-in-law should put this burden on you. Luis. Nay, vex not me by saying so.—What burden? The having such an honour as to be Your servant?— Leon. Here’s a dish of compliments! Flora. Better than you can feed your mistress with. (Guns heard without.) Juan. What guns are those? Enter Fabio. Fabio. The citadel, my lord, Makes signal of two galleys in full sail Coming to port. Luis. More guests! the more the merrier! Ped. The merrier for them, but scarce for you, Don Luis. Luis. Nay, good fortune comes like bad, All of a heap. What think you, should it be, As I suspect it is, the Prince Orsino Returning; whom, in love and duty bound, I shall receive and welcome— Juan. Once again, Don Luis, give me leave— Luis. And once again, And once for all, I shall not give you leave. Prithee, no more— All will be easily arranged. Porcia, You know your guest’s apartments—show her thither; I’ll soon be back with you. Ped. Permit us, sir, To attend you to the port, and wait upon His Highness. Luis. I dare not refuse that trouble, Seeing what honour in the prince’s eyes Your company will lend me. Leon. And methinks I will go with you too. Juan. What, for that purpose? Leon. Yes—and because perhaps among the crowd I shall find some to whom I may relate That story of the children and their meat. [Exeunt Don Luis, Pedro, Juan, Leonelo, Fabio, etc. Ser. Porcia, are they gone? Por. They are. Ser. Then I may weep. Por. Tears, Serafina! Ser. Nay, they would not stay Longer unshed. I would not if I could Hide them from you, Porcia. Why should I, Who know too well the fount from which they flow? Por. I only know you weep—no more than that. Ser. Yet ’tis the seeing you again, again Unlocks them—is it that you do resent The discontinuance of our early love, And that you will not understand me? Por. Nay,— What can I say? Ser. Let us be quite alone. Por. Julia, leave us. Ser. Flora, go with her. Julia. Come, shall we go up to the gallery, And see the ships come in? Flora. Madam, so please you. [Exeunt Flora and Julia. Ser. Well, are we quite alone? Por. Yes, quite. Ser. All gone, And none to overhear us? Por. None. Ser. Porcia, You knew me once when I was happy! Por. Yes, Or thought you so— Ser. But now most miserable! Por. How so, my Serafina? Ser. You shall hear. Yes, my Porcia, you remember it,— That happy, happy time when you and I Were so united that, our hearts attuned To perfect unison, one might believe That but one soul within two bodies lodged. This you remember? Por. Oh, how could I forget! Ser. Think it not strange that so far back I trace The first beginnings of another love, Whose last sigh having now to breathe, whose last Farewell to sigh, and whose deceased hopes In one last obsequy to commemorate, I tell it over to you point by point From first to last—by such full utterance My pent up soul perchance may find relief. Por. Speak, Serafina. Ser. You have not forgot Neither, how that close intimacy of ours Brought with it of necessity some courtesies Between me and your brother, Don Alvaro— Whose very name, oh wretched that I am! Makes memory, like a trodden viper, turn, And fix a fang in me not sharp enough To slay at once, but with a lingering death Infect my life— Por. Nay, calm yourself. Ser. We met, Porcia—and from those idle meetings love Sprang up between us both—for though ’tis true That at the first I laugh’d at his advances, And turn’d his boyish suit into disdain, Yet true it also is that in my heart There lurk’d a lingering feeling yet behind, Which if not wholly love, at least was liking, In the sweet twilight of whose unris’n sun My soul as yet walk’d hesitatingly. For, my Porcia, there is not a woman, Say what she will, and virtuous as you please, Who, being loved, resents it: and could he, Who most his mistress’s disfavour mourns, Look deeply down enough into her heart, He’d see, however high she carries it, Some grateful recognition lurking there Under the muffle of affected scorn. You know how I repell’d your brother’s suit: How ever when he wrote to me I tore His letters—would not listen when he spoke— And when, relying on my love for you, Through you he tried to whisper his for me, I quarrell’d with yourself—quarrell’d the more The more you spoke for him. He wept—I laugh’d; Knelt in my path—I turn’d another way; Though who had seen deep down into my heart, Had also seen love struggling hard with pride. Enough—at last one evening as I sat Beside a window looking on the sea, Wrapt in the gathering night he stole unseen Beside me. After whispering all those vows Of love which lovers use, and I pass by, He press’d me to be his. Touch’d by the hour, The mask of scorn fell from my heart, and Love Reveal’d himself, and from that very time Grew unconceal’d between us—yet, Porcia, Upon mine honour, (for I tell thee all,) Always in honour bounded. At that time In an ill hour my father plann’d a marriage Between me and Don Juan—yours, you know, Came here to Naples, whence he sent your brother, I know not on what business, into Spain; And we agreed, I mean Alvaro and I, Rather than vex two fathers at one time By any declaration of our vows, ’Twere best to keep them secret—at the least, Till his return from Spain. Ah, Porcia, When yet did love not thrive by secrecy? We parted—he relying on my promise, I on his quick return. Oh, mad are those Who, knowing that a storm is up, will yet Put out to sea, Alvaro went—my father Urged on this marriage with my cousin. Oh!— Por. You are ill, Serafina! Ser. Nothing—nothing— I reason’d—wept—implored—excused—delay’d— In vain—O mercy, Heaven! Por. Tell me no more: It is too much for you. Ser. Then suddenly We heard that he was dead—your brother—drown’d— They married me—and now perhaps he lives They say—Porcia, can it be?—I know not Whether to hope or dread if that be true:— And every wind that blows your father hope Makes my blood cold; I know that I shall meet him, Here or upon the seas—dead or alive— Methinks I see him now!—Help! help! [Swoons. Por. Serafina!— She has fainted!—Julia! Flora!— Enter Alvaro. Alvaro. My Porcia! Por. Alvaro! (They embrace.) Alv. I have outrun the shower of compliment On my escapes—which you shall hear anon— To catch you to my heart. Por. Oh joy and terror! Look there!— Alv. Serafina! And sleeping too! Por. Oh, swooning! see to her Till I get help. [Exit. Ser. (in her swoon). Mercy, mercy! Alvaro, slay me not!—I am not guilty!— Indeed I am not!— Alv. She dreams—and dreams of me—but very strangely— Serafina!— Ser. (waking). Dead!—or return’d alive to curse and slay me!— But I am innocent!—I could not help— They told me you were dead—and are you not?— And I must marry him— Alv. Must marry?—whom?— Why, you are dreaming still— Awake!—’tis your Alvaro— (Offers to embrace her.) Ser. No, no, no— I dare not— Alv. Dare not! Enter Porcia, Flora, Julia. Por. Quick, quick! Flora. My lady! Julia. My lord alive again! Alv. Porcia, come hither—I am not alive, Till I have heard the truth—nay, if ’t be true That she has hinted and my heart forebodes, I shall be worse than dead— [Retires with Porcia to back of Stage. Enter Juan and Pedro. Juan. What is the matter?— My Serafina! Pedro. We have hurried back, Told of your sudden seizure—What is it? Ser. The very heart within me turn’d to ice. Juan. But you are better now?— Ser. Yes—better—pray, Be not uneasy for me. Alv. (to Porcia in the rear). This is true then! Por. Nay, nay, be not so desperate, Alvaro, Hearing but half the story—no fault of hers— I’ll tell you all anon. Come, Serafina, I’ll see you to your chamber. Pedro. She will be better soon— Juan. Lean upon me, my love—so—so. Alv. Oh, fury! Ser. Oh, would to heaven these steps should be my last, Leading not to my chamber, but my grave! Por. (to Alvaro). Wait here—compose yourself—I shall be back Directly. [Exeunt Porcia, Serafina, and Juan. Alv. She is married—broke her troth— And I escape from death and slavery To find her—but the prince!—Oh weariness! Enter the Prince Orsino, Celio, Don Luis, and Train. Prince. Each day, Don Luis, I become your debtor For some new courtesy. Luis. My lord, ’tis I Who by such small instalments of my duty Strive to pay back in part the many favours You shower upon your servant. And this last, Of bringing back Alvaro to my arms, Not all my life, nor life itself, could pay. Prince. Small thanks to me, Don Luis; but indeed The strangest chance—two chances—two escapes— First from the sinking ship upon a spar, Then from the Algerine who pick’d him up, Carried him captive off— He first adroitly through their fingers slipping That little harbinger of hope to you, And then, at last, himself escaping back To Barcelona, where you know I was— If glad to welcome, house, and entertain Any distrest Italian, how much more, Both for his own sake and for yours, your son, So making him, I trust, a friend for life. Alv. Rather a humble follower, my lord. Luis. I have no words to thank you—we shall hear The whole tale from Alvaro by and by— To make us merry—once so sad to him. Meanwhile, Alvaro, thou hast seen thy sister? Alv. Yes, sir— Luis. Oh what a joy ’tis to see thee! Prince. A day of general joy. Alv. (aside). Indeed!— Prince. Especially To her, Alvaro— Alv. Sir? Prince. I mean your sister. Alv. Yes, my lord—no—I am not sure, my lord— A friend of hers is suddenly so ill, My sister is uneasy— Luis. Serafina! Indeed!—I know your Highness will forgive My seeing to her straight. [Exit. Alv. And I, my lord, Would fain see some old faces once again As soon as may be. Prince. Nay, no more excuse— Follow your pleasure. Alv. (aside). ’Tis no friend I seek, But my one deadliest enemy—myself. [Exit. Prince. Celio, I think we have well nigh exhausted The world of compliment, and wasted it: For I begin to doubt that word and deed Are wasted all in vain. Celio. How so, my lord? Prince. Why, if I never am to see Porcia, Whom I have come so far and fast to see— Cel. Never, my lord! her father’s guest is ill, And she for a few minutes— Prince. Minutes, Celio! Knowest thou not minutes are years to lovers? Cel. I know that lovers are strange animals. Prince. Ah, you have never loved. Cel. No, good my lord, I’m but a looker-on; or in the market Just give and take the current coin of love— Love her that loves me; and, if she forget, Forget her too. Prince. Ah, then I cannot wonder You wonder so at my impatience; For he that cannot love, can be no judge Of him that does. Cel. How so? Prince. I’ll tell thee, Celio. He who far off beholds another dancing, Even one who dances best, and all the time Hears not the music that he dances to, Thinks him a madman, apprehending not The law that rules his else eccentric action. So he that’s in himself insensible Of love’s sweet influence, misjudges him Who moves according to love’s melody: And knowing not that all these sighs and tears, Ejaculations, and impatiences, Are necessary changes of a measure, Which the divine musician plays, may call The lover crazy; which he would not do Did he within his own heart hear the tune Play’d by the great musician of the world. Cel. Well, I might answer, that, far off or near, Hearing or not the melody you tell of, The man is mad who dances to it. But Here is your music. Enter Porcia. Porcia. I left my brother here but now. Prince. But now, Sweet Porcia, you see he is not here— By that so seeming earnest search for him Scarce recognising me, if you would hint At any seeming slight of mine toward you, I plead not guilty— Por. You mistake, my lord— Did I believe my recognition Of any moment to your Excellency, I might perhaps evince it in complaint, But not in slight. Prince. Complaint!— Por. Yes, sir—complaint. Prince. Complaint of what? I knowing, Porcia, And you too knowing well, the constant love That I have borne you since the happy day When first we met in Naples— Por. No, my lord— You mean my love to you, not yours to me— Unwearied through your long forgetful absence. Prince. How easily, Porcia, would my love Prove to you its unchanged integrity, Were it not that our friends— Por. Your friends indeed, Who stop a lame apology at the outset. Enter Serafina. [Exit. Por. I needs must after her, my lord. But tell me, When shall I hear your vindication?— To-night? Prince. Ay, my Porcia, if you will. Por. Till night farewell, then. [Exit. Prince. Farewell.—Celio, Didst ever see so fair an apparition, As her who came and went so suddenly? Cel. Indeed, so sweetly manner’d when surprised, She must be exquisite in her composure. Prince. Who is she? Cel. Nay, my lord, just come with you, I know as little— What! a new tune to dance to?— Prince. In good time, Here comes Alvaro. Enter Alvaro. Alvaro. How restless is the sickness of the soul! I scarce had got me from this fatal place, And back again— Prince. Alvaro! Alv. My lord— Prince. Who is the lady that was here anon? Alv. Lady, my lord—what lady?— Prince. She that went A moment hence—I mean your sister’s guest. Alv. (This drop was wanting!) My lord, the daughter of a nobleman Of very ancient blood— Don Pedro Castellano. Prince. And her name? Alv. Serafina. Prince. And a most seraphic lady! Alv. You never saw her, sir, before? Prince. No, surely. Alv. (aside). Would I had never done so! Prince. And in the hasty glimpse I had, I guess her mistress of as fair a mind As face. Alv. Yes, sir— Prince. She lives in Naples, eh? Alv. No—on her way To Spain, I think— Prince. Indeed!—To Spain. Why that? Alv. (How much more will he ask?) My lord, her husband— Prince. She is married then?— Alv. Torture! Prince. And who so blest to call her his, Alvaro? Alv. Sir, Don Juan Roca, her cousin. Prince. Roca? Don Juan Roca? Do I know him? Alv. I think you must; he came, sir, with my father To wait upon your Grace. Prince. Don Juan Roca! No; I do not remember him—should not Know him again. Enter Don Luis. Luis. My lord, if my old love And service for your Highness may deserve A favour at your hands— Prince. They only wait Until your tongue has named it. Luis. This it is then— The captain of the galleys, good my lord, In which your Highness came, Tells me that, having landed you, he lies Under strict orders to return again Within an hour. Prince. ’Tis true. Luis. Now, good my lord, The ships, when they go back, must carry with them Some friends who, long time look’d for, just are come, And whom I fain— Prince. Nay, utter not a wish I know I must unwillingly deny. Alvaro. Confusion on confusion! Prince. I have pledg’d My word to Don Garcia of Toledo, The galleys should not pass an hour at Naples. I feel for you,—and for myself, alas! So sweet a freight they carry with them. But I dare not—and what folly to adore A Beauty lost to me before I found it! [Exeunt Prince and Celio. Luis. And those I so had long’d for, to avenge Their long estrangement by as long a welcome, Snatcht from me almost ere we’d shaken hands!— Is not this ill, Alvaro? Alv. Ill indeed. Luis. And, as they needs must go, my hospitality, Foil’d in its spring, must turn to wound myself By speeding their departure. (Going.) Alv. Sir, a moment. Although his Highness would not, or could not, Grant you the boon your services deserved, Let not that, I beseech you, indispose you From granting one to me. Luis. What is ’t, Alvaro? ’Twere strange could I refuse you anything. Alv. You sent me, sir, on state affairs to Spain, But being wreckt and captured, as you know, All went undone. Another opportunity now offers; The ships are ready, let me go and do That which perforce I left undone before. Luis. What else could’st thou have askt, In all the category of my means, Which I, methinks, had grudged thee! No, Alvaro, The treacherous sea must not again be trusted With the dear promise of my only son. Alv. Nay, for that very reason, I entreat you To let me go, sir. Let it not be thought The blood that I inherited of you Quail’d at a common danger. Luis. I admire Your resolution, but you must not go, At least not now. Beside, the business you were sent upon Is done by other hands, or let go by For ever. Alv. Nay, sir— Luis. Nay, Alvaro. [Exit. Alv. He is resolved. And Serafina, To whose divinity I offer’d up My heart of hearts, a purer sacrifice Than ever yet on pagan altar blazed, Has play’d me false, is married to another, And now will fly away on winds and seas, As fleeting as herself. Then what remains but that I die? My death The necessary shadow of that marriage! Comfort!—what boots it looking after that Which never can be found? The worst is come, Which ’twere a blind and childish waste of hope To front with any visage but despair. Ev’n that one single solace, were there one, Of ringing my despair into her ears, Fails me. Time presses; the accursed breeze Blows foully fair. The vessel flaps her sails That is to bear her from me. Look, she comes— And from before her dawning beauty all I had to say fades from my swimming brain, And chokes upon my tongue. Enter Serafina, drest as at first, and Porcia. Porcia. And must we part so quickly?— Serafina. When does happiness Last longer? Alv. Never!—who best can answer that? I standing by, why ask it of another? At least when speaking of such happiness As, perjured woman, thy false presence brings! Ser. Alvaro, for Heaven’s sake spare me the pang Of these unjust reproaches. Alv. What! unjust! Ser. Why, is it not unjust, condemning one Without defence? Alv. Without defence indeed! Ser. Not that I have not a most just defence, But that you will not listen. Alv. Serafina, I listen’d; but what wholly satisfies The criminal may ill suffice the judge; And in love’s court especially, a word Has quite a different meaning to the soul Of speaker and of hearer. Yet once more, Speak. Ser. To what purpose? I can but repeat What I have told your sister, and she you,— What on the sudden waking from my swoon, I, who had thought you dead so long, Alvaro, Spoke in my terror, suddenly seeing you Alive, before me. Alv. I were better, then, Dead than alive? Ser. I know not—were you dead I might in honour weep for you, Alvaro; Living, I must not. Alv. Nay then, whether you Forswear me living or lament me dead, Now you must hear me; if you strike the wound, Is it not just that you should hear the cry? Ser. I must not. Alv. But I say you must. Ser. Porcia, Will you not help me when my life and honour Are thus at stake? Alv. Porcia’s duty lies In keeping watch that no one interrupt us. Porcia. Between the two confused, I yield at last To him, both as my brother, Serafina, And for his love to you. Compose yourself; I shall be close at hand, no harm can happen. And let him weep at least who has lost all. [Exit. Ser. If I am forced to hear you then, Alvaro, You shall hear me too, once more, once for all, Freely confessing that I loved you once; Ay, long and truly loved you. When all hope Of being yours with your reported death Had died, then, yielding to my father’s wish, I wed another, and am—what I am. So help me Heaven, Alvaro, this is all! Alv. How can I answer if you weep? Ser. No, no, I do not weep, or, if I do, ’tis but My eyes,—no more, no deeper. Alv. Is ’t possible you can so readily Turn warm compassion into cold disdain! And are your better pulses so controll’d By a cold heart, that, to enhance the triumph Over the wretched victim of your eyes, You make the fount of tears to stop or flow Just as you please? If so, teach me the trick, As the last courtesy you will vouchsafe me. Ser. Alvaro, when I think of what I was, My tears will forth; but when of what I am, My honour bids them cease. Alv. You do feel then— Ser. Nay, I’ll deny it not. Alv. That, being another’s— Ser. Nay, no argument— Alv. These tears— Ser. What tears? Alv. Are the relenting rain On which the Iris of my hope may ride; Or a sweet dew— Ser. Alvaro— Alv. That foretells That better day when in these arms again— Ser. Those arms! Alvaro, when that day shall come May heaven’s thunder strike me dead at once! (Cannon within.) Mercy, what’s that? Enter Porcia. Porcia. A signal from the ship, ’Tis time: your father and Don Juan now Are coming for you. Alv. O heavens! Por. Compose yourself, And you, Alvaro——(Motions him back.) Enter Don Juan, Luis, Pedro, Leonelo, etc. Luis. Lady, believe how sadly I am come To do you this last office. Juan. Trembling still?— But come, perhaps the sea-breeze, in requital Of bearing us away from those we love, May yet revive you. Luis. Well, if it must be so, Lady, your hand. Porcia, come with us. [Exeunt all but Alvaro. ACT IIScene I.—A room in Don Juan’s house at Barcelona: he is discovered painting Serafina. It gradually grows dusk.Juan. Are you not wearied sitting? Serafina. Surely not Till you be wearied painting. Juan. Oh, so much As I have wish’d to have that divine face Painted, and by myself, I now begin To wish I had not wish’d it. Ser. But why so? Juan. Because I must be worsted in the trial I have brought on myself. Ser. You to despair, Who never are outdone but by yourself! Juan. Even so. Ser. But why so? Juan. Shall I tell you why? Painters, you know, (just turn your head a little,) Are nature’s apes, whose uglier semblances, Made up of disproportion and excess, Like apes, they easily can imitate: But whose more gracious aspect, the result Of subtlest symmetries, they only outrage, Turning true beauty into caricature. The perfecter her beauty, the more complex And hard to follow; but her perfection Impossible. Ser. That I dare say is true, But surely not in point with me, whose face Is surely far from perfect. Juan. Far indeed From what is perfect call’d, but far beyond, Not short of it; so that indeed my reason Was none at all. Ser. Well now then the true reason Of your disgust. Juan. Yet scarcely my disgust, When you continue still the cause of it. Well then, to take the matter up again— The object of this act, (pray, look at me, And do not laugh, Serafina,) is to seize Those subtlest symmetries that, as I said, Are subtlest in the loveliest; and though It has been half the study of my life To recognise and represent true beauty, I had not dreamt of such excess of it As yours; nor can I, when before my eyes, Take the clear image in my trembling soul; And therefore if that face of yours exceed Imagination, and imagination (As it must do) the pencil; then my picture Can be but the poor shadow of a shade. Besides,— Ser. Can there be any thing besides? Juan. ’Tis said that fire and light, and air and snow, Cannot be painted; how much less a face Where they are so distinct, yet so compounded, As needs must drive the artist to despair! I’ll give it up.——(Throws away his brushes, etc.) The light begins to fail too. And Serafina, pray remember this, If, tempted ever by your loveliness, And fresh presumption that forgets defeat, I’d have you sit again, allow me not,— It does but vex me. Ser. Nay, if it do that I will not, Juan, or let me die for it,— Come, there’s an oath upon ’t. Juan. A proper curse On that rebellious face. Enter Leonelo. Leonelo. And here comes in a story:— A man got suddenly deaf, and seeing the people about him moving their lips, quoth he, ‘What the devil makes you all dumb?’ never thinking for a moment the fault might be in himself. So it is with you, who lay the blame on a face that all the world is praising, and not on your own want of skill to paint it. Juan. Not a very apt illustration, Leonelo, as you would admit if you heard what I was saying before you came in. But, whose soever the fault, I am the sufferer. I will no more of it, however. Come, I will abroad. Ser. Whither, my lord? Juan. Down to the pier, with the sea and the fresh air, to dispel my vexation. Ser. By quitting me? Juan. I might indeed say so, since the sight of you is the perpetual trophy of my defeat. But what if leave you in order to return with a double zest? Ser. Nay, nay, with no such pretty speeches hope to delude me; I know what it is. The carnival with its fair masks. Juan. A mask abroad when I have that face at home! Ser. Nay, nay, I know you. Juan. Better than I do myself? Ser. What wife does not? Leon. Just so. A German and the priest of his village coming to high words one day, because the man blew his swine’s horn under the priest’s window, the priest calls out in a rage, ‘I’ll denounce your horns to the parish, I will!’ which the man’s wife overhearing in the scullery, she cries out, ‘Halloa, neighbour, here is the priest revealing my confession!’ Ser. What impertinence, Leonelo! Leon. Very well then, listen to this; a certain man in Barcelona had five or six children, and one day— Juan. Peace, foolish fellow. Leon. Those poor children will never get the meat well into their mouths. Juan. Farewell, my love, awhile. [Exeunt Juan and Leonelo. Ser. Farewell, my lord. Thou little wicked Cupid, I am amused to find how by degrees The wound your arrows in my bosom made, And made to run so fast with tears, is healing. Yea, how those very arrows and the bow That did such mischief, being snapt asunder— Thyself art tamed to a good household child. Enter Flora, out of breath. Flora. O madam! Ser. Well, Flora, what now? Flora. O madam, there is a man down-stairs! Ser. Well? Flora. Drest sailor-like. Ser. Well? Flora. He will not go away unless I give this letter into your hands. Ser. Into my hands? from whom? Flora. From the lady Porcia he says, madam. Ser. From Porcia, well, and what frightens you? Flora. Nothing, madam, and yet— Ser. And yet there is something. Flora. O, my lady, if this should be Don Alvaro! Ser. Don Alvaro! what makes you think that? Flora. I am sure it is he. Ser. But did you tell him you knew him? Flora. I could not help, madam, in my surprise. Ser. And what said he then? Flora. That I must tell you he was here. Ser. Alvaro!— Flora, go back, tell him you dared not tell me, Fearful of my rebuke, and say beside, As of your own advice, that it is fit, Both for himself and me, That he depart immediately. Flora. Yes, madam. As she is going, enter Alvaro, as a Sailor. Alvaro. No need. Seeing Don Juan leave his house, I have made bold to enter, and have heard What Flora need not to repeat. Ser. Nay, sir, Rather it seems as if you had not heard; Seeing the most emphatic errand was To bid you hence. Alv. So might it seem perhaps, Inexorable beauty: but you know How one delinquency another breeds: And having come so far, and thus disguised, Only to worship at your shrine, Serafina, (I dare not talk of love,) I do beseech you Do not so frown at my temerity, As to reject the homage that it brings. Ser. Don Alvaro, If thus far I have listen’d, think it not Warrant of further importunity. I could not help it—’tis with dread and terror That I have heard thus much; I now beseech you, Since you profess you came to honour me, Show that you did so truly by an act That shall become your honour well as mine. Alv. Speak, Serafina. Ser. Leave me so at once, And without further parley, That I may be assured you are assured That lapse of time, my duty as a wife, My husband’s love for me, and mine for him, My station and my name, all have so changed me, That winds and waves might sooner overturn Not the oak only, But the eternal rock on which it grows, Than you my heart, though sea and sky themselves Join’d in the tempest of your sighs and tears. Alv. But what if I remember other times When Serafina was no stubborn oak, Resisting wind and wave, but a fair flower That open’d to the sun of early love, And follow’d him along the golden day: No barren heartless rock, But a fair temple in whose sanctuary Love was the idol, daily and nightly fed With sacrifice of one whole human heart. Ser. I do not say ’twas not so; But, sir, to carry back the metaphor Your ingenuity has turn’d against me, That tender flower, transplanted it may be To other skies and soil, might in good time Strike down such roots and strengthen such a stem As were not to be shook: the temple, too, Though seeming slight to look on, being yet Of nature’s fundamental marble built, When once that foolish idol was dethroned, And the true God set up into his place, Might stand unscathed in sanctity and worship, For ages and for ages. Alv. Serafina, Why talk to me of ages, when the account Of my misfortune and your cruelty Measures itself by hours, and not by years! It was but yesterday you loved me, yes, Loved me, and (let the metaphor run on) I never will believe it ever was, Or is, or ever can be possible That the fair flower so soon forgot the sun To which so long she owed and turn’d her beauty, To love the baser mould in which she grew: Or that the temple could so soon renounce Her old god, true god too while he was there, For any cold and sober deity Which you may venerate, but cannot love, Newly set up. Ser. I must leave metaphor, And take to sober sense; nor is it right, Alvaro, that you strive To choke the virtuous present with the past, Which, when it was the past, was virtuous too, But would be guilty if reiterate. Nor is it right, nor courteous, certainly, Doubting what I declare of my own heart; Nay, you who do yourself affirm, Alvaro, How well I loved you when such love was lawful, Are bound to credit me when I declare That love is now another’s. Alv. Serafina— Juan (speaking within). Light, light, there! Enter Flora hurriedly. Flora. Madam, my lord, my lord. Alv. Confusion! Ser. O ye heavens! Flora. The old lover’s story. Brother or husband sure to interrupt. Juan (within). A light there, Flora! Serafina! night Set in, and not a lamp lit in the house? Alv. He comes. Ser. And I am lost! Flora. Quick, Don Alvaro, Into this closet, till my lord be gone Into his chamber; in, in, in! Alv. My fears Are all for you, not for myself. [Hides in the closet. Flora. In, in! [Exit. Juan (entering). How is it there’s no light? Ser. She had forgot— But here it comes. Enter Flora with lights. ’Twas kind of you, my lord,— So quickly back again— Sooner than I expected. Juan. Yes, a friend Caught hold of me just as I reach’d the pier, And told me to get home again. Ser. (aside). My heart! Juan. And wherefore do you think? Ser. Nay, I know not. Juan. To tell you of a festival, Serafina, Preparing in your honour. Ser. (aside). I breathe again. Juan. The story’s this. It is the carnival, You know, and, by a very ancient usage, To-morrow all the folk of Barcelona, Highest as well as lowest, men and women, Go abroad mask’d to dance and see the shows. And you being newly come, they have devised A dance and banquet for you, to be held In Don Diego’s palace, looking forth So pleasantly (do you remember it?) Upon the sea. And therefore for their sakes, And mine, my Serafina, you must for once Eclipse that fair face with the ugly mask; I’ll find you fitting dress,—what say you? Ser. Nay, What should I say but that your will is mine, In this as evermore? And now you speak of dress, there are ev’n now Some patterns brought me in the nick of time To choose from, in my chamber; prithee come, And help me judge. Juan. I would that not your robe Only, but all the ground on which you walk Were laced with diamond. Ser. What, not done yet With compliment? Come—come. (She takes a light.) Juan. But wherefore this? Ser. My duty is to wait upon you. Juan. No. Take the lamp, Flora. Ser. Flora waits on me, And I on you. Juan. What humour’s this? But be it as you will. [Exeunt Juan and Serafina. Enter Leonelo. Leonelo. What is the matter? Flora. The matter is, I have fallen. Leon. Into temptation? Flora. It is well, sir, if I have not broken my leg; here, sir, cease your gibing, and get this lamp lighted directly. Leon. (stumbling over Alvaro). Halloa! Flora. What now? Leon. I’ve fallen now, and on your temptation I think, for it has got a beard. Alv. (groping his way). The fool! but I can find the door. [Exit. Leon. There goes some one! Flora. The man’s mad! Leon. Am I? Halloa! halloa, there! Enter Juan with light. Juan. What is the matter? Flora. Nothing, nothing, my lord. Leon. Nothing? I say it is something, a great— Flora. My lord, going to shut the door, I stumbled, fell, and put out the light, that’s all. Leon. And I stumbled too. Juan. Well? Leon. Over a man. Juan. In this chamber? Leon. Yes, and— Flora. Nonsense! my lord, he stumbled against me, as we both floundered in the dark. Leon. You! What have you done with your beard then? Juan. Are you mad? or is this some foolery? Leon. My lord, I swear I stumbled over a fellow here. Juan (aside). And she so anxious to light me to her chamber! what is all this? Take the lamp, Leonelo. Though partly I think you have been dreaming, I will yet search the house; come with me. I will draw the sting of suspicion at once, come what come may. [Draws sword and exit. Flora (to Leon.). All of your work. A murrain on your head, Making this pother. Leon. Minx! what is said, is said. [Exeunt severally. Scene II.—The garden of Don Luis’ palace at Naples; a window with a balcony on one side, or in front:—night.Enter the Prince and Celio muffled up. Celio. Still sighing? pardon me, your Highness, but This melancholy is a riddle to me. Prince. Ah, Celio, so strange a thing is love, The sighs you think are melancholy sighs, Yet are not so; I have indeed drunk poison, But love the taste of it. Cel. I used to think ’Twas all of being away from your Porcia; But now when better starr’d, her brother absent; Her father unsuspicious, at her bidding Night after night you come beneath her lattice, And yet— Prince. If Porcia be not the cause Of my complaint she cannot be the cure: Yet (such is love’s pathology) she serves To soothe the wound another made. Cel. Who then was she, my lord, for whose fair sake You cannot either love this loving lady, Nor leave her? Prince. I would tell you, Celio, But you would laugh at me. Cel. Tell me, however. Prince. Rememberest not the lady whom we saw For a few minutes, like some lovely vision, In this same house a little while ago, Not Porcia, but her diviner guest? Cel. Oh, I remember; is it then to be The speciality of your Highness’ love, That, whereas other men’s dies off by absence, Yours quickens—if it can be love at all Caught from one transitory glance? Prince. Nay, Celio; Because a cloud may cover up the sun At his first step into the firmament, Are we to say he never rose at all? Are we to say the lightning did not flash Because it did but flash, or that the fountain Never ran fresh because it ran so fast Into its briny cradle and its grave? My love, if ’twere but of one moment born, And but a moment living, yet was love; And love it is, now living with my life. (A harp heard.) Cel. O fine comparisons! but hark, I hear The widow’d turtle in the leaves away Calling her faithless mate. Prince. Yes, Celio, ’tis Porcia—if she sings to me of love, I am to approach the window; but if jealousy, I am to keep aloof. Listen! Porcia (singing within). Of all the shafts to Cupid’s bow. The first is tipt with fire; All bare their bosoms to the blow, And call the wound Desire. (She appears at the window.) Prince. Ah! I was waiting, lovely Porcia, Till your voice drew me by the notes of love, Or distanced me by those of jealousy. Por. Which needs not music, prince, to signify, Being love’s plain, prose history. Prince. Not always; For instance, I know one, Who, to refute your theory, Porcia, Attracts men by her jealousy as much As she repels them by her love. Por. Nay, then Men must be stranger beings than I thought. Prince. I know not how that is, I only know That in love’s empire, as in other empires, Rebellion sometimes prospers. Por. That the night Would give us leave to argue out their point! Which yet I fear it will not. Prince. Why? Por. My father, Who frets about my brother’s sudden absence, Sits up enditing letters after him; And therefore I have brought my harp, that while We talk together I may touch the strings, So as he, hearing me so occupied, May not suspect or ask for me. Besides, We can talk under cover of the music. Prince. Not the first time that love has found himself Fretted, Porcia. Por. Oh, the wretched jest! But listen— The music is for him, the words for you, For I have much to tell you underneath This mask of music. (Plays on the harp.) You know my father has been long resolved To quit this government, and to return To his own country place—which resolution, First taken on my brother’s supposed death, My brother’s sudden absence has revived; And brought to a head—so much so, that to-morrow, To-morrow, he has settled to depart To Bellaflor—I scarce can say the words— But let my tears— Prince. ’Tis well that you should mask Ill news under sweet music: though, indeed, A treason to make sweet the poison’d cup. Por. Who more than I— Enter Julia within, hurried. Julia. Madam, madam, your father Is gone into the garden—I hear his steps. Por. Nay then——(Sings) Love’s second is a poison’d dart, And Jealousy is named: Which carries poison to the heart Desire had first inflamed. Prince. She sings of jealousy—we must retire; Hist, Celio! [Celio and Prince retreat. Enter Luis. Julia. Who’s there? Por. Speak! Luis. Oh, I, Porcia, Who writing in my study, and much troubled About your brother, was seduced away By your harp’s pleasant sound and the cool night, To take a turn in the garden. Por. Yes, sir, here I sit, enjoying the cool air that blows Up from the shore among the whispering leaves. Luis. What better? but, Porcia, it grows late, And chilly, I think: and though I’d have you here Singing like a nightingale the whole night through, It must not be. Will you come in? [Exit. Por. Directly— I’ve but a moment. Prince (entering). And you shall not need Repeat the love call, for I heard— Por. (playing as she speaks). Nay, listen, And that attentively. To-morrow, then, We go to Bellaflor, (you know the place,)— There in the hill-top, hid among the trees, Is an old castle; ours, but scarcely used, And kept by an old man who loves me well, And can be secret. And if you should come That way by chance, as hunting it may be, I think we yet may meet. Luis (within). Porcia! Por. Sir! Luis (within). It’s time, indeed, to shut your window. Por. Hark, I dare no longer. Prince. Then farewell! Por. Farewell! Remember Bellaflor: while you retreat Among the trees, I still shall sing to you Of love; not that dark shape of jealousy, But in the weeds of absence. Prince. A descant That suits us both,——(aside) but on a different theme. Por. (singing). The last of Cupid’s arrows all With heavy lead is set; That vainly weeping lovers call Repentance or Regret. [As she retires still singing from the window within, the Prince and Celio retire back into the garden. Scene III.—A street before Don Diego’s house in Barcelona.Enter Alvaro and Fabio, masked: other Masks pass across, and into Diego’s house. Alv. This is the place; here will I wait till she comes by. I know her dress, but I dared not follow her till myself disguised. Fab. And no doubt, sir, you will find good opportunity of talking to her. ’Tis the old and acknowledged usage of this season, that any one may accost any one so long as both are masked, and so neither supposed to know the other. Alv. Oh, a brave usage, and a brave invention, that of the Carnival! One may accost whom one pleases, and whisper what one will, under the very ears of husband, father, or duenna! Fab. So received a custom, that even among this hot-headed jealous people of Spain, no mortal quarrel has yet arisen on these occasions, though plenty to provoke it. Alv. Look! the Masks are coming; I hear the [Exeunt. Scene IV.—A garden leading down to the sea; on one side a Portico.Masks singing and dancing; in the course of which enter and mix with them, Juan, Serafina, Leonelo, and Flora, and afterwards Alvaro; all masked. Chorus. Tantara, tantara, come follow me all, Carnival, Carnival, Carnival. Follow me, follow me, nobody ask; Crazy is Carnival under the mask. Follow me, follow me, nobody knows; Under the mask is under the rose. Tantara, tantara, etc. Juan. How like you all this uproar? Ser. O quite well. Juan (aside). And so should I, Did not a shadow from that darken’d room Trail after me. But why torment myself! Leon. My lord, the dancers wait. Juan (to the musicians). Pardon me. Strike up! Voices. Strike up! strike up! A Voice. The castanets! Voices. The castanets! the castanets! Musician. What will you have? Voices. The Tarazana! the Tarazana! [A dance, during which Alvaro observes Serafina. Fab. You recognise her? Alv. Yes, Fabio, my heart Would recognise her under any dress, And under any mask. Fab. Now is your time. Alv. (to Serafina). Mask, will you dance with me? Ser. No, Cavalier; You come too late. Alv. Too late? Ser. I am engaged. Alv. Nevertheless— Ser. Nay, sir, I am not apt To change my mind. Alv. I hoped that in my favour You might perhaps. Ser. ’Twas a delusion. Alv. But, Fair Mask, didst never change thy mind before? Ser. Perhaps once—to such purpose that that once Forbids all other. Juan. Serafina, the Mask Has askt your hand to dance. On these occasions You must permit him, whether known or not. Unknown, the usage of the time allows; If known, ’twere more discourteous to refuse. Ser. My lord, ’twas chiefly upon your account That I refused to dance with him; if you Desire it, I am ready. Juan. How, my love, On my account? Ser. Liking your company Much better. Juan. Nay, take the humour of the time, And dance with him. (Aside.) I marvel who it is That follows Serafina, and to whom, The very indisposition that she shows, Argues a kind of secret inclination. Alv. Well, do you still reject me? Ser. I am bidden To dance with you; what measure will you call? Alv. Play ‘Love lies bleeding!’ Ser. But why that? Alv. Because The spirit of the tune and of the words Moves with my heart, and gives me leave beside Amid its soft and slow divisions To gaze on you and whisper in your ear. (A minuet by the Masks; during which Alvaro constantly whispers Serafina, who seems distrest; after some time, they return in the figure to the front of the Stage.) Ser. I’ve heard enough, sir; save for courtesy, Too much. No more. Alv. Brief as the happiness That once was mine! But— Ser. Stay, sir, I will hear No more. I had not danced with you at all, But that I wish’d to tell you once for all How hopeless is your passion—the great danger Your coming hither put and puts me to, And that not my honour only, but my life, Depends upon your quitting me at once, Now and for ever. Alv. Serafina! Ser. (aloud). I am tired; Pardon me, friends, I cannot dance. Juan. My love, What is ’t? Unwell? Ser. I know not. A Woman. Stop the ball! Another. All in her honour too! Another. What is the matter? Juan. You are but tired with dancing. Ser. No, no, no, Let us go home. Juan. Pardon us, friends, Continue you your revels; we will go Into the house awhile, and rest; I think The heat and dancing have distrest her much, But she’ll be better. To your dance again. Come, Serafina. (Aside.) Leonelo! hither! Find out the Mask that with your lady danced. Leon. I’ll watch him to the world’s end—or beyond, If need be. Juan. Good—Come, Serafina. [Exeunt Juan and Serafina. Alv. So end my hopes for ever. Fool! who seeking For what once lost could never more be found Like to a child after a rainbow running— Leaving my father, who had only just Recover’d me to his old heart again, Without adieu—equipp’d this Brigantine (Down to the bottom may she go with me!) In chase of this—not Serafina—no— But this false Siren, Who draws me with the music of her beauty, To leave me in destruction. Leon. (watching him). This must be some monk, who knows of some better entertainment elsewhere. Alv. And after all, Not one kind word of welcome or of thanks, But that her life depended on my leaving her, Who would for her have sacrificed my own In any way but that. But it is done! Henceforward I renounce all hope; henceforth— And why not all despair?—the world is wide, Eh, Fabio? and the good old saw says well That fortune at the worst must surely mend. Let us to sea, the ship is ready; come, Away with all this foolery. (Throws off mask, etc.) Leon. Here is a harlequin sailor! Fabio. Well resolved. Alv. Wear them what other fool may list, I’ll straight aboard, and if the wind and sea Can rise as they were wont, I’ll stretch all sail Toward the perdition she consigns me to. Halloa there! (Whistles.) Enter Sailors. Sail. Captain? Alv. How is ’t for a cruise? Sail. Oh, never better; just a breeze to keep The ship from looking in her glass too long. Alv. Aboard, aboard then! Farewell all my hopes; My love, farewell for ever! Voices (within). Fire! fire! fire! All. What’s this? Voices. Fire! fire! in Don Diego’s palace! Help! help! Alv. She there! my life shall save the life She said it jeopardied. As he is going out, enter Juan with Serafina fainted in his arms. Juan. Friends! Gentlemen! if you would help in this calamity, take charge for a moment of this most precious thing of all, till I return. Alv. (taking Serafina in his arms). Trust me, sir. [Juan rushes off. Leon. Stop, my lord, stop a moment—he is gone, and this man— Alv. Serafina in my arms! my ship at hand! O love, O destiny!—aboard, aboard— O ’tis the merriest proverb of them all, How one man rises by his neighbour’s fall. [Exit, carrying off Serafina. Leon. Halloa! stop him! stop him! it is my mistress; Don Juan! my lord! my lord! the rascal has carried her off! my lord! my lord! [Runs after Alvaro. 1st Voice in the crowd. The fire is getting under. 2nd Voice. No lives lost? 3rd Voice. Only, they say, one poor girl of the lady Serafina’s. Enter Don Juan hurriedly. Juan. I thought I heard Leonelo calling me—But where is Serafina? This is the place—yes—Serafina! I left them here—taken her perhaps fainting as she was for help. Gentlemen, have you seen any here with a lady, fainted, in their charge—a sailor, I think? 1st Man. Not I, sir. 2nd Man. Nor I. 3rd Man. Stay, I think there were some sailors with a lady in their arms. Juan. And where— Enter Leonelo breathless. Leon. Oh, my lord, my lord! Juan. Speak! Leon. The Mask who danced with my lady— Juan. Where is she? Leon. Was the sailor you gave her in charge to—He has carried her off. Juan. The Mask! the sailor! Leon. I saw him throw off his disguise, and now he has carried her off—to the shore—to sea—to the ship there now spreading her sails in the harbour. Juan. Man! beware lest I blast thee! Leon. As if I were the sailor! I tell you I ran after them, shouted, struggled, but was pushed aside, knocked down— Juan. To the shore, to the shore! follow me! Voices. What is the matter? Juan. What I dare not name till it be avenged; Pirate!—Ruffian! Oh fool, I might have guessed—but I will find them through water and fire too. To the shore! [Exit Juan, Leonelo after him; confusion, etc. ACT IIIScene I.—A room in Don Luis’ country-house near Naples.Enter Don Luis reading a letter. Luis. ‘You bid me tell you why it is Don Juan Roca has not written to you so long: and though it be pain to do so, I dare no longer defer answering you. At a carnival dance here, the palace of Don Diego de Cordona, in which the festival was held, took fire so suddenly, as people had much ado to escape with their lives. Don Juan’s wife fainting from terror, he carried her out, and gave her in My heart prevents my eyes from reading more. O heavens! to what chance and danger is The fortune of the happiest, and still more The honour of the noblest, liable! Ill fortune we may bear, and, if we choose, Sit folded in despair with dignity; But honour needs must wince before a straw, And never rest until it be avenged. To know where Juan is, and by his side To put myself, and run all risk with him Till he were righted, and the offender too, I’d give my life and all I’m worth; no corner In the wide earth but we would ferret it, Until—Porcia! Enter Porcia. Por. Pray, sir, pardon me, But I would know what vexes you, you stand Angrily talking to yourself alone: This letter in your hand—What is it, sir? Luis. Nothing, nothing, Porcia; (for Juan’s sake I must dissemble)—Nay, I have received A letter upon business that annoys me. Por. I’m sorry, sir, for that, for I had come To ask a favour of you. Luis. Well, why not? Por. They say that those who ask unseasonably Must be content with a refusal. Luis. Nay, Between us two no season’s out of season. Por. So? then I’ll ask. Alvaro— Luis. All but that! Ask me not that way. Por. Then ’tis not the season. Luis. The season for all else but that which never Can be in season. How often have I told you Never to speak to me again of him! Por. What has my brother done, sir, after all, To make you so inveterate? Luis. What done! To leave my house, to which I only just Had welcomed him as only a father can, Without adieu, or word of when or where, And then as suddenly come back, forsooth, Knock at my door, as if he had but made A morning call, and think to find it open— It and my heart—open to him as ever. Por. But may not, sir, the thoughtlessness of youth Be some excuse? Pray you remember, sir, How on a sudden you yourself determined To leave the cheerful city and come here, Among dull woods and fields, and savage people; And surely ’twas no wonder that my brother Should, ill advised, no doubt, but naturally, Slip for a month back to the busy world To which his very dangers had endear’d him. And now to prove How much he feels your anger and his fault, Since his return he has lived quietly, I might say almost eremitically, Up in the mountain, yet more solitary And still than this is, doing penance there. Let me plead for him, sir; let him come down, To kiss your hand and see you once again. Luis. He should be grateful to you, Porcia— Well, let him come. Por. Bless you for saying so! I’ll go myself to him this evening, And tell him this good news. Luis. Do so. Ah me! That all were settled thus! Did I but know Where Juan is, and where his enemy! [Exit. Julia (entering). Well, madam, you have gain’d your point. Por. Yes, Julia, Two points; for, first, my brother will come back; And, secondly, so doing, leave the old castle At my disposal, where the Prince and I May meet together in security. I’ll write to Alvaro now, and do you tell The messenger who brought his letter hither, I’ll go this evening up the mountain. So Belardo, the old porter, Who knows and loves me well, will look for me, And understand the purpose of my going. Julia. Ah, now I see, beside his bow and arrows, Love arms himself with trick and stratagem. Por. And something else; give me my arquebuss; So, Love and I perchance, as says the song, May hit a hart, as we shall go along. Scene II.—A room in Don Luis’ castle in the hills.Enter Alvaro and Fabio. Alv. How is ’t with Serafina? Fab. Nay, you know. Ever the same. Alv. You mean still weeping? Fab. Ay. Alv. Yes, from the hour when, fainting in my arms, She pass’d from raging flame to the wild seas, And opening those heavenly eyes again, Still with the hue of death upon her cheek, She saw herself in my ship—in my power,— She has not ceased to weep; all my caresses Unable to console her. I fondly hoped that she— Enter Serafina. [Exit Fabio. Leave us awhile. ‘You fondly hoped,’ Alvaro— So much I heard, connected with my name; And I perhaps have something on that text Would clear the matter up to both of us. ‘You fondly hoped’—was ’t not that I might be So frail, so lost to shame, and so inconstant, That for the loss of husband, home, and honour, Lost in one day, I might console myself With being in his arms, who robb’d me of all! Was ’t this you hoped? Alv. No, Serafina, but— Ser. But what? Alv. And yet perhaps ’twas that I hoped— The very desperation of my act Bringing its pardon with it, soon or late, Seeing the very element of love Is rashness, that he finds his best excuse In having none at all. Ah, Serafina, How greatly must he love, who all for love Perils the hope of being loved at all! Ser. Poor argument! I rather draw that he Who ventures on such desperate acts can have No true respect for her he outrages, And therefore no true love. No, daring traitor— But I’ll not strive to break the heart of flint, But wear it with my tears. Hear me, Alvaro, In pity—in mercy—hear me. This thing is done, there is no remedy, Let us not waste the time in arguing What better had been done; the stars so ruled it— Yea, providence that rules the stars. Well then, What next? Alvaro, I would speak of this; And if ’t be right I owe you any thing, Be it for this one boon, a patient hearing. Listen to me— I never draw a breath but ’tis on fire With Juan’s vengeance; never move a step But think I see his fierce eyes glaring at me From some dark corner of this desolate house In which my youth is buried. And what gain you By all this crime and misery? My body, But not my soul; without possessing which, Beauty itself is but a breathing corpse, But a cold marble statue, unsuffused With the responsive hue of sympathy, Possess’d but not enjoy’d. Oh, ill betide that villain love, not love, That all its object and affection finds In the mere contact of encircling arms! But if this move you not—consider, Alvaro— Don Juan is a nobleman—as such Bound to avenge his honour; he must know ’Twas you who did this monstrous act, for Flora Would tell him all. There is one remedy: ’Tis this, that you, despairing of my love, Which you can never gain—forgo me quite, And give me up to some cold convent’s cloister, Where buried I may wear away— Alv. No more, Rather than give you up again, Serafina, Pray heaven’s thunder— (Shot within.) Ser. Again, this dreadful omen! ’Tis for my death! Alv. Fear not—Belardo! ho! What shot was that? Enter Belardo. Bel. Your sister Porcia Is coming up the mountain; nay, is now At the very gate. Ser. Oh, whither must I go! Alv. Belardo, lead her hence. Bel. Not that way, sir, By which your sister enters. Alv. In here then. I’ll go and meet Porcia. Ser. Mercy, heaven! [She goes in at one door, as Porcia enters by another. Alv. How now, Porcia, you look pleased to-day! Por. And well I may—for two reasons, Alvaro. Alv. Well, what are they? Por. First, I have got my father to relax in his humour against you. Alv. My good sister! Por. So as he will see you at Bellaflor this very evening. Alv. Good! and your second reason? Por. That coming up the pass, I made the crowning shot of my life with this arquebuss—a hare at full speed—flying, I might say. Alv. Give you joy of both your hits, Porcia. Por. I am so proud of the last (though glad of the first, Alvaro) that I shall try my luck and skill a little longer about the castle this evening. Alv. So— Por. You will not wait for me, but go down at once to Bellaflor, and show my father you value his forgiveness by your haste to acknowledge it. Alv. You say well; but you will go with me? Por. Fear not, I shall soon be after you. Alv. Well, if so, then——(apart to Belardo) Belardo, remember you get the lady to her room directly my sister is gone out. Por. Our roads lie together as far as the gate at least. (Aside to Belardo.) If the Prince happen to come hither, tell him to wait for me, Belardo; I shall be back directly. Come, brother. [Exeunt Alvaro and Porcia. Bel. They say a Pander is a good business; and yet here am I ministering both to brother and sister with very little profit at the year’s end. Ser. (entering cautiously). Porcia’s gone? Bel. Yes, she is gone. Ser. Had she resolved on going into the room where I was she could have done it; there was Bel. No. Ser. Belardo! why? Bel. Some one coming. Ser. Again! [She hides, as before. Enter Prince. Prince. How now, Belardo, where is your mistress? she advised me her brother would be away, and she here this evening. Bel. Your Highness comes in good time. She went with him, but will be back directly. She is here. Enter Porcia. Por. Not far behind, you see. Scarce had he taken the turn to Bellaflor, when I turn’d back. Prince. How shall I thank you for this favour? Por. My brother’s living here has been the reason of our not meeting before: but that is remedied for the future. Prince. And how? Por. He is at last reconciled to my father, and is even now gone home, to Bellaflor. Prince. (aside). My heart thanks you but little, being away with another; but if I cannot avenge memory, I will thus try and deceive or amuse it. My lovely Porcia! Bel. (aside). She hears every word they say! Por. Ah, you flatter still. Prince. Flatter! Por. Do I not know there is a Siren at Naples— Prince. Porcia, to prove to you how unfounded that suspicion is, I have these many days wholly quitted Naples, and, out of a melancholy that has taken hold of me, now live retired in a little Villa hard by this: you may imagine at least one reason for my doing so. And so enchanted am I with my solitude, that till this evening (when you broke it as I could wish) I have not once stirred abroad; my only occupation being to watch some pictures that I am having done, by the best masters of Italy and of Spain too; one of which country I have happened on, who might compete with Apelles. As I told you, I have spent whole days in watching them at work. Por. My jealousy whispered— Enter Belardo. Bel. Unlucky to be sure. Por. What now? Bel. What can make your brother return so suddenly? Por. My brother! Bel. He is now at the gate. Por. He must suspect the Prince! O, my lord, hide yourself. Prince. Where? Por. Any where!—quick! here. [She puts him where Serafina is. Prince. For your sake, Porcia. Enter Alvaro. Alv. I cannot be easy till I am assured that Serafina——Porcia here? Por. Alvaro! Alv. You left me on a sudden? Por. I was tired, and came back for rest. Alv. So— Por. But you? Alv. I bethought me that, considering my father’s late indisposition toward me, it were better you were at my side when I went to him. Por. So— Alv. So that if he should relapse into ill-humour, you know how to direct him. Por. Well, shall we start again together? Alv. Is not that best? Por. As you please. Alv. (aside). She will not then stumble on Serafina. Por. (aside). I shall so get him out of the Prince’s way. [Exeunt Porcia and Alvaro. Bel. Now then the two imprisoned ones get out. Enter the Prince, and Serafina, her hand before her face. Ser. In vain—you shall not know me. Prince. Nay, in vain You try to be unknown. Ser. Consider— Prince. Nay, Down with that little hand, too small a cloud To hide the heaven of your beauty from me. Lady, I know you—but one such. And know That love himself has wrought a miracle, To this unlikeliest place, by means unlikeliest, Bringing us here together. Bel. Only this was wanting to the plot! The sister’s gallant in love with the brother’s mistress! Ser. Generous Orsino! if I try in vain To hide me from you—wretched that I am To have to hide at all—but the less wretched Being unmaskt by your nobility— I ask this mercy at your feet; betray not The secret chance has now betray’d to you. I am a wretched woman, you a Prince. Grant me this boon; and yet one more, to leave me To weep my miseries in solitude. Prince. Madam, your prayer is not in vain. Your name, Upon the word and honour of a Prince, Shall never pass my lips. And for that second wish, hardest of all, I yet will pay for one delicious glance The greatest price I can, by leaving you. Farewell—you owe me more anxiety Than you believe. Ser. I shall not be ashamed To own the debt, though hopeless to repay it. But heav’n shall do that for me. Farewell, my lord. Prince. Farewell. [Exeunt Prince and Serafina. Bel. I wonder if they know the ancient line, ‘I’ll keep your secret, only you keep mine.’ [Exit. Scene III.—The Prince’s Villa.Enter Don Juan in poor apparel; and Celio. Cel. Your business with the Prince, sir? Juan. Only to speak About a picture I have finish’d for him. Cel. He is not here at present; not, I think, Return’d from hunting. Juan. Will he soon be home? Cel. I cannot speak to that, sir. [Exit Celio. Juan. Why, what a fate is mine! All of a sudden—but I dare not say it; Scarce could I of myself believe it, if I told it to myself; so with some things ’Tis easier to bear, than hear of them; And how much happens daily in this strange world, Far easier to be done than be believed. Who could have thought that I, being what I was A few days back, am what I am; to this Reduced by that name Honour; whose nice laws, Accurst be he who framed! Little he knew the essence of the thing He legislated for, who put my honour Into another’s hand; made my free right Another’s slave, for others to abuse, And then myself before the world arraign’d, To answer for a crime against myself! And one being vain enough to make the law, How came the silly world to follow it, Like sheep to their own slaughter! And in all This silly world is there a greater victim To its accursed custom than myself! Enter Leonelo, poorly drest. Leon. Yes, one, Who follows your misfortunes, and picks up The crumbs of misery that fall from you; My chief subsistence now. Juan. And I have left Country and home to chase this enemy, Of whom as yet no vestige— Leon. And no wonder, Seeing he travels with you. Juan. In these rags— Leon. And very hungry; and so we come at last To Naples; for what purpose? Juan. Why, if ’t be Some former lover; would he not return To his own country, and hers? Leon. In which meanwhile We starve, without a stiver in our pockets, While friends swarm round us, if you would, my lord, Reveal yourself. Juan. Shorn of my honour? No! Leon. And I, not being shorn of appetite, Would publish my disgraceful want of food To all the world. There is Don Luis now, Your ancient friend. Juan. What friend but, if he be True to himself and me, must be my enemy, And either wholly turn his face away, Or look at me with pity and contempt? I will reveal myself to no one, nay, Reveal myself I cannot,—not myself Until I be avenged. Leon. And so you make The painter’s trade your stalking-horse To track your enemy, and in these rags Come to the Prince. Juan. Oh let me die in rags, Rather than he should recognise me! Once He saw me— Leon. O my lord, fear not for that; Hunger, and rags, and sleeplessness, and anguish, Have changed you so your oldest friend would pass you. Juan. They have that merit then. But see—the Prince. Enter Prince. I kiss your Highness’ hand. Prince. Well, Spaniard, What would you with me? Juan. I waited on your Highness, To tell you of a picture I had finisht. Thinking your Grace might like— Prince. I thank you, sir. What is the subject? Juan. Hercules, my lord; Wherein (unless I do deceive myself) I think the fair and terrible are join’d With some success. Prince. As how? Juan. As thus, my lord. The point I have chosen in that history Is where the faithless Centaur carries off Deianira, while beyond the river Stands Hercules with such a face and gesture As not a man, I think, who looks on it, But would exclaim, ‘Jealousy and Revenge!’ Prince. I long to see it. Juan. That is the main group; But far away, among the tangled thicks Of a dark mountain gap, this Hercules Fires his own funeral pile to the smoky clouds. And I would have this motto for the whole, ‘So Jealousy in its own flames expires.’ Prince. Not only do I like the subject well, But now especially, being deeply scorcht, Not with the flame that burn’d up Hercules, But that for which the unlucky Centaur died. Juan. Indeed, my lord. Prince. Indeed—and, having done This picture for me, you shall set about One other. Juan. At your pleasure. Prince. You shall know then, That of a certain lady whom but once I saw, and for a moment, I became Infatuated so, her memory Every where and for ever, day and night, Pursues me. Hopeless of obtaining her, And ev’n of ever seeing her again, Chance has discover’d to me where she lives Conceal’d—I know not why, but so it is— And ’twould at least console my hopeless love, To have her picture. You are a foreigner Who know not nor are known by any here, So I can better trust you with a secret I dare not even to herself reveal. Juan. I’ll do my best to serve you; but I fear, If she be such a creature as you say, That I shall fail to satisfy myself Or you. Prince. Why so? Juan. I tried at such a face Once. Prince. Nay, I know that beauty’s subtlest essence Is most impossible to seize. But yet I shall commit this business to your hands Most confidently. Juan. I’ll do my best. Prince. Come then, Remembering this business must be done With all despatch and secrecy. Yourself Must not be seen by her, nor I, who know not (I told you) how or why she should be there; But my authority, and a little gold, (At least, I hope,) shall set the door ajar, That you may catch a sight of her. Myself Will be at hand, and ready to protect you Against all danger. Juan. I will trust your Highness, And also (let me say so) trust myself, Although but a poor painter. Prince. I believe it; And each of us shall play his part, I think, That neither shall depart unsatisfied. [Exit Prince. Juan. Perhaps, but not as you suppose. Leonelo, Put up my brushes and my colours, and— My pistols with them. Leon. Pistols! Is ’t to paint In body colour? Juan. Put them up. Leon. And whither Are we to carry them? Juan. I do not know. Whither the Prince shall carry me, I go. [Exeunt. Scene IV.—A room in Don Luis’ Villa.Enter Luis and Alvaro. Alv. Now, sir, that (thanks to Porcia) you have open’d Your arms to me once more, I cannot rest (So favour ever calls for favour) till You tell me what the inward trouble is That mars your outward feature. I was cause Of so much trouble to you, that I dread Lest of this also, which with troubled looks You still keep speaking to yourself apart, Like people in a play. Luis. Alvaro, no. Thank God, this trouble lies not at your door. Let that suffice. Alv. You will not trust me, sir? Luis. Why will you press me? since you must be told, It is about my friend—Don Juan Roca. Alv. Don Juan! Luis. Yes, Don Juan. Alv. What of him? (I’ll drink the cup at once!) (aside). Luis. What evil star Made him my friend! Alv. Too true! (aside). But what has happen’d? Luis. Why will you know? and should I dare to tell My friend’s dishonour? Well, no more than this— Some wretch—some villain—some accursed—but Be there bad name enough to brand him by, I have not breath for it—nor is it well For you or for myself—has ravisht from him His wife, his Serafina. And I, O God! not able to avenge him! Alv. (aside). Does he know all? and knowing whose the crime, Cannot, he says, avenge it on his son? Shall I then tell, and gain at least the grace Of a confession? Hear me, sir. Luis. Nay, nay, I know what you would say, how vain it is To vex myself who cannot help my friend— We neither knowing who the villain is, Nor whither both are fled: heaven! if we did, I should not now be idly moaning here. Alv. All’s safe! (aside). Nor I, sir; give me but a clue, (Not only for Don Juan’s sake, but yours,) I’ll track the villain through the world. Luis. Alvaro, Your words are music to me. Alv. Still, my father, I will say what to say you said was vain. Until some clue be found, let not this grief Consume you so. Luis. Such wounds are hard to heal. Yet, quicken’d by your courage, and to show How well I like your counsel—come, Alvaro, I will with you to your hill castle there; That which has been your banishment so long, Shall witness now our reconciliation. We’ll go this evening—now—together. Alv. Good, sir. But pardon me, let me go on before To apprize Belardo of your going thither— And also Serafina! (apart). [Exit. Luis. Be it so! Julia (entering). My lord, Don Pedro is without, and fain Would speak to you. Luis. Admit him, Julia. The wound re-opens—Serafina’s father! No doubt upon what errand. Enter Don Pedro. Ped. Ah, Don Luis, Your arms! (They embrace.) Luis. Don Pedro, I must surely thank The cause to which my poor retirement owes This honour. Ped. Yet a thankless cause, Don Luis. These many days I have heard nothing of Don Juan and my daughter; they neither write Themselves, nor any one to whom I write To ask about them answers to the purpose. What may this mean? I have come hither thinking That you, who are the model of all friends, May deal more clearly with me. You may think What I endure from this suspense. In mercy Relieve me from it quickly. Luis (aside). Poor old man; What shall I say? tell his grey hairs at once The ruin of his honour and his love? Ped. You pause, my lord! Luis. And yet I need not wonder, I nothing hear of them if you do not. Ped. And you know nothing of them? Enter Porcia hurriedly. Por. Sir, I hear You are going (are you not?) this evening To the castle, with my brother. But who is this? Ped. Ever your slave, sweet lady. Por. Oh, pardon me, my lord. Luis. Nay, pardon me That I cut short your compliments, Porcia. (This interruption, come so opportune, Shall carry what ill news I have to tell Into the open air at least.) Don Pedro, I am going to the mountain, as she says; You to the city; for some way at least Our roads are one, and I would talk with you About this business without interruption. Will ’t please you come? Ped. Your pleasure’s mine. Adieu, Fair lady. Por. Farewell, sir. Luis. Porcia, you Will follow in the carriage. [Exeunt Luis and Pedro. Por. And should go More gladly, were my lover there to meet me. [Exit. Scene V.—The garden under Alvaro’s castle. A large grated door in the centre.Enter Prince, Juan, Leonelo, and Belardo. Prince (to Belardo). You know your office; take this diamond by way of thanks. Bel. I know little of diamonds but that they sell for less than you give for them. But this (to Juan) is to be your post. Juan. I am ready. Prince. Remember, Spaniard, it is for me you run this hazard, if there be any; I shall be close at hand to protect you. Be not frightened. Juan. Your Highness does not know me: were Bel. And, another time—doubloons, not diamonds. [Exeunt Prince and Leonelo. Here she mostly comes of an evening, poor lady, to soothe herself, walking and sitting here by the hour together. This is where you are to be. Go in; and mind you make no noise. [Puts Juan into the grated door, and locks it. Juan (through the grated window). But what are you about? Bel. Locking the door to make all sure. Juan. But had it not better be unlockt in case— Bel. Hush! she comes. Juan. My palette then. Enter Serafina. Ser. How often and how often do I draw My resolution out upon one side, And all my armed sorrows on the other, To fight the self-same battle o’er again! Juan. He stands in the way; I cannot see her face. Bel. Still weeping, madam? Ser. Wonder not, Belardo: The only balm I have. You pity me: Leave me alone then for a while, Belardo; The breeze that creeps along the whispering trees Makes me feel drowsy. Juan (to Belardo, whispering). She turns her head away, I cannot see her still. Ser. What noise was that? Bel. Madam? Ser. I thought I heard a whisper. Bel. Only The breeze, I think. If you would turn this way, I think ’twould blow upon you cooler. Ser. Perhaps it will. Thank you. I am very miserable and very weary. Bel. She sleeps: that is the lady. Make most of time. [Exit. Juan. Yes. Now then for my pencil. Serafina! found at last! Whose place is this? The Prince? no! But the stray’d lamb being here, The wolf is not far off. She sleeps! I thought The guilty never slept: and look, some tears Still lingering on the white rose of her cheek. Be those the drops, I wonder, Of guilty anguish, or of chaste despair? This death-like image is the sculptor’s task, Not mine. Or is it I who sleep, and dream all this, And dream beside, that once before I tried To paint that face—the daylight drawing in As now—and when somehow the lamp was out, A man—I fail’d: and what love fail’d to do, Shall hate accomplish? She said then, if ever She suffer’d me to draw her face again, Might she die for it. Into its inmost depth Heav’n drew that idle word, and it returns In thunder. Ser. (dreaming). Juan! Husband! on my knees. Oh Juan—slay me not! Enter Alvaro; she wakes and rushes to him. [Shoots a pistol at each through the grating.—Both fall; Serafina into the arms of Belardo, who has come in during the noise.—Then directly enter Don Luis, Pedro, Portia. Luis. What noise is this? Ser. My father!—in your arms To die;—not by your hand—Forgive me—Oh! [Dies. Ped. (taking her in his arms). My Serafina? Luis. And Alvaro! Alv. Ay, But do not curse me now! [Dies. Enter the Prince and Leonelo. Leon. They must have found him out. Prince. Whoever dares Molest him, answers it to me. Open the door. But what is this? [Belardo unlocks the door. Juan (coming out). A picture— Done by the Painter of his own Dishonour In blood. I am Don Juan Roca. Such revenge As each would have of me, now let him take, As far as one life holds. Don Pedro, who Gave me that lovely creature for a bride, And I return to him a bloody corpse; Don Luis, who beholds his bosom’s son Slain by his bosom friend; and you, my lord, Who, for your favours, might expect a piece In some far other style of art than this: Deal with me as you list; ’twill be a mercy To swell this complement of death with mine; For all I had to do is done, and life Is worse than nothing now. Prince. Get you to horse, And leave the wind behind you. Luis. Nay, my lord, Whom should he fly from? not from me at least, Who loved his honour as my own, and would Myself have help’d him in a just revenge, Ev’n on an only son. Ped. I cannot speak, But I bow down these miserable gray hairs To other arbitration than the sword; Ev’n to your Highness’ justice. Prince. Be it so. Meanwhile— Juan. Meanwhile, my lord, let me depart; Free, if you will, or not. But let me go, Nor wound these fathers with the sight of one, Who has cut off the blossom of their age: Yea, and his own, more miserable than all. They know me; that I am a gentleman, Not cruel, nor without what seem’d due cause Put on this bloody business of my honour; Which having done, I will be answerable Here and elsewhere, to all for all. Prince. Depart In peace. Juan. In peace! Come, Leonelo. [He goes out slowly, followed by Leonelo: and the curtain falls. Some alterations of this play were made with a view to the English stage, where, spite of the slightness of many parts, I still think it might be tried. Its companion play, the Medico de su Honra, is far more famous; has some more terrible, perhaps some finer, situations; but inferior, I think, in variety of scene, character, and incident. It may add a little to the reader’s interest, as it did to mine, to learn from Mr. Ticknor, that Calderon wrote a ‘Tratado defendiendo la nobleza de la Pintura.’ | |||||||||||||||||||||||||
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