Pedro Calderon de la Barca

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DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Pedro IV.	King of Arragon.
Don Mendo Torellas	his Minister.
Donna Violante	Mendo’s Daughter.
Elvira	her Maid.
Don Lope de Urrea.
Donna Blanca	his Wife.
Don Lope	their Son.
Beatrice	their Servant.
Don Guillen	a Friend of Don Lope’s.
Vicente	Young Lope’s Servant.
Robbers, Officers, Royal Suite, etc.

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ACT I

Scene I.—A Mountain Pass near Saragossa.

Shot within. Then enter Don Mendo and Violante pursued by Robbers, among whom is Vicente.

Men. Villains, let steel or bullet do their worst,

I’ll die ere yield.

Viol. Heaven help us!

Robber I. Fool, to strive

Against such odds—upon their own ground too,

Red with the blood of hundreds like yourselves.

Vic. Come, sir, no more ado;

But quietly give my young madam up,

Nice picking for our captain.

Men. Not while a drop of blood is in my body.

Robbers. Here’s at you then!

Viol. My father!

(As the Robbers attack Mendo, enter Don Lope.)

Lope. How now? whom have you here?

Vic. Oh, noble captain,

We found this lady resting from the sun

Under the trees, with a small retinue,

Who of course fled.

All but this ancient gentleman, who still

Holds out against us.

Lope (to Mendo). What can you expect

Against such numbers?

Men. Not my life, but death.

You come in time—

Upon my knees I do beseech of you (kneels)

No other mercy save of instant death

To both of us.

Lope. Arise! you are the first

Has moved me to the mercy you decline.

This lady is—your wife?

Men. My only daughter!

Viol. In spirit as in blood. If by his death

You think to make you masters of my life,

Default of other weapon, with these hands

I’ll cease the breath of life, or down these rocks

Dash myself headlong.

Lope. Lady, calm yourself;

Your beauty has subdued an angry devil

One like yourself first raised within my soul.

Your road lies whither, sir?

Men. To Saragossa.

Where if I could requite—

Lope. Your name?

Men. Don Mendo

Torellas, after a long embassage

To Paris, Rome, and Naples, summon’d back

By Pedro, King of Arragon—with whom

If ’t be (as oft) some youthful petulance,

Calling for justice or revenge at home,

Drives you abroad to these unlawful courses,

I pledge my word—

Lope. Alas, sir, I might hail

Your offer could I hope that your deserts,

However great, might cancel my account

Of ill-deserving. But indeed my crimes

Have gather’d so in number, and in weight,

And condemnation—committed, some of them,

To stave away the very punishment

They must increase at last; others, again,

In the sheer desperation of forgiveness

That all had heap’d upon me—

Men. Nay, nay, nay;

Despair not; trust to my good offices;

In pledge of which here, now, before we part,

I swear to make your pardon the first boon

I’ll ask for or accept at the King’s hand.

Your name?

Lope. However desperate, and ashamed

To tell it, you shall hear it—and my story.

Retire!

(To the Robbers, who exeunt.)

Don Mendo, I am Lope, son

Of Lope de Urrea, of some desert,

At least in virtue of my blood.

Men. Indeed!

Urrea and myself were, I assure you,

Intimate friends of old,—another tie,

If wanting one, to bind me to your service.

Lope. I scarce can hope it, sir; if I, his son,

Have so disgraced him with my evil ways,

And so impoverisht him with my expenses,

Were you his friend, you scarcely can be mine.

And yet, were I to tell you all, perhaps

I were not all to blame.

Men. Come, tell me all;

’Tis fit that I should hear it.

Viol. I begin

To breathe again.

Lope. Then listen, sir. My father in his youth,

As you perhaps may know, but why I know not,

Held off from marriage; till, bethinking him,

Or warn’d by others, what a shame it were

So proud a name should die for want of wearer,

In his late years he took to wife a lady

Of blameless reputation, and descent

As noble as his own, but so unequal

In years, that she had scarcely told fifteen

When age his head had whiten’d with such snows

As froze his better judgment.

Men. Ay, I know

Too well—too well! (Aside.)

Lope. Long she repell’d his suit,

Feeling how ill ill-sorted years agree;

But, at the last, before her father’s will

She sacrificed her own. Oh sacrifice

That little lacks of slaughter! So, my father

Averse from wedlock’s self, and she from him,

Think what a wedlock this must be, and what

The issue that was like to come of it!

While other sons cement their parents’ love,

My birth made but a wider breach in mine,

Just in proportion as my mother loved

Her boy, my father hated him—yes, hated,

Even when I was lisping at his knees

That little language charms all fathers’ hearts.

Neglecting me himself, as I grew up

He neither taught, nor got me taught, to curb

A violent nature, which by love or lash

May even be corrected in a wolf:

Till, as I grew, and found myself at large,

Spoilt both by mother’s love and father’s hate

I took to evil company, gave rein

To every passion as it rose within,

Wine, dice, and women—what a precipice

To build the fabric of a life upon!

Which, when my father

Saw tottering to its fall, he strove to train

The tree that he had suffer’d to take root

In vice, and grow up crooked—all too late!

Though not revolting to be ruled by him,

I could not rule myself. And so we lived

Both in one house, but wholly apart in soul,

Only alike in being equally

My mother’s misery. Alas, my mother!

My heart is with her still! Why, think, Don Mendo,

That, would she see me, I must creep at night

Muffled, a tip-toe, like a thief, to her,

Lest he should know of it! Why, what a thing

That such a holy face as filial love

Must wear the mask of theft! But to sum up

The story of my sorrows and my sins

That have made me a criminal, and him

Almost a beggar;—

In the full hey-day of my wilfulness

There lived a lady near, in whom methought

Those ancient enemies, wit, modesty,

And beauty, all were reconciled; to her,

Casting my coarser pleasures in the rear,

I did devote myself—first with mute signs,

Which by and by began to breathe in sighs,

And by and by in passionate words that love

Toss’d up all shapeless, but all glowing hot,

Up from my burning bosom, and which first

Upon her willing ears fell unreproved,

Then on her heart, which by degrees they wore

More than I used to say her senseless threshold

Wore by the nightly pressure of my feet.

She heard my story, pitied me

With her sweet eyes; and my unruly passion,

Flusht with the promise of first victory,

Push’d headlong to the last; not knowing, fool!

How in love’s world the shadow of disappointment

Exactly dogs the substance of success.

In fine, one night I stole into her house,

Into her chamber; and with every vow

Of marriage on my tongue; as easy then

To utter, as thereafter to forswear,

When in the very jewel I coveted

Very compliance seem’d to make a flaw

That made me careless of it when possess’d.

From day to day I put our marriage off

With false pretence, which she at last suspecting

Falsely continued seeming to believe,

Till she had got a brother to her side,

(A desperate man then out-law’d, like myself,

For homicide,) who, to avenge her shame,

With other two waylaid me on a night

When as before I unsuspectingly

Crept to her house; and set upon me so,

All three at once, I just had time to parry

Their thrusts, and draw a pistol, which till then

They had not seen, when—

Voices (within). Fly! Away! Away!

Enter Vicente.

Lope. What is the matter now?

Vic. Captain!

Lope. Well, speak.

Vic. We must be off; the lady’s retinue

Who fled have roused the soldiery, and with them

Are close upon our heels. We’ve not a moment.

Lope. Then up the mountain!

Men. Whither I will see

They shall not follow you; and take my word

I’ll not forget my promise.

Lope. I accept it.

Men. Only, before we part, give me some token,

The messenger I send may travel with

Safe through your people’s hands.

Lope (giving a dagger). This then.

Men. A dagger?

An evil-omen’d pass-word.

Lope. Ah, Don Mendo,

What has a wretched robber got to give

Unless some implement of death! And see,

The wicked weapon cannot reach your hand,

But it must bite its master’s. (His hand bleeding.)

Ill-omen’d as you say!

Voices (within). Away! Away!

Vic. They’re close upon us!

Viol. O quick! begone! My life hangs on a thread

While yours is in this peril.

Lope. That alone

Should make me fly to save it. Farewell, lady.

Farewell, Don Mendo.

Men. and Viol. Farewell!

Lope. What strange things

One sun between his rise and setting brings!

[Exit.

Men. Let us anticipate, and so detain

The soldiers. That one turn of Fortune’s wheel

Years of half-buried memory should reveal!

Viol. Could I believe that crime should ever be

So amiable! How fancy with us plays,

And with one touch colours our future days!

[Exeunt severally.

Scene II.—An Audience Hall in the Palace of Pedro, King of Arragon.

Enter Don Lope de Urrea and Don Guillen.

Guil. Such bosom friends, sir, as from infancy

Your son and I have been, I were ashamed,

You being in such trouble, not to offer

My help and consolation. Tell me aught

That I can serve you in.

Urr. Believe me, sir,

My heart most deeply thanks your courtesy.

When came you to the city?

Guil. Yesterday,

From Naples.

Urr. Naples?

Guil. To advance a suit

I have in Arragon.

Urr. I too am here

For some such purpose; to beseech the King

A boon I doubt that he will never grant.

Guil. Ev’n now his Highness comes.

Enter King Pedro and Train.

Urr. So please your Majesty, listen to one,

Of whom already you have largely heard—

Don Lope de Urrea.

King. Oh! Don Lope!

Urr. I come not hither to repeat in words

The purport of so many past petitions,

My sorrows now put on a better face

Before your Highness’ presence. I beseech you

To hear me patiently.

King. Speak, Urrea, speak!

Urr. Speak if I can, whose sorrow rising still

Clouds its own utterance. My liege, my son,

Don Lope, loved a lady here; seduced her

By no feign’d vows of marriage, but compell’d

By me, who would not listen to a suit

Without my leave contracted, put it off

From day to day, until the lady, tired

Of a delay that argued treachery,

Engaged her brother in the quarrel; who

With two companions set upon my son

One night to murder him. The lad, whose metal

Would never brook affront, nor cared for odds,

Drew on all three; slew one—a homicide

That nature’s common law of self-defence

Permits. The others fled, and set on him

The officers of justice, one of whom

In his escape he struck—

A self-defence against your laws I own

Not so to be excused—then fled himself

Up to the mountains. I must needs confess

He better had deserved an after-pardon

By lawful service in your camp abroad

Than aggravating old offence at home,

By lawless plunder; but your Highness knows

It is an ancient law of honour here

In Arragon, that none of noble blood

In mortal quarrel quit his native ground.

But to return. The woman, twice aggrieved,

Her honour and her brother lost at once,

(For him it was my son slew of the three,)

Now seeks to bring her sorrows into port:

And pitying my grey hairs and misery,

Consents to acquit my son on either count,

Providing I supply her wherewithal

To hide her shame within some holy house;

Which, straiten’d as I am, (that, by my troth,

I scarce, my liege, can find my daily bread,)

I have engaged to do; not only this,

But, in addition to the sum in hand,

A yearly income—which to do, I now

Am crept into my house’s poorest rooms,

And, (to such straits may come nobility!)

Have let for hire what should become my rank

And dignity to an old friend, Don Mendo

Torellas, who I hear returns to-day

To Saragossa. It remains, my liege,

That, being by the plaintiff’s self absolved,

My son your royal pardon only needs;

Which if not he nor I merit ourselves,

Yet let the merits of a long ancestry,

Who swell your glorious annals with their names

Writ in their blood, plead for us not in vain;

Pity the snows of age that misery

Now thaws in torrents from my eyes; yet more,

Pity a noble lady—my wife—his mother—

Who sits bow’d down with sorrow and disgrace

In her starved house.

King. This is a case, Don Lope,

For my Chief Justice, not for me.

Urr. Alas!

How little hope has he who, looking up

To dove-eyed mercy, sees but in her place

Severely-sworded justice!

King. Is ’t not fit

That the tribunal which arraign’d the crime

Pronounce the pardon also?

Urr. Were it so,

I know not where to look for that tribunal,

Or only find it speechless, since the death

Of Don Alfonso.

King. His successor’s name

This day will be announced to Arragon.

Urr. Yet let a father’s tears—

King. They might indeed

The marble heart of justice make to bleed.

[Exeunt King, Don Guillen, and Train.

Urr. And thus to satisfy the exigence

Of public estimation, one is forced

To sacrifice entreaty and estate

For an ill son.

Yet had but this petition been inflamed

With love, that love of his had lit in me,

My prayer had surely prosper’d. But ’tis done,

Fruitless or not: well done, for Blanca’s sake;

Poor Blanca, though indeed she knows it not,

And scarcely would believe it—

But who comes here?—the friend of better days,

Don Mendo! I would hide me from his eye,

But, oh indignity, his ancient friend,

Equal in birth and honour to himself,

Must now, reduced to ’t by a shameless son,

Become his tavern-keeper! For the present

I may hold back—the King too! come to meet

And do him honour.

Enter, meeting, King, with Train, and Don Mendo.

Men. My royal master, let me at your feet

Now and for ever—

King. Rise, Don Mendo, rise,

Chief Justice of all Arragon.

Men. My liege,

How shall I rise with such a weight of honour

And solemnest responsibility,

As you have laid upon my neck!

King. ’Tis long

Since we have met. How fare you?

Men. How but well,

On whom your royal favour shines so fair!

King. Enough. You must be weary. For to-day

Go rest yourself, Chief Justice. And to-morrow

We’ll talk together. I have much to tell,

And much to ask of you.

Men. Your Highness knows

How all my powers are at your sole command,

And only well employ’d in doing it.

[Exit King with Train.

Urr. If it be true that true nobility

Slowly forgets what once it has esteem’d,

I think Don Mendo will not turn away

From Lope de Urrea.

Men. My old friend!

I must forget myself, as well as honour,

When I forget the debt I owe your love.

Urr. For old acquaintance then I kiss your hand;

And on two other counts. First, as your host,

You know, on your arrival; be assured

That I shall do my best to entertain you:

And, secondly, congratulating you

On your new dignity, which you hardly don

Before I am your suitor.

Men. Oh Don Lope,

How gladly shall I serve you!

Urr. This memorial

I had presented to the King, and he

Referr’d to his Chief Justice.

Men. Oh trust to me,

And to my loyal friendship in the cause.

Urr. A son of mine, Don Mendo,—

Men. Nay, no more—

I am apprized of all.

Urr. I know that men

Think my heart harden’d toward my only son.

It might have been so; not, though, till my son’s

Was flint to me. O Mendo, by his means

My peace of mind, estate, and good repute

Are gone for ever!

Men. Nay, be comforted:

I fill a post where friendship well can grant

What friendship fairly asks. Think from this hour

That all is ended. Not for your sake only,

But for your son’s; to whom (you soon shall hear

The whole strange history) I owe my life,

And sure shall not be slack to save his own.

All will be well. Come, let us to your house,

Whither, on coming to salute the King,

I sent my daughter forward.

Urr. I rejoice

To think how my poor Blanca will rejoice

To do her honour. You remember Blanca?

Men. Remember her indeed, and shall delight

To see her once again. (Aside.) O lying tongue,

To say so, when the heart beneath would fain

We had not met, or might not meet again!

Scene III.—A Room in Urrea’s House.

Enter Blanca and Violante in travelling dress, meeting.

Blan. How happy am I that so fair a guest

Honours my house by making it her own,

And me her servant!

To welcome and to wait on Violante

I have thus far intruded.

Viol. Nay, Donna Blanca,

Mine is the honour and the happiness,

Who, coming thus to Arragon a stranger,

Find such a home and hostess. Pardon me

That I detain you in this ante-room,

My own not ready yet.

Blan. You come indeed

Before your people look’d for you.

Viol. But not

Before my wishes, lady, I assure you:

Not minding on the mountains to encounter

Another such a risk.

Blan. There was a first then?

Viol. So great that I assure you—and too truly, (aside)—

My heart yet beats with it.

Blan. How was ’t?

Viol. Why, thus:

In wishing to escape the noon-day sun,

That seem’d to make both air and land breathe fire,

I lighted from my litter in a spot

That one might almost think the flowers had chosen

To tourney in, so green and smooth the sward

On which they did oppose their varied crests,

So fortified above with closing leaves,

And all encompass’d by a babbling stream.

There we sat down to rest; when suddenly

A company of robbers broke upon us,

And would have done their worst, had not as suddenly

A young and gallant gentleman, their captain,

Arrested them, and kindly—but how now?

Why weep you, Donna Blanca?

Blan. Weeping, yes,

My sorrows with your own—But to your tale.

Viol. Nay, why should I pursue it if my trouble

Awake the memory of yours?

Blan. Your father,

Saw he this youth, this robber cavalier

Who graced disgrace so handsomely?

Viol. Indeed,

And owes his life and honour to him.

Blan. Oh!

He had aton’d for many a foregone crime

By adding that one more! But I talk wild;

Pardon me, Violante.

I have an anguish ever in my breast

At times will rise, and sting me into madness;

Perhaps you will not wonder when you hear

This robber was my son, my only son,

Whose wicked ways have driv’n him where he is,

From home, and law, and love!

Viol. Forgive me, lady,

I mind me now—he told us—

But I was too confused and terrified

To heed to names. Else credit me—

Enter Urrea and Mendo.

Urr. Largess! a largess, wife! for bringing you

Joy and good fortune to our house, from which

They have so long been banisht.

Blan. Long indeed!

Urr. So long, methinks, that coming all at once

They make me lose my manners. (To Violante.) This fair hand

Must, as I think it will, my pardon sign;

Inheriting such faculty. Oh, Blanca,

I must not let one ignorant moment slip—

You know not half our joy.

Don Mendo, my old friend, and our now guest,

Graced at the very threshold by the King

With the Chief-Justiceship of Arragon,

Points his stern office with an act of mercy,

By pardoning your Lope—whom we now

Shall have once more with us, I trust, for ever.

Oh join with me in thanking him!

Blan. I am glad,

Don Mendo, that we meet under a roof

Where I can do you honour. For my son,

I must suppose from what your daughter says,

You would, without our further prayer or thanks,

Have done as you have done.

Mend. Too true—I know—

And you still better, lady—that, all done,

I am your debtor still.

Enter Elvira.

Elv. Madam, your room is ready.

Viol. May I then

Retire?

Blan. If I may wait upon you thither.

Urr. Nay, nay, ’tis I that as a grey-hair’d page

Must do that office.

Mend. Granted, on condition

That I may do as much for Donna Blanca.

Viol. As master of the house, I must submit

Without condition.

[Exeunt Violante and Urrea.

Blan. You were going, sir?—

Mend. To wait upon you, Blanca.

Blan. Nay, Don Mendo,

Least need of that.

Mend. Oh, Blanca, Heaven knows

How much I have desired to talk with you!

Blan. And to what purpose, sir?

No longer in your power—perhaps, nor will—

To do as well as talk.

Mend. If but to say

How to my heart it goes seeing you still

As sad as when I left you years ago.

Blan. ‘As sad?—as when you left me years ago’—

I understand you not—am not aware

I ever saw you till to-day.

Mend. Ah, Blanca,

Have pity!

Blan. Nay, Don Mendo, let us cease

A conversation, uselessly begun,

To end in nothing. If your memory,

Out of some dreamt-of fragments of the past,

Attach to me, the past is dead in time;

Let it be buried in oblivion.

Mend. Oh, with what courage, Blanca, do you wield

Your ready woman’s wit!

Blan. I know not why

You should say that.

Mend. But I know.

Blan. If ’t be so,

Agree with me to say no more of it.

Mend. But how?

Blan. By simple silence.

Mend. How be silent

Under such pain?

Blan. By simple suffering.

Mend. Oh, Blanca, how learn that?

Blan. Of me—and thus.

Beatrice!

Enter Beatrice.

Beat. Madam?

Blan. Light Don Mendo to

His chamber. Thus be further trouble sped.

Mend. Nay, rather coals of fire heap’d on my head!

[Exeunt severally.

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ACT II

Scene I.—A Room in Urrea’s House.

Enter Urrea and Blanca on one side, and Lope and Vicente on the other.

Lope. Thrice blessed be the day, that brings me back

In all humility and love, my father,

To kiss your feet once more.

Urr. Rise up, my son,

As welcome to your parents as long lookt for.

Rise and embrace me.

Lope. Till I have your hand

I scarcely dare.

Urr. Then take it, Lope—there—

And may God make thee virtuous as thy father

Can pray for thee. Thy mother too—

Lope. O madam,

I scarcely dare with anguish and repentance

Lift up my eyes to those I have made weep

So many bitter tears—

Blan. You see, my son,

You keep them weeping still—not bitter tears,

But tears of joy—Oh, welcome home again!

Vic. Where is there any room for a poor devil

Who has done penance upon rock and water

This many a day, and much repents him of

His former sins?

Urr. What you alive too?

Vic. Yes, sir,

This saddle’s pad, (showing Lope,) or, if you like, the beast

That bears the saddle—or, by another rule,—

That where the cat jumps also goes her tail.

Lope (to his father). You see, sir, in such godly company

I must repent.

Vic. Why, devil take ’t—

Urr. What, swearing?

Vic. But some poor relic of our former life

That yet will stick. Madam, permit me,

If not to kiss your hand, nor ev’n your feet,

At least the happy ground on which they walk.

Blan. Rise, rise. How can I less than welcome one

Who has so loyally stood by my son,

Through evil and through good.

Vic. A monument

As one might say, madam, ad perpetuam

Fidelis AmicitiÆ Memoriam.

Enter Beatrice.

[Exit Beatrice.

Meanwhile, my son, I crave one patient hearing

To what I have to say.

Vic. Now for a lecture.

Lope. Silence, sir! Coming here, we must expect

And bear such things. Pray speak, sir.

Urr. You see, Lope,

(And doubtless must have heard of it before,)

In what a plight we are: my property,

What yet remains of it, embroil’d and hamper’d,

And all so little, that this last expense,

Of getting (as I have) your Estifania,

Who has already cost us all so much,

Into a convent; to do this, I say,

I have been forced to let my house for hire

To my old friend; yea, almost, I assure you,

To beg from door to door. Enough of that:

’Tis done; and you are now at last restor’d

To home, and station—wealth I cannot say—

But all is well that ends well. All I ask,

(And ’tis with tears and with a broken voice

I ask it: I would ask it on my knees

If these white hairs forbade not such descent,)

That from this day, in pity to us all—

Perhaps in gratitude—you would repent

Your past excess; yea, surfeited with that,

Would henceforth tame your headlong passions down

Into a quiet current. Help me, son,

Restore the shaken credit of our house,

And show—let us both show—that misery

Has taught us not in vain. Let us be friends

Henceforth; no rivalry of love or hate

Between us; each doing what in him lies

To make what may remain of life to each

Happy and honourable. On my part

I stake a father’s love and tenderness;

And will not you as freely on your side

Wager your filial obedience?

Your father asks, implores you. Oh, consider

You may not always have a friend in need

To rescue you as now: nay, disappoint

His mercy and again provoke the laws

He now remits, that friend may turn to foe

And sacrifice the life he vainly spared.

Vic. There only wants, ‘in sÆcula sÆculorum,’

To finish off with.

Lope. Sir, I promise you

Amendment, that shall make the past a foil

To set the future off.

Enter Mendo.

Men. I come in time

To vouch fulfilment of so fair a vow.

Lope. Oh, sir—

Men. I knew you on your road to me;

Your errand too; and thus much have forestall’d

Of needless courtesy.

Lope. Pray God, reward you

With such advancement in your prince’s love

As envy, the court Hydra, shall not hiss,

But general love and acclamation

Write in gold letters in our history,

For ages and for ages. Sir, your hand!

Men. My heart, my heart, you shame me by your thanks,

For service that the veriest churl had paid

For what you did me, Lope.

Why, I’m your debtor still. But now, enough!

I cannot steal more time from business;

The King expects me.

Urr. I too must abroad.

Lope. Would I could wait on both—but, as it is,

I think my father’s self would waive his right,

In favour of our common benefactor.

Urr. Indeed, indeed, I do rejoice you should.

[Exit with Blanca.

Men. And I, not knowing if your choice be right,

Know that I would not lose you for a moment,

So glad your presence makes me.

[Exit with Lope.

Vic.[5] Beatrice! Beatrice!

Beat. Well?

Vic. Think you not, now that our principals are fairly out of the way, you owe me a kiss on my arrival?

Beat. Ay, hot from the oven.

Vic. Ah Beatrice! if you only knew what heartaches you’ve cost me.

Beat. You indeed, robbing and murdering, and I don’t know what beside, up in the mountains! and then my new madam that’s come with you, Donna Violante; with her fine Elvira—I know, sir, when your master was courting his mistress, you—

Vic. Now, my own Beatrice, if you could only know what you are talking of as well as I, how little jealousy could such a creature as that give you!

Beat. Well—but why?

Vic. Not a woman at all, neither maid nor mermaid—Why, didn’t I catch her with all those fine locks of hers clean off her head?

Beat. Clean off her head?

Vic. The woman’s bald.

Beat. Bald?

Vic. As my hand! besides, all the fine white chevaux-de-frise that ornaments her gums.

Beat. Well?

Vic. All sham.

Beat. What, my fine madam there false teeth?

Vic. Oh, and half a dozen villainous things I could tell you, did it become a gentleman to tell tales of ladies. But see, here is master coming back.

Beat. Good-bye then, for the present, Vicente. False teeth and a wig!

[Exit.

Enter Don Lope.

Lope. Vicente, have you by any chance seen Violante?

Vic. Not that I know of, sir; she may however have passed without my knowing her.

Lope. Vicente still! As if it were possible one who had once seen such beauty could ever forget it.

Vic. Why, sir, if her maid Elvira happened to be by her side—

Lope. Fool!

Vic. Pray is it impossible in the system of things that the maid should be handsomer than the mistress?

Lope. Oh could I but see her!

Vic. Take care, take care, sir. Beware of raising the old devil—and now we are but just out of the frying-pan—

Lope. Beware you, sir! I tell you I ill liked my father’s lecture; do not you read me another. It were best that no one crossed me, or by heaven!—But who comes here?

Vic. Don Guillen de Azagra.

Enter Don Guillen.

Lope. What?

Ask what reward you will of me, Vicente.

Don Guillen de Azagra back again!

Guil. And could not wait a moment, hearing you

Were also back, Don Lope, till I found you,

As well to give you welcome as receive it.

Lope. Our old affection asks for nothing less

On both sides. Oh, you are welcome!

Guil. Well can he come, who comes half dead between

Dead hope and quickening passion!

Lope. How is that?

Guil. Why, you remember how three years ago

I went to Naples—to the wars there?

Lope. Yes,

We parted, I remember, sadly enough

On both sides, in the Plaza del Aseo;

Unconsciously divining the sad days

That were about to dawn on one of us.

Guil. Nay, upon both. I am no stranger, Lope,

To your misfortunes; and Heaven knows I felt them!

But they are over, Heaven be thankt! mine yet

Are sadly acting. You can help me now,

If not to conquer, to relieve them.

Lope. Ay,

And will strain every nerve for you. But first

Must hear your story.

Guil. Well—I went to Naples,

Where, as you know, our King by force of arms

Was eager to revenge the shameful death

Of Norandino, whom the King of Naples

Had on the scaffold treacherously murder’d.

Of which, and Naples too, I say no more

Than this; that, entering the city,

I saw a lady in whom the universe

Of beauty seem’d to centre; as it might be

The sun’s whole light into a single beam,

The heavenly dawn into one drop of dew,

Or the whole breathing spring into one rose.

You will believe I loved not without cause,

When you have heard the lady that I speak of

Is—

Vic. Donna Violante

Lope. Knave and fool!

Vic. Why so, sir! only for telling you I saw the lady coming this way; but, I suppose, seeing people here, she has turned back.

Lope. Will you retire awhile, Don Guillen? this lady is my father’s guest.

Guil. (aside). Beside, she might be angry finding me here.

[Exit.

Lope. ’Fore Heaven, my mind misgave me it was she he spoke of!

Vic. Well, you have got the weather-gage. Tackle her now.

Enter Violante and Elvira.

Lope. Nay, lady, turn not back. What you, the sun

I see by, to abridge my little day

By enviously returning to the west

As soon as risen, and prematurely drawing

The veil of night over the blush of dawn!

Oh, let me not believe I fright you now,

As yesterday I did, fair Violante,

Arm’d among savage rocks with savage men,

From whose rude company your eyes alone

Have charm’d me, and subdued for the first time

A fierce, unbridled will.

Viol. It were not strange,

Don Lope, if my bosom trembled still

With that first apparition. But in truth

I had not hesitated,

Had I not seen, or fancied, at your side

Another stranger.

Lope. Oh, a friend; and one

Who spoke with me of you; nay, who retired

Only for fear of drawing new disdain

Upon old love: and left me here indeed,

To speak in his behalf.

Viol. Alas, Elvira,

Was ’t not Don Guillen?

Elv. Yes.

Viol. Don Lope plead

Another’s, and Don Guillen’s love!

(She is going.)

Lope. At least

Let me attend you to my mother’s door.

Viol. Nay, stay, sir.

Lope. Stay! and lose my life in losing

This happy opportunity!

Viol. Are life

And opportunity the same?

Lope. So far,

That neither lost ever returns again.

Viol. If you have aught to tell me, tell it here

Before I go.

Lope. Only to ask if you

Confess yourself no debtor to a heart

That long has sigh’d for you?

Viol. You, sir, are then

Pleading another’s cause?

Lope. I might be shy

To plead in my own person—a reserve

That love oft feels—and pardons.

Viol. ’Tis in vain.

I will not own to an account of sighs

Drawn up against me without my consent;

So tell your friend; and tell him he mistakes

The way to payment making you, of all,

His agent in the cause.

Lope. Nay, nay, but wait.

Viol. No more—Adieu!

[Exit.

Lope. She thought I only used

Another’s suit as cover to my own,

And cunningly my seeming cunning turns

Against myself. But I will after her;

If Don Guillen come back, tell him, Vicente,

I’ll wait upon him straight.

[Exit.

Vic. Madam Elvira!

Elv. Well, Monsieur Cut-throat?

Vic. Well, you are not scared at my face now?

Elv. I don’t know that—your face remains as it was.

Vic. Come, come, my queen, do me a little favour.

Elv. Well, what is that?

Vic. Just only die for love of me; I always make a point of never asking impossibilities of any woman.

Elv. Love is out of the question! I perhaps might like you, did I not know the lengths you go with that monkey Beatrice.

Vic. With whom?

Elv. I say with Beatrice. Bystanders see as much, sir, as players.

Vic. I with Beatrice! Lord! lord! if you only knew half what I know, Elvira, you’d not be jealous of her.

Elv. Why, what do you know of her?

Vic. A woman who, could she breed at all, would breed foxes and stoats—a tolerable outside, but only, only go near her—Foh! such a breath! beside other peculiarities I don’t mention out of respect to the sex. But this I tell you, one of those sparkling eyes of hers is glass, and her right leg a wooden one.

Elv. Nonsense!

Vic. Only you look, and, see if she don’t limp on one side, and squint on the other.

Don Guillen (entering at one side). I can wait no longer.

Don Lope (entering at the other). It is no use; she is shut up with my mother. Now for Don Guillen.

Elv. They are back.

Vic. We’ll settle our little matter by and by.

Elv. Glass eyes and wooden legs!

[Exit.

Lope (To Don Guillen). Forgive my leaving you so long; I have been

Waiting on one who is my father’s guest,

The lady Violante.

Guil. So sweet duty

Needs no excuse.

Lope. Now to pursue your story—

Guil. Ah—where did I leave off?

Lope. About the truce

Making at Naples, when you saw a lady—

Guil. Ay, but I must remember one thing, Lope,

Most memorable of all. The ambassador

Empower’d to treat on our good King’s behalf

Was Mendo de Torellas, whose great wisdom

And justice, both grown grey in state affairs,

Well fitted him for such authority;

Which telling you, and telling you beside,

That when the treaty made, and he left Naples,

I left it too, still following in his wake

The track of a fair star who went with him

To Saragossa, to this very house—

Telling you this, I tell you all—tell who

My lady is—his daughter—Violante,

Before whose shrine my life and soul together

Are but poor offerings to consecrate.

Vic. (aside). A pretty market we have brought our pigs to!

Who’ll bet upon the winner?

Lope. (aside). Oh confusion!

But let us drain the cup at once.—Don Guillen,

Your admiration and devotedness

Needed the addition of no name to point

Their object out. But tell me,

Ere I advise with you, how far your prayer

Is answer’d by your deity.

Guil. Alas!

Two words will tell—

Lope. And those?

Guil. Love unreturn’d!

Or worse, return’d with hate.

Vic. (aside). Come, that looks better.

Guil. My love for her has now no hope, Don Lope,

But in your love for me. She is your guest,

And I as such, beside my joy in you,

May catch a ray of her—may win you even

To plead for me in such another strain

As has not yet wearied her ears in vain;

Or might you not ev’n now, as she returns,

Give her a letter from me; lest if first

She see, or hear from others of my coming,

She may condemn my zeal for persecution,

And make it matter of renew’d disdain.

I’ll write the letter now, and bring it you

Ere she be back.

[Exit.

Vic. (to Lope). Good-bye, sir.

Lope. Whither now,

Vicente?

Vic. To the mountains—I am sure

You’ll soon be after me.

Lope. I understand—

But stay awhile.

True, I love Violante, and resent

Don Guillen’s rivalry: but he’s my friend—

Confides to me a passion myself own,

And cannot blame.

Wait we awhile, Vicente, and perhaps

A way will open through the labyrinth

Without our breaking through.

Vic. How glad I am

To see you take ’t so patiently? Now, sir,

Would you be ruled—

Lope. What then?

Vic. Why simply, sir,

Forget the lady—but a few days’ flame,

And then—

Lope. Impossible!

Vic. What’s to be done then?

Lope. I know not—But she comes.

Enter Violante.

Viol. Still here, Don Lope!

Lope. Ah, what in nature will its centre leave,

Or, forced away, recoils not faster still?

So rivers yearn along their murmuring beds

Until they reach the sea; the pebble thrown

Ever so high, still faster falls to earth;

Wind follows wind, and not a flame struck out

Of heavy wood or flint, but it aspires

Upward at once and to its proper sphere.

Viol. All good philosophy, could I but see

How to apply it here.

Lope. And yet, how easy!

Your beauty being that to which my soul

Ever flies fastest, and most slowly leaves.

Viol. Surely this sudden rapture scarce agrees

With what I heard before.

Lope. How, Violante?

Viol. Have you not haply changed parts in the farce,

And risen from second character to first?

Lope. My second did not please you—come what will,

Casting feign’d speech and character aside,

I’ll e’en speak for myself in my own person.

Listen to me—Don Guillen—

Guil. (listening at the side). Just a moment

To hear him plead my cause.

Lope. Following your beauty, as a flower the sun,

Has come from Italy to Arragon,

And, as my friend, by me entreats of you

To let him plead his suit.

Guil. Would I could stay

To hear the noble Lope plead my cause,

But summon’d hence—

[Exit.

Viol. Ill does your second part

Excuse your ill performance of the first;

One failure might be pardon’d, but two such

Are scarce to be excused.

Lope. Oh, tell me then

Which chiefly needs apology!

Viol. I will.

First for your friend Don Guillen; bid him cease

All compliment and courtship, knowing well

How all has been rejected hitherto,

And will hereafter, to the ruthless winds.

Lope. And on the second count—my own?

Viol. How easily

Out of his answer you may draw your own!

Lope. Alas!

Viol. For when the judge has to pronounce

Sentence on two defendants, like yourselves,

Whose charge is both alike, and bids the one

Report his condemnation to the other;

’Tis plain—

Lope. That both must suffer?

Viol. Nay, if so

The judge had made one sentence serve for both.

Lope. Great heavens!

Guil. (listening at the side). The man dismiss’d, I’ll hear the rest.

Viol. Oh, let it be enough to tell you now

The heart that once indeed was adamant,

Resisting all impression—but at last

Ev’n adamant you know—

Guil. Oh, she relents!

Lope. Oh, let me kiss those white hands for those words!

Guil. Excellent friend! he could not plead more warmly

Were ’t for himself.

Lope. Oh for some little token

To vouch, when you have vanisht from my eyes,

That all was not a dream!

Viol. (giving him a rose). This rose, whose hue

Is of the same that should my check imbue!

[Exit.

Enter Guillen.

Guil. Oh how thrice welcome is my lady’s favour,

Sent to me by the hand of such a friend!

How but in such an attitude as this

Dare I receive it? (Kneels.)

Lope. Rise, Don Guillen, rise:

Flowers are but fading favours that a breath

Can change and wither.

Guil. What mean you by this?

Lope. Only that though the flower in my hands

Is fresh from Violante’s, I must tell you

It must not pass to yours.

Guil. Did not I hear you

Pleading my cause?

Lope. You might—

Guil. And afterwards,

When I came back again, herself confess

That, marble as she had been to my vows,

She now relented tow’rd me!

Lope. If you did,

’Twould much disprove the listener’s adage.

Guil. How?

Lope. You set your ears to such a lucky tune,

As took in all the words that made for you,

But not the rest that did complete the measure.

Guil. But did not Violante, when you urged her

In my behalf, say she relented?

Lope. Yes.

Guil. To whom then?

Lope. To myself.

Vic. The cat’s unbagg’d!

Guil. To you!

Lope. To me.

Guil. Don Lope, you must see

That ev’n my friendship for you scarce can stomach

Such words—or credit them.

Lope. Let him beware

Who doubts my words, stomach them as he can.

Guil. But ’tis a jest:

Bearing my happy fortune in your hands,

You only, as old love has leave to do,

Tantalize ere you give it me. Enough,

Give me the rose.

Lope. I cannot, being just

Given to me, and for me.

Guil. His it is

Whose right it is, and that is mine; and I

Will have it.

Lope. If you can.

Guil. Then follow me,

Where (not in your own house) I may chastise

The friendship that must needs have play’d me false

One way or other.

[Exit.

Lope. Lead the way then, sir.

Enter hurriedly Donna Blanca and Violante from opposite sides.

Viol. Don Lope, what is this?

Lope. Nothing, Violante.

Viol. I heard your angry voices in my room,

And could not help—

Blan. And I too. O my son,

Scarce home with us, and all undone already!

Where are you going?

Lope. No where; nothing; leave me.

Viol. Tell me the quarrel—Oh! I dread to hear.

Lope. What quarrel, lady? let me go: your fears

Deceive you.

Blan. Lope, not an hour of peace

When you are here!

Lope. Nay, madam, why accuse me,

Before you know the cause?

Enter Urrea.

Urr. How now?—disputing?

Blanca and Violante too? What is it?

Blan. Oh, nothing! (I must keep it from his father.)

Nothing—he quarrell’d with Vicente here,

And would have beat him—and we interposed;

Indeed, no more.

Vic. The blame is sure to fall

Upon my shoulders.

Urr. Is ’t not very strange,

Your disposition, Lope? never at peace

With others or yourself.

Lope. ’Tis nothing, sir.

Vic. He quarrell’d with me, sir, about some money

He thought he ought to have, and couldn’t find

In his breeches’ pocket.

Urr. Go, go—get you gone, knave.

Vic. Always fair words from you at any rate. (Aside.)

Urr. And for such trifles, Lope, you disturb

My house, affright your mother and her guest

With your mad passion.

Lope. I can only, sir,

Answer such charge by silence, and retire.—

Now for Don Guillen. (Aside.)

[Exit.

Blan. Oh let him not go!

Urr. Why not? ’tis a good riddance. Violante,

You must excuse this most unseemly riot

Close to your chamber. My unruly son,

When his mad passion’s roused, neither respects

Person or place.

Viol. Nay, sir, I pardon him.

And should, for I’m the cause! (Aside.)

Blan. Ah, wretched I,

Who by the very means I would prevent

His going forth, have oped the door to him.

(Noise within of swords, and the voices of Lope and Guillen fighting.)

Urr. What noise is that again?

Enter Elvira.

Elv. ’Tis in the street.

Enter Beatrice.

Beat. Oh, my young master fighting—run, sir, run!

Urr. And ’tis for this I’ve sacrificed myself!

Enter fighting Lope and Guillen; Gentlemen and others trying to part them.

Urr. (going between them). Hold, Lope! Hold,

Don Guillen!

Voices. Part them! part them!

Guil. Traitor!

Lope. Traitor!—I say that he’s the traitor

Whoever—

Urr. Madman, can you not forbear

When your grey-headed father holds your sword!

Lope. And in so doing robs me of the honour

I never got from him.

Urr. Oh! ruffian!

But if this graceless son will not respect

His father, my white hairs appeal to you,

Don Guillen.

Guil. And shall not appeal in vain—

Out of respect, sir, for your age and name,

And for these gentlemen who interpose,

I shall refer the issue of this quarrel

To other time and place.

Lope. A good excuse

For fear to hide in.

Guil. Fear!

Urr. Madman! again!

That the respect his rival shows to me

Should make my son despise him. By these heavens

This staff shall teach you better.

Lope. Strike me not!

Beware—beware!

Urr. Why, art thou not ashamed—

Lope. Yes, of respect for you that’s fear of me.

Guil. Whoever says or thinks what I have done

Is out of fear of you, I say—

Urr. He lies!

I’ll top your sentence for you.

Lope. Then take thou

The answer!

(Strikes Urrea, who falls: confusion.)

(Lope rushes out and the people after him.)

[Exeunt severally.

ACT III

Scene I.—A Wild Place.

Enter Mendo and Officers of Justice armed.

1st Officer. Here, my lord, where the Ebro, swollen with her mountain streams, runs swiftest, he will try to escape.

Men. Hunt for him then, leaving neither rock nor thicket unexplored. (They disperse.)

Enter some, fighting with Don Lope.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—A Room in the Palace.

Enter King.

Enter Mendo.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene III.—A Corridor in Urrea’s House, with three doors in front.

Enter from a side door Violante and Elvira.

Viol. Ask me no more, Elvira; I cannot answer when my thoughts are all locked up where Lope lies.

Elv. And know you where that is? Nearer than you think; there, in my lord your father’s room.

Viol. There! Oh, could I but save him!

Elv. You can at least comfort him.

Viol. Something must be done. Either I will save his life, Elvira, or die with him. Have you the key?

Elv. I have one; my lord has the master-key.

Viol. Yours will do, give it me. I am desperate, Elvira, and in his danger drown my maiden shame; see him I will at least. Do you rest here and give me a warning if a footstep come.

(She enters centre door.)

Scene IV.—An inner Chamber in Urrea’s House.

Lope discovered.

[Exit Violante, leaving Lope.

Scene V.—Same as Scene III.

Elvira waiting. Enter Violante from centre door.

Viol. Quick! lock the door, Elvira, and away with me on wings. My father must not find me here.

Elv. Nay, you need not be frightened, he has gone to my lady Blanca’s room by the way.

Viol. No matter, he must not find me; I would learn too what is stirring in the business.

[Exit.

Elv. (locking the door). Well, that’s all safe, and now myself to hear what news is stirring.

Vicente (talking as he enters). In the devil’s name was there ever such a clutter made about a blow? People all up in arms, and running here and there, and up and down, and every where, as if the great Tom of Velilla was a ringing.

Elv. Vicente! what’s the matter?

Vic. Oh, a very great matter, Elvira. I am very much put out indeed.

Elv. What about, and with whom?

Vic. With all the world, and my two masters, the young and old one, especially.

Elv. But about what?

Vic. With the young one for being so ready with his fists, and the old one bawling out upon it to heaven and earth, and then Madam Blanca, she must join in the chorus too; and then your grand Don Mendo there, with whom seizing’s so much in season, he has seized my master, and my master’s father, and Don Guillen, and clapt them all up in prison. Then I’ve a quarrel with the King!

Elv. With the King! You must be drunk, Vicente.

Vic. I only wish I was.

Elv. But what has the King done?

Vic. Why let me be beaten at least fifty thousand times, without caring a jot: and now forsooth, because an old fellow gets a little push, his eyes flash axe and gibbet. Then, Elvira, I’m very angry with you.

Elv. And why with me?

Vic. Because, desperately in love with me as you are, you never serenade me, nor write me a billet-doux, nor ask me for a kiss of my fair hand.

Elv. Have I not told you, sir, I leave that all to Beatrice?

Vic. And have I not told you, Beatrice may go hang for me?

Elv. Oh, Vicente, could I believe you!

Vic. Come, give me a kiss on credit of it; in case I lie, I’ll pay you back.

Elv. Well, for this once.

Enter Beatrice.

Beat. The saints be praised, I’ve found you at last!

Vic. Beatrice!

Elv. Well, what’s the matter?

Vic. You’ll soon see.

Beat. Oh, pray proceed, proceed, good folks, Never mind me: you’ve business—don’t interrupt it—I’ve seen quite enough, besides being quite indifferent who wears my cast-off shoes.

Elv. I beg to say, madam, I wear no shoes except my own, and if I were reduced to other people’s, certainly should not choose those that are made for a wooden leg.

Beat. A wooden leg? pray, madam, what has a wooden leg to do with me?

Elv. Oh, madam, I must refer you to your own feelings.

Beat. I tell you, madam, these hands should tear your hair up by the roots, if it had roots to tear.

Vic. Now for her turn.

Elv. Why, does she mean to insinuate my hair is as false as that left eye of hers?

Beat. Do you mean to insinuate my left eye is false?

Elv. Ay; and say it to your teeth.

Beat. More, madam, than I ever could say to yours, unless, indeed, you’ve paid, madam, for the set you wear.

Elv. Have you the face to say my teeth are false?

Beat. Have you the face to say my eye’s of glass?

Elv. I’ll teach you to say I wear a wig.

Beat. Would that my leg were wood just for the occasion.

Vic. Ladies, ladies, first consider where we are.

Beat. Oh ho! I think I begin to understand.

Elv. Oh, and so methinks do I.

(They set upon and pinch him, etc.)

Vic. Ladies, ladies—Mercy! oh! ladies! just listen!

Elv. Listen indeed! If it were not that I hear people coming—

Vic. Heaven be praised for it!

Beat. We will defer the execution then—And in the mean while shall we two sign a treaty of peace?

[Exeunt Beatrice and Elvira.

[Exit.

Scene VI.—Donna Blanca’s Apartment: it is dark.

Enter the King disguised, and Blanca following him.

(King hides, Blanca opens the door.)

Enter Mendo.

[Exit.