UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIE 
 
 3 1822 00595 9937

 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. SAN DIEGO 
 
 3 1822 00595 9937 
 
 TQ 
 
 F.5-
 
 THE KING'S CLASSICS UNDER 
 THE GENERAL EDITORSHIP OF 
 ISRAEL GOLLANCZ
 
 ^1 
 
 
 
 wM
 
 FITZGERALD'S SIX DRAMAS 
 OF CALDERON EDITED 
 BY H. OELSNER M.A. Ph.D
 
 Calderon DE la Barca. 3^to??i/ O'fz,' £^iA^n4>'-<^ ^.m^ <:?.aajaiit!jpa
 
 SIX DRAMAS OF CALDE- 
 RON FREELY TRANS- 
 LATED BY EDWARD 
 FITZGERALD EDITED 
 BY H. OELSNER M.A. Ph.D 
 
 ALEXANDER MORING THE DE 
 LA MORE PRESS 298 REGENT 
 STREET LONDON W 1903
 
 Bird of to-day, thy songs are stale 
 to his, my singer of all weathers, 
 
 My Calderon, my nightingale, 
 
 My Arab soul in Spanish feathers. 
 
 J. R. Lowell.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The Writer of the Plays, and his 
 Position among Spanish Dramatists. — 
 " I suppose Calderon was over-praised some twenty 
 years ago : for the last twenty it has been the fashion 
 to under-praise him, I am sure. His Drama may 
 not be the finest in the world. One sees how often, 
 too, he wrote in the fashion of his time and country : 
 but he is a wonderful fellow : one of the Great Men 
 of the world." Thus Edward FitzGerald in a letter 
 to his friend, W. B. Donne, bearing the date, August 
 lo, 1852. Many will agree with this estimate, and 
 will regret that, after the lapse of fifty years, it is 
 still, in many quarters, " the fashion to under-praise 
 him." 
 
 In Spain, as in other countries, the drama had its 
 origin in religion, and we still possess the fragments 
 of a medieval mystery play — that of the Reyes Magos. 
 Alfonso's laws prove the existence of liturgical dramas 
 performed at the great church festivals. He, and
 
 X PREFACE 
 
 after him the chroniclers, reprove the gradual intro- 
 duction into these of buffoonery and secular elements. 
 These elements went to the making of a secular 
 drama, and, towards the end of the 15 th century, the 
 iuegos de escarn'm came to be performed in the public 
 square. The Celestina of Fernando de Rojas {ca. 1492), 
 an extraordinary dialogue, dealing with the loose morals 
 of the day, half novel, half play, but never intended 
 for the stage, undoubtedly hastened the development 
 of these secular plays. ^ Juan del Encina {ca. 1469- 
 1534), with his short eglogas, in which peasants were 
 introduced, Torres Naharro {Propaladia, Naples, i 5 1 7), 
 who produced his comedias a noticia and a fantasia at 
 Rome, the Portuguese Gil Vicente (1470-1540), and 
 Lucas Fernandez, pave the way for Lope de Rueda (fl. 
 ca. 1 540-1 566), who was regarded by Cervantes and 
 others as the real father of the Spanish drama. He 
 excelled in the paso or estretnes, a fascinating little 
 type of play, dealing with some scene of contem- 
 
 ' The modern tendency to depict the lower strata of society, 
 so interesting to the student of realism in literature and art, 
 may be said to have received its first full development in Spain 
 — with the Celestina, the picaresque novels, the eiitreweses, and 
 paintings such as the street-scenes and beggar-boys of Velasquez 
 and Murillo. The phenomenon is clearly to be explained as a 
 reaction against the excessive cult of religion and courtly elegance.
 
 PREFACE xi 
 
 porary manners. In the second half of the i6th 
 century, Juan de la Cueva, Cervantes (whose entremeses 
 are little masterpieces), Bermudez, de Virues, and 
 Argensola, greatly widened the scope of the drama, 
 adding among other themes those taken from the 
 national history. By the time the 1 7th century is 
 reached, the dramas have come to be divided into 
 three acts {Jornadas), while the metre employed for 
 the greater part of each play is that of the national 
 ballads — redondillas of seven or eight syllables, forming 
 assonance or rhyming abba, or, more rarely, abba 
 ace a} Plays dealing with religious subjects are 
 sharply divided into the comedias d'winas, played 
 on the regular stage ; and the autos, or liturgical 
 plays,^ the direct descendants of the medieval 
 drama, reserved for the festivals of the Church 
 — the autos al nac'imiento for Christmas, and the 
 aiitos sacramentales for Corpus Christi,^ The secular 
 
 "■ Readers of the plays in this volume must bear in mind that 
 the originals contain no prose whatever. 
 
 ^ This distinction is often missed. Even so earnest a student 
 as Longfellow thought that Calderon's Devocidn de la Cru-x, was 
 an auto (see The De'votional Poetry of Spain). 
 
 3 While so many countries derive their drama from religious 
 ceremonies, it was reserved for Spain, ever loyal to her Catholic 
 traditions, to go on perfecting these ceremonial religious plays 
 till the end of the 17th century.
 
 xil PREFACE 
 
 drama consisted (besides the short entremeses, pasos, 
 sayneies, bailes, and zarzuelas) of the comedias, a title 
 used indifferently for comic and tragic pieces. While 
 the comedia de capa y cspada, the " cloalc and sword 
 play," dealt with contemporary middle-class life, and 
 required no elaborate scenery, the comedia de teatro, 
 or de ru'ido, took its heroes and heroines from royal 
 or princely houses, and was staged with proportionate 
 splendour. Except for the Valencian playwrights, 
 headed by Guillen de Castro (i 569-1631), who 
 showed a certain independence, all the poets of the 
 golden age of the Spanish drama must be grouped round 
 the figure of Lope de Vega (i 562-1635), Spain's 
 greatest dramatist, and one of the most astounding 
 writers of all time — truly a " prodigy of nature." 
 Leaving aside the consideration of his non-dramatic 
 works (a huge mass of literature in themselves), and 
 of his shorter pieces for the stage, he wrote some 
 1,500 plays, about a third of which have come down 
 to us ; and though he rarely attained perfection of 
 form, save in single scenes, or at most in single acts, 
 yet his work as a whole reaches a high level of artistic 
 excellence. His rapid and admirable powers of in- 
 vention, the infinite resources of his wit, and his 
 complete mastery over every form of verse, have
 
 PREFACE xiii 
 
 probably never been surpassed. He gathered up the 
 threads of his predecessors, seized on all the possi- 
 bilities they had but dimly conceived, perfected their 
 intrigue, improved their characterisation, drew on 
 the whole stock of themes they had used, besides 
 adding to it largely himself, introduced as a regular 
 character the grac'toso (or " funny man "), developed 
 the point of honour and other peculiarly Spanish 
 features ; in short, he perfected the Spanish National 
 Drama. Lope did for Spain what Shakespeare did 
 for England. Like Shakespeare, too, he had con- 
 temporaries of rare excellence, chief among them, 
 Tirso de Molina and Juan Ruiz de Alarcon ; but, 
 unlike Shakespeare, he was followed by a writer 
 of plays who was a greater poet than himself As 
 Lope is undoubtedly Spain's greatest playwright, so 
 Calderon is her greatest dramatic poet — the greatest of 
 her poets who wrote for the stage. 
 
 Pedro Calderon de la Barca was born at Madrid, ot 
 noble family, on January 17, 1600. He received his 
 schooling from the Jesuits, and finished his studies at 
 Salamanca. He is said to have written his first play 
 at the age of thirteen, which may or may not be true ; 
 but a piece of his was certainly acted at Madrid in 
 1622. He then spent the greater part of the years
 
 xiv PREFACE 
 
 from 1 62 5-1 63 5 soldiering in the Milanese and in 
 Flanders. In 1636 he was called back to the capital 
 by Philip IV., who became his warm admirer, patron, 
 and friend. When Lope died the Spanish people 
 craved for a new idol, and found it in Calderon. 
 Honours were showered on him ; he ^vas made a 
 knight of Santiago, and everything was done to retain 
 him at court, but he insisted on taking part in the 
 expedition that was sent to quell the Catalonian 
 rising. In 1649 we find him again at Madrid, 
 whither he had been summoned to arrange the 
 pageant for the entry into the capital of Philip's 
 second queen. This "show" has been immortalised 
 in one of our plays — Beivare of Smooth Water. Two 
 years later he entered the priesthood, as Lope had 
 done before him ; and though he subsequently held 
 several appointments in the Church, this did not 
 prevent him from continuing to write a large number 
 of plays, both religious and secular. When Philip 
 died, in 1665, his successor, Charles II., though but 
 the shadow of a king and of a man, appears to have 
 treated our poet with all due honour. Calderon 
 ended his life on May 25, 1681, while writing an 
 auto ; so that, in the words of his friend, de Solis, 
 " he died, as they say the swan does, singing." The
 
 PREFACE XV 
 
 Spaniards mourned his loss, and with reason : for the 
 days of their glorious drama were numbered. Cal- 
 deron had some great contemporaries — Francisco de 
 Rojas and Moreto, but of successors there were none. 
 Although we do not possess all that Calderon 
 wrote, yet we have Ii8 of his dramas and 72 
 of his autos} It has often been pointed out that 
 he, no less than Lope, sums up the three great Spanish 
 characteristics of his age — the point of honour, loyalty 
 to the throne, and religious faith. Of the first two 
 our plays are full, the third is unfortunately not re- 
 presented. And yet no one can be said to know 
 Calderon who has not read some of his comedias 
 dlvinas and autosr' This latter category he brought 
 to the highest pitch of perfection it was ever to 
 attain ; it is the one genre in which he stands without 
 a rival. The best of his autos breathe true devo- 
 tion, and are full of exquisite poetry, while they give 
 evidence of much (though never very deep) thought. 
 
 ^ We have a list of these plays (and of some now lost), drawn 
 up by the poet himself, when eighty years old, at the request of 
 the Duque de Veragua. All the biographies are based on the 
 contemporary account that is all too short, written by his friend 
 Vera Tassis (for Part V. of the Comedias, 1682), 
 
 2 Some of these pieces are accessible in the versions of 
 Mr. M'Carthy, for a list of which see below, p. xxix.
 
 xvi PREFACE 
 
 Much the same criticism applies to the two great 
 symbolical dramas which stand apart — La V'lda es 
 Suefio and El Magko Prodtgmo. Here, too, Calderon 
 shows himself to have been a thinker ; not by any 
 means so great a thinker as some critics would have 
 us suppose, but yet the greatest thinker among the 
 Spanish dramatists. The other plays have been 
 classified over and over again, and I refer my readers 
 to these lists. ^ None of them can ever be quite satis- 
 factory, as several of the classes and pieces necessarily 
 overlap. Our volume contains only one of the really 
 " great " plays, the Alcalde de Zalamea, but the others 
 (with a single exception, as I think) are all repre- 
 sentative of our author's genius. If not a collection 
 of gems, it Is all the more characteristic on that ac- 
 count. Beautiful, and often great, poetry will be 
 found in well-nigh all the plays that Calderon wrote — 
 his wonderful imagination rarely failed him. For 
 most of the outward equipment of his craft he is 
 indebted to Lope, whom he never surpasses, but often 
 equals. The construction of his plots is excellent, the 
 characterisation (save in a few notable cases, such as 
 Crespo) less distinguished. He is admirable in sus- 
 tained passages of the loftiest passion ; nor Is he 
 ^ See note i on the next page.
 
 PREFACE xvii 
 
 deficient in the lighter qualities of wit and humour. 
 Finally, Calderon must be credited with a larger 
 number of finished masterpieces than his great rival, 
 the very exuberance of whose genius prevented him 
 from filing any of his longer works. ^ 
 
 Calderon in England till 1853.2 — During 
 the poet's lifetime three ^ of his plays appear to have 
 
 1 Besides the books mentioned in the text see Count A. F. 
 von Schack, Gesch. der dramat. Lit. u. Kunst in Spatiien, Berlin, 
 1845-1846 {Nachtrcige, 1854); F. W. V. Schmidt, Die 
 Schauspiele Calderon s dargestellt u, erlautert, Elberfeld, 1857 ; 
 E. Gunther, Calderon u, seine Werke, Freiburg i. B., 1888 ; 
 Menendez y Pelayo, C alder 6n y su teatro, Madrid, i88i, and 
 Calderdn, Teatro selecto . . . precidido de un estudio critico, 
 Madrid, 1881 ; Biografia de D. P. Calderon de la Barca by 
 Fehpe Picatoste y Rodriguez, with valuable Notas, Illustracionesy 
 Documenlos, in the Homenage d Calderon, Madrid, 1881 (pp. 7-61). 
 The best editions of Calderon's secular plays are those of Keil, 
 4 vols., Leipsique, 1827-1830, and Hartzenbusch, 4 vols., Madrid, 
 1848-1850-, the latter being the more complete and critical. 
 The autos were collected by Apontes in 6 vols., Madrid, 1 759- 1 760. 
 
 2 This subject has been treated by M'Carthy (1853) and 
 Trench (1856). The present sketch will be found to contain a 
 number of new facts. Space permits of my including, as a 
 general rule, only complete translations and books devoted en- 
 tirely to our poet. For an account of the review and magazine 
 articles,which often give excellent specimens from the plays, 
 the reader is referred to M'Carthy and to Poole's Index, 
 
 3 The number would be four if the attribution of Los Empeflos 
 de seis horas to Calderon were correct. On this play is based 
 Tuke's amusing Ad-ventures of Fi've Hours (1663) which, as Dr.
 
 xviii PREFACE 
 
 been adapted for the English stage, all of them the 
 work of George Digby, second Earl of Bristol. Only 
 one is extant i — Elvira, or The Worst not akvays True, 
 published in 1667, and taken from No s'lempre lo Peot 
 es Cierto. This piece, which is, of course, written in 
 blank verse, appears to have enjoyed considerable 
 popularity, and was several times reprinted ; but well- 
 nigh all the charm of the original has disappeared. 
 When the sources of the English Drama have been 
 fully explored, it will, in all probability, be found 
 
 Ward points out, was held by Pepys to be the " best for the 
 variety, and the most excellent continuance of the plot to the 
 very end, that ever I saw or think ever shall " ; and compared 
 with which Othello appeared to him " a mean thing," though he 
 " ever heretofore esteemed [it] a mighty good play." However, 
 the comedy is not by Calderon, and though Ticknor should have 
 known this, as it was pointed out by Vera Tassis in 1681, Tuke 
 may be pardoned for his error in the preface to the 3rd ed. of 
 his play (1671) : " ... certainly the plot needs no apology ; 
 it was taken out of Don Pedro Calderon, a celebrated Spanish 
 author, the nation of the world who are the happiest in the force 
 and delicacy of their inventions, and recommended to me by his 
 sacred Majesty, as an excellent design .... I take the bold- 
 ness to sign my opinion that this is incomparably the best plot 
 that I have met with. . . ." 
 
 ^ The existence of the other two may be inferred from the 
 following entry in Downes' Roscius Anglicanus (1708), p. 26 : 
 "'Tis Better than it fVas. JVone and JVorse : These two 
 comedies were made out of Spanish by the Earl of Bristol." The 
 originals would seem to be Calderon's Aiejor cstd que cstaba and 
 Peor estd que estaba.
 
 PREFACE xix 
 
 that Calderon supplies the ground-work, direct or in- 
 direct, for many a play written in this country between 
 the years 1650 and 1800. Even now the researches 
 of Dr. Ward and others enable us to connect with our 
 poet Dryden's Mock Astrologer and An Evenings Love 
 (through the French of Thomas Corneille) ; Wycher- 
 ley's Gentleman Dancing Master ; Killigrew's Parson s 
 Wedding (through D'Ouville's V Esprit follet, which is 
 La Dama Duende). Other borrowings from Calderon 
 were detected by Isaac BickerstafFe in the preface to 
 his '77/ well it's no Worse, a comedy in five acts and 
 in prose, published in 1770, "as it is performed at 
 the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane by his Majesty's 
 servants " ; the direct source o£ which, Ronquit's La 
 Cloison, is translated from one of Calderon's most de- 
 lightful pieces. 1 Bickerstaffe's version underwent a 
 
 ' "The original of the Play, now laid before the public, is 
 called El Escondido y la Tapada, The Hidden Man and the VeWd 
 Woman ; and is counted the master-piece of the most famous 
 among the Spanish Dramatic Poets, Don Pedro Calderon de la 
 Barca ; who, through Moliere, Corneille, Le Sage, Boissy, &c., 
 has provided Vanbrugh, Centlivre, Gibber, and Steel, with The 
 Mistake, The False Friend, The Wonder, The Busy Body, The 
 Kind Impostor, The Ladfs Philosophy and The Lying Lover, all 
 English comedies, which have been received upon the stage with 
 the warmest marks of approbation." I leave this mine to be 
 worked by others. For The Wonder see FitzGerald's foot-note 
 on p. z86, and my observations at the close of the volume.
 
 XX PREFACE 
 
 further process of adaptation at the hands of J. P. 
 Kemble, who published it in 1789 as "an entertain- 
 ment of three acts" (again in prose). By a curious 
 coincidence the two volumes of Thomas Holcroft's 
 Theatrical Recorder {\%oz^^ and 1806) contain prose 
 renderings, by his daughter Fanny, of the two plays 
 of Calderon which are lost in the Earl of Bristol's 
 version. Here they are called Fortune Mends and 
 From Bad to Worse. Lope de Vega's biographer, 
 Lord Holland, followed ^ with free prose translations 
 of La Dama Duetide (" The Fairy Lady ") and Nadie 
 fie su Zecreto (" Keep your own Secret "), the latter of 
 which was selected by FitzGerald, too, though he was 
 certainly not acquainted with the previous attempt. 
 About this time the influence of the German 
 romantic school and their followers began to make 
 itself felt in England, and the works of the Schlegels, of 
 Bouterwek, of Sismondi were translated (18 15-182 3). 
 
 ' The volume for 1805 has, besides, an account of Calderon 
 based on Vera Tassis, as also " a beautifully embellished head (by 
 H. Thompson, R.A.)." The source of this portrait is the well- 
 known picture (probably by Cano) from which our frontispiece, 
 too, is derived. The lower part of Thompson's design is occu- 
 pied by a masked gallant and a lady, evidently intended to 
 represent the cloak and sword play in general. 
 
 ^ Three Comedies translated from the Spanish (i 807). The third 
 play is A. de Solis' Un hobo hace ciento (" One fool makes many").
 
 PREFACE xxi 
 
 It is now generally agreed that their estimate of Calderon 
 was uncritical in its passionate enthusiasm. Yet their 
 influence made for good, seeing that it is better for a 
 great poet to be thought too much of than not to be 
 thought of at all. An article in the Quarterly (April, 
 1 8 2 1 ) and Shelley's superb translation of Scenes from 
 Calderon ^ are directly traceable to the impulse from 
 Germany. There can be no doubt that these Scenes 
 have done more for the Spaniard's fame in England 
 than all the efforts we have so far considered, and still 
 have to consider, combined. It is equally certain that 
 they merit this distinction. An anonymous trans- 
 lation of Raupach's blank-verse tragedy. Die Tochtet 
 der Luft (written in 1827), a poor work by a poor 
 poet, based on the two parts of Calderon's H'lja del 
 
 ^ They are, of course, taken from the Mdgico Prodigmo, which 
 play attracted him because of its "striking similarity" with 
 Goethe's FflMi/ (letter of April, 1822). To this similarity, by 
 the way, Calderon's enormous popularity in Germany, to the 
 present day, must be largely attributed. Shelley's references to 
 our poet in his letters are always enthusiastic : " I have been 
 reading Calderon in Spanish — a kind of Shakespeare is this 
 Calderon" (Aug. 1819). "Some of them [Calderon's plays] 
 certainly deserve to be ranked among the grandest and most 
 perfect productions of the human mind. He exceeds all modern 
 dramatists, with the exception of Shakespeare, whom he re- 
 sembles, however, in the depth and thought and subtlety of 
 imagination of his writings, and in the rare power of interweav- 
 ing delicate and powerful comic traits with the most tragical 
 
 C
 
 xxii PREFACE 
 
 Jhr, appeared in London in 1 8 3 i , under the title of 
 The Daughter of Air : A mystic Tragedy, in Five Acts, 
 ajter the Idea of P. Calderon. In the preface the 
 extent of Raupach's indebtedness to Calderon is fully 
 discussed. A thoughtful essay by George Henry 
 Lewes, The Spanish Drama : Lope de Vega and 
 Calderon (1846), came just in time to readjust 
 the balance. While allowing Calderon's great- 
 ness as a poet he refused him the title of a great 
 thinker ; moreover, he took up the cudgels on behalf 
 of Lope, who had been sorely neglected. A com- 
 plete translation (in blank verse) of the Mdgico by a 
 certain J. H.^ appeared in 1848. It has some 
 merit, but lacks fire. In the following year Ticknor, 
 in his great History of Spanish Literature, of course 
 devoted considerable space to our poet. The chapters 
 
 situations without diminishing their interest. I rate him far 
 above Beaumont and Fletcher" (Sept. 18 19). In November of 
 the same year he writes that "... some of the ideal dramas 
 of Calderon (with which I have lately, and with inexpressible 
 wonder and delight, become acquainted) are perpetually tempt- 
 ing me to throw over their perfect and glowing forms the grey 
 veil of my own words." 
 
 1 The identity of this translator has not been established. 
 He can hardly be M'Carthy, as the British Museum Cata- 
 logue and the Diet, of Nat. Biog. assert, seeing that, in the 
 Introduction (p. xxiii.) to his versions published in 1853, 
 M'Carthy speaks somewhat slightingly of J. H.'s performance.
 
 PREFACE xxiii 
 
 in question are admirable in many ways, but are, per- 
 haps, more open to criticism than any other portion 
 of the work. 
 
 The Translator of the Plays.— In 1850 
 FitzGerald wrote to F. Tennyson : " I have begun to 
 nibble at Spanish" ; and three years later the Six 
 Dramas of Calderon were published. He was then 
 44. years of age. He was born in Suffolk, and spent 
 most of his life in that county, devoted to books, art 
 and music, to yachting, and to his friends. At King 
 Edward VI. 's school, in Bury St. Edmund's, he had 
 formed close friendships with J. Spedding, W. B. 
 Donne and J. M. Kemble ; and while at Trinity 
 College, Cambridge, his circle included Thackeray 
 and Thompson (subsequently Master of the College). 
 The three Tennysons and Carlyle were friends of 
 later date. These and other eminent men, and 
 eminent women, too, delighted in FitzGerald's 
 society ; to these and others he addressed letters of 
 great charm, which have, since their appearance 
 (18 89-1 901), revealed to the great public, who 
 only knew his works, a singularly winning per- 
 sonality. A prose dialogue on youth {Eiiphranor, 
 1851) ; a "collection of Wise Saws and Modern
 
 xxlv PREFACE 
 
 Instances," with a preface on proverbs and aphorisms 
 (Polonius, 1852) ; and the Readings from Crabbed with 
 an introduction (1882), are three books of consider- 
 able interest. But it is as a translator that FitzGerald 
 will go down to posterity. In addition to the 
 Spanish plays with which we are mainly concerned, 
 he rendered " freely," into exquisite English, the 
 Downjall and Death of King (Edipus (a Drama in Two 
 Parts chiefly taken from the (Edipus Tyrannus and 
 Coloneus of Sophocles), the Agamemnon (a Tragedy 
 taken from .^schylus), and several works from the 
 Persian, chief among them the Rubaiyat of Omar 
 Khayyam (ist ed., 1859 ; 4th ed., 1879). This 
 rendering, which constitutes FitzGerald's chief title 
 to immortality, was eulogised by Tennyson as the 
 " golden Eastern lay — 
 
 Than which I know no version done 
 
 In English more divinely well ; 
 A planet equal to the sun 
 
 Which cast it, that large infidel, 
 Your Omar . . . ." 
 
 There can be no question that the translations 
 
 * Crabbe was one of FitzGerald's favourite poets ; and his 
 grandson, the Rev. G. Crabbe, one of his most intimate friends. 
 It was while on a visit to the latter, at Merton Rectory, Nor- 
 folk, that FitzGerald died (June 14, 1883).
 
 PREFACE XXV 
 
 from Calderon and Omar have permanently enriched 
 English literature ; and for both of them English 
 literature is indebted, in the first instance, to Pro- 
 fessor Cowell, who opened these new vistas to his 
 friend. Needless to say, the letters contain several 
 generous acknowledgments of this debt.^ 
 
 FitzGerald was making a bold experiment, and, 
 though obviously satisfied with his performance, he 
 did not disguise his anxiety as to the judgment that 
 might be passed on it by others. Writing to Mrs. 
 Cowell before the publication of the plays (on April 
 4, 1853), he says that his "Translation would be so 
 free as to be rather a dangerous Experiment. But I 
 think you can hardly make Calderon interesting to 
 
 1 See, for example, the one to C. E. Norton (January 18, 
 1882) : "I forget if I told you in my last of my surprising 
 communication with the Spanish Ambassador who sent me the 
 Calderon medal [struck to commemorate the bi-centenary of the 
 poet's death], I doubt not at Mr. Lowell's instance. But I 
 think I must have told you. Cowell came over to me here on 
 Monday : he, to whom a Medal is far more due than to me ; 
 always reading and teaching, Calderon at Cambridge now (as 
 he did to me thirty years ago), in spite of all his Sanskrit 
 Duties." — Since these pages were set up lovers of literature 
 have incurred a grave loss in the death of Professor Cowell 
 — a man in whom the best English scholarship was united to 
 the humanity of genuine culture. His article on Calder6n, in 
 the Westminster Re'vieiv of January, i 851, was the first adequate 
 appreciation of the poet in this country.
 
 xxvi PREFACE 
 
 English Readers unless with a large latitude of inter- 
 pretation." And after the book had appeared, he 
 asked his friends for their verdict, and was greatly 
 relieved when it was favourable.^ The reviewers, on 
 the other hand, " did not take the trouble to under- 
 stand his object," as Mr. W. Aldis Wright (Fitz- 
 Gerald's friend and literary executor) tersely puts it. 
 Writing to G. Crabbe on September 12, 1853, the 
 chagrined translator refers to an unfavourable criti- 
 
 ' " I am very glad you like the plays and am encouraged to 
 hope that other persons who are not biassed by pedantic pre- 
 judices or spites might like them too. But I fully expect that 
 (as I told you, I think) the London press, etc., will either sink 
 them, or condemn them on too free a principle : and all the 
 more if they have not read the originals. For these are safe 
 courses to adopt. And all this while I am assuming the plays 
 are well done in their way, which of course I do. On the 
 other hand, they really may not be as well done as I think ; 
 on their own principle : and that would really be a fair ground 
 of condemnation" [Letter to G. Grabbe, July 22, 1853]. — 
 " Though I believed the Calderon to be on the whole well done 
 and entertaining, I began to wish to be told it was so by others, 
 for fear I had made a total mistake : which would have been 
 a bore. And the very free and easy translation lies open to 
 such easy condemnation, unless it be successful" [Letter to W. 
 F. Pollock, July 25, 1853]. — "Though I of course thought the 
 Translations well done (or I should not have printed them), I 
 naturally desired the approval of a competent Judge ; since the 
 best of us may make sad mistakes in the estimation of our own 
 handiwork ; and it is not pleasant to dubb oneself an Ass in 
 print" [Letter to George Borrow, Aug. 3, 1853].
 
 PREFACE xxvii 
 
 cism in the Leader, and to " a more determined spit at 
 me" in the. Athenaeum of Sept. lo.^ He goes on : " I 
 told you how likely this was to be the case : and so am 
 not surprized. One must take these chances if one will 
 play at so doubtful a game. I believe those who read 
 the Book, without troubling themselves whether it is 
 a free Translation or not, like it : but Critics must 
 be supposed to know all, and it is safe to condemn. 
 On the other hand, the Translation may not be good 
 on any ground : and then the Critics are all 
 right." 
 
 I do not propose to criticise, where the translator's 
 aim has been so completely achieved ; nor to com- 
 pare a translation with the original, where it was so 
 obviously the translator's wish that no such comparison 
 
 1 « \yg have not taken the trouble to compare these trans- 
 lations with the originals ; holding it quite unnecessary to 
 treat as a serious work a book whose author confesses that 
 he . . . ." [here follow extracts from FitzGerald's " Advertise- 
 ment" j which " Advertisement," by the way, should be care- 
 fully perused by every reader of the plays — see pp. i to 3 of 
 the present volume]. This "spit" was made by no less a 
 person than John Rutter Chorley, a Spanish scholar of real dis- 
 tinction, whose knowledge of, and love for, the Spanish Drama, 
 has probably never been surpassed ; and who was, for that very 
 reason, unable to sympathise with FitzGerald's aims. These 
 versions were intended for such Englishmen as did not happen 
 to be Spanish scholars.
 
 xxviii PREFACE 
 
 should ever be made. It will be more profitable to 
 quote a further passage from the correspondence, in 
 which FitzGerald gives full expression to his canons 
 of translation ^ : " To come down rather a little from 
 him [Scott], my Calderon, which you speak of — very 
 many beside myself, with as much fair Dramatic spirit, 
 knowledge of good English and English Verse, would 
 do quite as well as you think I do, if they would not 
 hamper themselves with Forms of Verse, and Thought, 
 irreconcilable with English Language and English Ways 
 of Thinking. I am persuaded that, to keep Life in 
 the Work (as Drama must) the Translator (however 
 inferior to his Original) must re-cast that original into 
 his own Likeness, more or less : the less like his 
 original, so much the worse : but still, the live Dog 
 better than the dead Lion ; in Drama, I say." ^ 
 
 * From a letter to Russell Lowell, dated December 19, 
 1878. 
 
 ^ Admirable articles on FitzGerald were contributed to the 
 Diet, of Nat. Biog., to Chambers's EncycL, and to the new 
 Supplement of the Encycl. Bnt., by Mr. W. Aldis Wright, 
 Prof. Cowell and Mr. Edmund Gosse, respectively. There is a 
 fuller biography by J. Glyde (1900), and a bibliography by Col. 
 Prideaux (1901 ; for the plays from Calderon, see pp. 6-1 1 and 
 23-25). A complete edition of FitzGerald's works, including 
 the several series of letters, is now in course of publication, 
 under the supervision of Mr. Aldis Wright. Our plays, which 
 will, of course, form part of this edition de luxe, have, since their
 
 PREFACE xxix 
 
 Calderdn in England from 1853 till 
 ig02. — The year 1853 was further marked by the 
 debut as a Calderon translator of the Dublin poet 
 Denis Florence McCarthy (18 17-1882), who 
 devoted the better part of his life to the cult of the 
 Spaniard. Between 1853 and 1873 he published 
 five volumes containing, in all, versions of fourteen of 
 the plays. ^ They are marked by rare scholarship 
 
 first appearance in 1853, been once reprinted, with several slight 
 alterations by FitzGerald, in the Letters and Literary Remains, 
 which were published, after his death, in 1889 (these, too, edited 
 by Mr. Aldis Wright). The text of the present edition scrup- 
 ulously follows that of 1853, save in the case of obvious misprints. 
 I desire to thank Mr. Aldis Wright and Messrs. Macmillan for 
 their courtesy in allowing me to quote the foregoing extracts 
 from FitzGerald's correspondence. 
 
 1 In 1853 : The Constant Prince, The Secret in Words, The 
 Physician of his oivn Honour, Love after Death, The Purgatory of 
 Saint Patrick, The Scarf and the Floiver ; in 1861 : Lo've the 
 greatest Enchantment, The Sorceries of Sin [an auto'\. The 
 De-votion of the Cross [these three with the Spanish text] ; in 
 1867 : Be/shazzars Feast and The Divine Philothea [these autos 
 are accompanied by English translations of essays on the auto by 
 Lorinser and Pedroso] ; in 1870 : The Ttvo Lovers of Heaven 
 and Chrysantkus and Daria ; in 1873 : The Wonder-Working 
 Magician, Life is a Dream and The Purgatory of Saint Patrick 
 [rendered a second time], M'Carthy's first set of versions 
 called forth two masterly articles on Calderon by Chorley 
 fAthcn<runi, Nov. 19th and 26th, 1853J. See, too, an apprecia- 
 tion of M'Carthy's Calderon labours in the Dublin Review, new 
 series, 1877, vol. xxix., pp. 94-119.
 
 XXX PREFACE 
 
 and sincerity, by much poetical beauty, and by a 
 scrupulous adherence to the letter and metre of the 
 originals. It is undoubtedly this latter quality that 
 has prevented their achieving any considerable measure 
 of popularity — and deservedly so. It always has been, 
 and aWays will be, a matter of controversy, as to how 
 far translators of classical masterpieces should adhere 
 to their originals in point of form ; but it is safe to 
 assert that the Spanish dramatists will never give 
 enjoyment to foreigners save in versions which dis- 
 regard the peculiarities of the Spanish dramatic 
 metres. Still, McCarthy is entitled to the warm 
 admiration of all Calderonians ; and no man more 
 fully deserved the Calderon medal, which was, 
 in 1 88 1, duly awarded to him, as to FitzGerald. 
 During the period of twenty years that cover 
 M'Carthy's activity other champions of our poet 
 were not idle. FitzGerald, who had occupied him- 
 self at intervals with La V'lda es Sue?lo and E/ Mdgico 
 Prodigioso, was encouraged by Prof. Cowell, on 
 his return from India in 1864, to put the finishing 
 touches to his remarkable renderings of these plays 
 (1865).^ In 1856 Archbishop Trench published a 
 
 ^ The Mighty Magician and Such Stuff ai Dreams are made of. 
 Freely translated from the Spanish hy E. F. — Mr. W. Aldis
 
 PREFACE xxxi 
 
 notable essay on Calderon, together with specimens 
 of translations from one of the plays and one 
 of the autos} It is scarcely too much praise to 
 say that this paper is worthy to rank with Dean 
 Church's essay on Dante, which had appeared some 
 
 Wright says: "... the reception it [the volume of 1853] 
 met with at the hands of the reviewers ... did not encourage 
 him to repeat the experiment. He consequently never issued, 
 except to his personal friends, the translations or adaptations of 
 La Vida es SueUo and El Mdgico Prodigmo. These translations 
 never proposed to be close renderings of the originals. They 
 were rather intended to produce, in one who could not read the 
 language from which they were rendered, something of the 
 same effect as is conveyed by the original to those familiar with 
 it." (From the article on FitzGerald in the Diet, of Nat. Biog.) 
 1 Life's a Dream : The Great Theatre of the World. From 
 the Spanish of Calderon. With an Essay on his Life and 
 Genius, by Richard Chenevix Trench. London, 1856. [A 
 second edition, with slight alterations and a different title, 
 appeared in 1880.] The following appreciation by Trench of 
 FitzGerald's efforts is very valuable as criticism, especially when 
 it is borne in mind that his principles of translation were 
 diametrically opposed to those of his forerunner. He says that 
 the Six Dramas " are far the most important and worthiest con- 
 tribution to the knowledge of the Spanish poet which we have 
 yet received. But, written as they are [ed. of 1880 : are a 
 very important contribution to tlie knowledge of the Spanish 
 poet ; written as they are] in English of an exquisite purity 
 and vigour, and dealing with poetry in a poet's spirit, they yet 
 suffer, as it seems to me, under serious drawbacks . . . [such 
 as the use of blank verse] ; but how little likely Calderon is to 
 obtain a more gifted translator, and how much his modest 
 choice of plays on which to exercise his skill, which are not
 
 xxxii PREFACE 
 
 years previously. Both are written by Church- 
 men of wide sympathies and culture ; and both 
 aim at popularising a great poet. Dr. Garnett 
 contributed a valuable article on the Spaniard to the 
 ninth edition of the Encyclopedia Britannka (vol. iv., 
 1876).! Miss Hasell's book on Calderon (1879 ; 
 2nd ed., 1898) is not of any great merit, and 
 devotes excessive space to the analysis of a compara- 
 tively small number of the plays ; however, she 
 deserves credit for dealing in a spirit of enthusiasm 
 and at considerable length with the autos and 
 comedias divhas. In 1888 Mr. Norman MacCoU 
 
 among his author's best, is to be regretted, T think the reader 
 will own after a single quotation from this volume" — [here 
 follows a passage which will be found on p. 29 of our edition]. 
 ' Dr. Garnett, himself a translator of rare gifts, deserves to 
 be heard on the three foremost English translators of Calderon : 
 " Shelley's version of some scenes of the Wonder-Working 
 Magician is incomparably the best English interpretation, and 
 no reproduction in our language will ever be perfectly successful 
 that does not proceed upon his principle of intermingling blank 
 verse with irregular lyrical metres. Mr. FitzGerald and Mr. D. 
 F. M'Carthy, two excellent translators, have erred — the former 
 by resorting to blank verse entirely, the latter by discarding it 
 altogether. Mr. FitzGerald's version is too English, and Mr. 
 M'Carthy's too Spanish ; the peculiar delicacy of the assonant 
 rhyme, which he has endeavoured to preserve throughout, is 
 entirely imperceptible in our language. . . . There is perhaps 
 no more congenial field for a writer of a poetical temperament 
 than the translation of Calderon."
 
 PREFACE xxxiii 
 
 published an edition of four ^ of Calderon's master- 
 pieces in the original, with full apparatus in the way of 
 prolegomena and notes ; the volume (which is dedicated 
 to Robert Browning) is in all respects worthy of this 
 admirable Spanish scholar. Two distinguished English 
 historians of Spanish literature, Mr. H. Butler Clarke 
 (1893) and Mr. James Fitzmaurice-Kelly (1898), 
 dealt with Calderon in chapters that are well worth 
 study, for both writers are masters of their theme.^ 
 It only remains to add that on May 15, 1899, 
 the Elizabethan Stage Society honoured Calderon, 
 FitzGerald and themselves, by producing Siuch Stuff as 
 Dreams are made of. The select public, and the 
 
 1 El Principe Constante, La Vida es Suerw, EI Alcalde de 
 Zalamea, and El Escondido y la Tapada. This is the only 
 critical edition of any of Calderon's plays that has appeared in 
 England. The three plays published by M'Carthy in the 
 original were merely reprinted from a Spanish edition. We 
 may note that a Teatro EspaHol was published at "Londres" in 
 1817-1821, the publishers being " T. Boosey e hijos." Vols. 
 2 and 3 of this selection, the sale of which in England 
 could not have been large, are devoted to Calderon, ten of his 
 plays being included. The introduction, in Spanish, is signed 
 " A. A." — probably to be identified as Angel Anaya, a Spanish 
 teacher in London, who wrote a few harmless books and 
 pamphlets, mcluding an " Essay on Spanish Literature " 
 (London, 18 18). 
 
 2 Though the opinions of Mr. Kelly, incontestably one o 
 the leading Spanish scholars of the day, are entitled to all 
 respect and consideration, yet I have always felt that his section
 
 xxxiv PREFACE 
 
 dramatic critics, too, as a body, were duly apprecia- 
 tive. May this representation ^ be taken as an augury 
 of better things to come ? May we yet hope for an 
 actor-manager, who, while not neglecting Shakespeare 
 and the other great representatives of the British 
 Drama, will realise that there is a great foreign Drama, 
 too ; that, when it has once been decided to go abroad 
 for novelties, it were well to produce them in a reverent 
 spirit, and better not to touch them at all than stage 
 a travesty, say, of Goethe's F^«// ; that the Continent 
 has produced many plays, which, if not of the calibre 
 of Faust, are still great works, written by men of 
 great genius ; and that the Misanthrope, the Alcalde de 
 Zalamea and Kabale und Liebe, to name but three of 
 them, are not only great literary plays, but great act- 
 ing plays as well. 
 February, 1903. 
 
 on Calderon, brilliant though it be, is marred by his evident 
 partiality for Lope. This bias reappears in Lope de Vega and 
 the Spanish Drama, the Taylorian Lecture for 1902, which, 
 though dated 1 902, was not published till the first week of 
 1903, and, unfortunately, did not reach me till this preface was 
 written and set up. Save in this one particular, which appears 
 to me a flaw, though it will no doubt be regarded by others as a 
 virtue, the essay may be heartily recommended to all students 
 of the Drama. 
 
 1 A revival of the play is promised by the Society for May 
 of the present year.
 
 Advertisement 
 I The Painter of his own Dishonour 
 II Keep your own Secret 
 
 III Gil Perez, the Gallician . 
 
 IV Three Judgments at a Blow 
 V The Mayor of Zalamea . 
 
 VI Beware of Smooth Water 
 Notes .... 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 5 
 107 
 185 
 
 255 
 
 337 
 407 
 487
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 IN apologizing for the publication of so free 
 translations of so famous a poet as Calderon, I 
 must plead, first, that I have not meddled with any 
 of his more famous plays ; not one of those on my 
 list being mentioned with any praise, or included in 
 any selection that I know of, except the homely 
 Mayor of Zalamea. Four of these six indeed, as 
 many others in Calderon, may be lookt on as a better 
 kind of what we call melodramas. Such plays as the 
 Magico Prodigioso and the Fida es Sueno (I cannot rank 
 the Principe Constante among them) require another 
 translator, and, I think, form of translation. 
 
 Secondly, I do not believe an exact translation of 
 this poet can be very successful ; retaining so much 
 that, whether real or dramatic Spanish passion, is still 
 bombast to English ears, and confounds otherwise
 
 2 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 distinct outlines of character ; Conceits that were a 
 fashion of the day ; or idioms that, true and intelli- 
 gible to one nation, check the current of sympathy in 
 others to which they are unfamiliar ; violations of 
 the probable, nay possible, that shock even healthy 
 romantic licence ; repetitions of thoughts and images 
 that Calderon used (and smiled at) as so much stage 
 properties — so much, in short, that is not Calderon's 
 own better self, but concession to private haste or 
 public taste by one who so often relied upon some 
 striking dramatic crisis for success with a not very 
 accurate audience, and who, for whatever reason, 
 was ever averse from any of his dramas being 
 printed. 
 
 Choosing therefore such less famous plays as still 
 seemed to me suited to English taste, and to that 
 form of verse in which our dramatic passion prefers 
 to run, I have, while faithfully trying to retain what 
 was fine and efficient, sunk, reduced, altered, and 
 replaced, much that seemed not ; simplified some 
 perplexities, and curtailed or omitted scenes that 
 seemed to mar the breadth of general effect, supply- 
 ing such omissions by some lines of after-narrative ; 
 and in some measure have tried to compensate for the 
 fulness of sonorous Spanish, which Saxon English at
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 3 
 
 least must forego, by a compression which has its own 
 charm to Saxon ears. 
 
 That this, if proper to be done at all, might be 
 better done by others, I do not doubt. Nay, on 
 looking back over these pages, I see where in some 
 cases the Spanish individuality might better have 
 been retained, and northern idiom spared ; and 
 doubtless there are many inaccuracies I am not yet 
 aware of But if these plays prove interesting to the 
 English reader, I and he may be very sure that, 
 whatever of Spain and Calderon be lost, there must 
 be a good deal retained ; and I think he should 
 excuse the licence of my version till some other 
 interests him as well at less expense of fidelity. 
 
 I hope my Graciosos will not be blamed for occa- 
 sional anachronisms not uncharacteristic of their 
 vocation.
 
 THE PAINTER OF HIS OWN 
 DISHONOUR
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Prince ofOrslno. 
 his Fi'iend. 
 
 Governor of Naples, 
 his Daughter, 
 his Son. 
 
 their Servants. 
 
 Don Juan Roca. 
 
 Skrafina, his Wije. 
 
 Don Pedro, his Father-in-latu. 
 
 Leonelo, 
 
 Flora, 
 
 ' i their Servants. 
 
 Maskers, Musicians, Sailors, &c.
 
 THE PAINTER OF HIS OWN 
 DISHONOUR 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. A Room in Don Luis' palace at 'Naples. — 
 Enter Don Luis and Don Juan meeting. 
 
 T UIS. 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 fill short 
 Of my full satisfaction. 
 
 Luis. How glad am I 
 
 To have you back in Naples ! 
 
 Juan. Ah, Don Luis, 
 
 7
 
 8 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 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 
 
 /
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 9 
 
 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 showed 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 i 
 
 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.
 
 lo THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 Luis. Not that, till she have graced our gardens long, 
 If once we get her here. But is she here ? 
 
 "Junn. Close by — she and her father, who would 
 needs 
 See her abroad ; 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.
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR ii 
 
 Juan. But how is this ? 
 
 Lms. 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. Na}', 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 \
 
 12 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 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 —
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 13 
 
 For. And I. How glad I am ! 
 
 Luis. You ! what should make you glad ? 
 
 For. 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. 
 
 For. 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 tory besides. — 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 neigh- 
 bour, " 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,
 
 14 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 and also of my master's orders, I crave your Lord- 
 ship'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 Sera- 
 fina 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) respect- 
 ability. 
 
 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
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 15 
 
 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 ! — 
 
 Leo7i. I'll tell you. A certain man in Barcelona 
 had five or six children : and he gave them each to 
 eat — 
 
 {Fokes zvithin.) " Way there I way ! " 
 
 Pot: 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 — 
 
 Ente}' Don Juan leading Serafina, Don Pedro, 
 and Flora — all in travelling dress. 
 
 Luis. Your hand, fair Serafina, whose bright eyes J 
 Seem to have drawn his lustre from the sun, '1
 
 1 6 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 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. 
 
 Ped. 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 !
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 17 
 
 Ped. The merrier for them, but scarce for j-ou, 
 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 
 
 c. c
 
 1 8 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 I shall find some to whom I ma.y relate 
 That story of the children and their meat. 
 
 [ExeuniDo^ Luis, Pedro, Juan, Leonelo, Fabio, &c. 
 
 Se?: 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 m// not understand me ? 
 
 Por. Nay,— 
 
 What can I say ! 
 
 Ser. Let us be ^uite 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 ? 
 
 Flo}a. Madam, so please you. 
 
 [Exeunt Flora and Julia.
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 19 
 
 Ser. Well, are we ^ui/e alone ? 
 
 Par. 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 )ou and I 
 Were so united that, our hearts attun'd 
 To perfect unison, one might believe 
 That but one soul within two bodies lodg'd. 
 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
 
 20 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 From first to last — by such full utterance 
 My pent up soul perchance may find relief. 
 
 For. Speak, Serafina. 
 
 Set: 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 — 
 
 For. Nay, calm yourself 
 
 5^7-. 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.
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 21 
 
 Who, being lov'd, 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 tRe 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,
 
 2 2 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 Upon mine honour, (for I tell thee rt//,) 
 
 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 — implor'd — excus'd — delay'd — 
 In vain — O mercy. Heaven ! 
 
 Poi: Tell me no more : 
 
 It is too much for you. 
 
 Se?: Then suddenly 
 
 We heard that he was dead — your brother — drown'd —
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 23 
 
 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 ! [Szvoons. 
 Por. Serafina ! — 
 
 She has fainted ! — Julia ! Flora ! — 
 
 Enter Alvaro. 
 
 Jlv. My Porcia ! 
 
 Por. Alvaro ! {They embrace.) 
 
 Jlv. 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 ! — 
 
 Jlv. Serafina ! 
 
 And sleeping too ! 
 
 Por. Oh, swooning ! see to her 
 
 Till I get help. [Exit. 
 
 Ser. {in her szvoon). Mercy, mercy ! 
 Alvaro, slay me not ! — I am not guilty ! — 
 Indeed I am not ! —
 
 24 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 Alv. She dreams — and dreams of me — but very 
 strangely — 
 Serafina ! — 
 
 ^er. (zvaking). 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 — 
 
 J/p. Must marry ? — whom ? — 
 
 Why, you are dreaming still — 
 Awake ! — 'tis your Alvaro — (Offers to embrace her.) 
 
 Ser. No, no, no — 
 
 I dare not — 
 
 Jlv. 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 — 
 
 \_Re tires with Porcia to back of Stage.
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 25 
 
 Enter Juan md 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. 
 
 Ah. {to PoRciA /// the J ear). This is true then ! 
 
 Por. Na}', 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. 
 
 Jh. 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 j'ourself 
 — I shall be back 
 Directly. {^Exeunt Porcia, Serafina, and Juan. 
 
 Alv. She is married — broke her troth —
 
 26 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 And I escaped from death and slavery 
 
 To find her — but the prince ! — Oh weariness ! 
 
 Enter ike Prince Orsino, Celio, Don hvis, 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.
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 27 
 
 Ah. 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 I — 
 
 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 her 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.
 
 28 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 Ah. (aside). 'Tis no friend I seek, 
 
 But my one deadliest enemy — myself. \Exit. 
 
 Prince. Celio, I think we have well nigh ex- 
 hausted 
 The world of compliment, and wasted it : 
 For I begin to doubt that word and deed 
 Are wasted all in vain. 
 
 Cello. 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.
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 29 
 
 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. 1 
 
 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. 
 Porc'uT. I left my brother here but now.
 
 30 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 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 — 
 
 Pot. 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 — 
 
 Po?: No, my lord — 
 
 You mean my love to }'Ou, 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.
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 31 
 
 EfUer Serafina. 
 
 Serafina. I cannot rest, Porcia, and am come 
 To seek it in your arms — but who is this ? 
 
 Por. The Prince Orsino. 
 
 5^;'. Pardon me, my lord — 
 
 I knew you not — coming so hurriedl)', 
 And in much perturbation. 
 
 Prince. Nay, lady, 
 
 I owe you thanks for an embarrassment 
 Which hides my own. 
 
 ^er. Let it excuse beside 
 
 What other courtesies I owe your Highness, 
 But scarce have words to pay. Heaven guard your 
 
 Highness — 
 Suffer me to retire. \Exit. 
 
 Por. I needs must after her, my lord. Rut 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 mannered when surprised, 
 She must be exquisite in her composure.
 
 32 THE PAINTER OF [act 
 
 Prince. Who is she ? 
 
 Ce/. 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. 
 
 Enur Alvaro. 
 
 Alvaro. How restless is the sickness of the soul ! 
 I scarce had got me from this fatal place, 
 And back again — 
 
 Prince. Alvaro ! 
 
 Ah. M}' lord— 
 
 Prince. Who is the lady that was here anon ? 
 
 Ah. Lady, my lord — what lady ? 
 
 Prince. She that went 
 
 A moment hence — I mean your sister's guest. 
 
 Ah. (This drop was wanting !) 
 My lord, the daughter of a nobleman 
 Of very ancient blood — 
 Don Pedro Castellano. 
 
 Prince. And her name ? 
 
 Ah. Serafina. 
 
 Prince. And a most seraphic lady ! 
 
 Ah. You never saw her, sir, before ?
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 33 
 
 Pfince. No, surely. 
 
 Jh. {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. 
 
 Ak'. Yes, sir — 
 
 Prince. She lives in Naples, eh ? 
 
 Jlv. 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. 
 
 Pnnce. 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. 
 
 c. D
 
 34 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 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 !
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 35 
 
 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 ! 
 
 \_Excu>it 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 ? 
 
 Jlv. 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 deserv'd, 
 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 captur'd, 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.
 
 36 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 Luis. What else could'st thou have askt, 
 In all the category of my means, 
 Which I, methinks, had grudg'd thee ! No, Alvaro, 
 The treacherous sea must not again be trusted 
 With the dear promise of my only son. 
 
 Jlv. Nay, for that very reason, I entreat }'ou 
 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 offered up 
 My heart of hearts, a purer sacrifice 
 Than ever yet on pagan altar blaz'd, 
 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
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 37 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Alt'. Never ! — who best can answer that ? 
 
 I standing by, why ask it of another ? 
 
 At least when speaking of such happiness 
 
 As, perjur'd woman, thy false presence brings ! 
 
 Sicr. Alvaro, for Heaven's sake spare me the pang 
 
 Of these unjust reproaches.
 
 38 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 Alv. What ! unjust ! 
 
 Zer. Why, is it not unjust, condemning one 
 Without defence ? 
 
 Ah. Without defence indeed ! 
 
 Zer. 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. 
 
 5rr. To what purpose ! I can but repeat 
 What I have told your sister, and she j'ou, — 
 What on the sudden waking from my swoon, 
 I, who had thought }'ou dead so long, Alvaro, 
 Spoke in my terror, suddenly seeing you 
 Alive, before me. 
 
 Ah. I were better, then. 
 
 Dead than alive ? 
 
 Srr. I know not- — were }'ou dead 
 
 I might in honour weep for you, Alvaro ; 
 Living, I must not. 
 
 Ah. N.iy, then, whether you
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 39 
 
 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. 
 
 y^/v. But I say you must. 
 
 5^/". Porcia, 
 
 Will you not help me when my life and honour 
 Are thus at stake ? 
 
 ^k'. Porcia's duty lies 
 
 In keeping watch that no one interrupt us. 
 
 Porcia. Between the two confus'd, 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. [Exif. 
 
 Ser. If I am forc'd to hear you then, Alvaro, 
 You shall hear me too, once more, once for all. 
 Freely confessing that I loved j'ou 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, 
 lljved anotheTj and am — what I am. 
 So help me. Heaven, Alvaro, this is all ! 
 
 ^/z'. How can I answer if you weep ? 
 
 Ser, No, no,
 
 40 THE PAINTER OF [act i 
 
 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. 
 
 ^er. Alvaro, when I think of what I was, [ 
 My tears will forth ; but when of what I am, ! 
 My honour bids them cease. -^ 
 
 All'. You do feel then — 
 
 Ser. Nay, I'll deny it not. 
 
 Alv. That, being another's — 
 
 ^er. 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 — 
 
 ^er. Alvaro — 
 
 Alv. That foretells 
 
 That better day when in these arms again —
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 41 
 
 Ser. Those arms ! Alvaro, when that day shall 
 come 
 May heaven's thunder strike me dead at once ! 
 
 {Cannott zvithin.) 
 Mercy, what's that ? 
 
 Ejitcr PoRCiA. 
 
 Porcia. A signal from the ship, 
 
 'Tis time : your father and Don Juan now 
 Are coming for you. 
 
 Ah. O heavens ! 
 
 P07: Compose yourself, 
 
 And yon, Alvaro — {Motions km back.) 
 
 Enter Don Juan, Luis, Pedro, Leonelo, &c. 
 
 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.
 
 42 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. A room in Don Juan's house at Barcelona: 
 
 he is (^iscoz'ere^ painfifig Serafisa. 
 
 It gradually grows dusk. 
 
 Juan. Are you not wearied sitting ? 
 
 Serajina. 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 r 
 
 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 zvhy so ? 
 
 Juan. Shall I tell )-ou why ? 
 
 Painters, you know, (just turn your head a little,) 1 
 Are nature's apes, whose uglier semblances, 
 Made up of disproportion and excess, 
 Like apes, they easily can imitate :
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 43 , 1^ 
 
 T 
 
 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 fir 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. 
 
 Si"/". 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, y^ 
 
 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
 
 44 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 As yours ; nor can I, when before my eyes, 
 Take the clear image in my trembling soul ; 
 1 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 anything 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. — [Thvtvs away his brushes, ijfc.) 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. 
 o' Set: Nay, if it do that 
 
 I will not, Juan, or let me die for it, — 
 Come, there's an oath upon 't. 
 I yuan. A proper curse 
 
 ^ ' On that rebellious face.
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 45 
 
 Enter Leonelo. 
 
 Leonejo^ 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. 
 
 5^;-. Whither, my lord ? 
 
 Juan. Down to the pier, with the sea and the 
 fresh air, to dispel my vexation. 
 
 Set: By quitting me I 
 
 Juan. I might indeed say so, since the sight of y 
 you is the perpetual trophy of my defeat. But what 
 if I leave you in order to return with a double zest r 
 
 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 !
 
 / 
 
 46 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 ^er. Nay, nay, I know you. 
 
 'Juan. Better than I do myself? 
 
 5er. What wife does not ? 
 
 Leon. Just so. A German and the priest of his 
 village coming to higii 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 ! " 
 
 Sicr. 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. 
 
 [Exeuni Juan ani^ Leonelo, 
 
 5^;'. 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
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 47 
 
 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. 
 
 5^;'. 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 ! —
 
 48 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 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. 
 
 Js 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.
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 49 
 
 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. • 
 
 Jk'. 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. 
 
 Ah. 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 : 
 
 C. E
 
 50 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 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 }'et 
 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. 
 
 Jlv. 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, }'es. 
 Loved me, and (let the metaphor run on) 
 I never will believe it ever was, 
 Or is, or ever can be possible
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR : 
 
 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 j'ourself 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. 
 
 j^/v. Serafina — 
 
 Juafi {spcciking zvithin). Light, light, there ! 
 
 Ente)- Flora hurriedly. 
 Flora, Madam, my lord, my lord.
 
 52 THE PAINTER OF [act n 
 
 Ah. Confusion ! 
 
 ^er. O ye heavens ! 
 
 Flora. The old lover's story. 
 
 Brother or husband sure to interrupt. 
 
 Juan {zoith'm). A light there, Flora ! Serafina ! 
 night 
 Set in, and not a lamp lit in the house ? 
 
 Alv. He comes. 
 
 Sei\ And I am lost ! 
 
 Flora. Quick, Don Alvaro, 
 
 Into this closet, till my lord be gone 
 Into his chamber ; in, in, in ! 
 
 Ah. My fears 
 
 Are all for j'ou, 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 zath 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,
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 5^ 
 
 And told me to get home again. 
 
 Ser. {aside). My heart ! 
 
 Juan. And wherefore do you think ? 
 
 Se?: Nay, I Icnow 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 seas. And therefore for their sake, 
 And mine, my Serafina, you must for once 
 Eclipse that fair face v/ith 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
 
 54 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 To choose from, in my chamber ; prithee come, 
 And help me judge. 
 
 Juan. I ;vould 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, i^he 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 anr/ Serafina. 
 
 F/on7 {letting out Alvaro). Now is the time, 
 Signor Alvaro ! hist ! 
 The coast is clear, but silently and swiftly — 
 Follow — but, hush ! stop ! wait ! 
 
 Ah. What now ? 
 
 Flora. A moment ! 
 
 Back, back, 'tis Leonelo. 
 
 Alv. Put out the light, I can slip past him. 
 
 Flora {falls putting out light). No sooner said than 
 done. O Lord, Lord, Lord !
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 55 
 
 Enter Leonelo. 
 
 Leon. What is the matter ? 
 
 Flora. The matter is, I have fidlen. 
 
 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 no^v, and on your temptation I 
 think, for it has got a beard. 
 
 Jh. {groping his zcay). I'he fool ! but I can find 
 the door. [Exit. 
 
 Leon. There goes some one ! 
 
 Flora. The man's mad ! 
 
 Leon. Am I I Halloa ! halloa, there ! 
 
 Enter Juan zvith light. 
 
 Juan. What is the matter ? 
 Floj-a. 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.
 
 56 THE PAINTER OF [act n 
 
 Leoft. And I stumbled too. 
 
 Juan. Well ? 
 
 Leon. Over a man. 
 
 Juan. In this chamber ? 
 
 Leon. Yes, and — 
 
 Flofa. 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 may. {^Drazvs stcord 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] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 57 
 
 Scene II. — The garden o/"Don hvis'' palace at Naples ; 
 a windozv zvith 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 )-our 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 ?
 
 58 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 Prince. I would tell you, Celio, 
 
 But you would laugh at me. 
 
 Ce/. 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 specialty 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 //, now living with my life. 
 
 {A harp heard.) 
 
 Cel. O fine comparisons ! but hark, I hear
 
 SCENE ii] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 59 
 
 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 '\i jealousy, 
 I am to keep aloof. Listen ! 
 
 Porcia {singing zvithin). 
 
 Of all the shafts to Cupid's bow, 
 
 The first is tipt with fire ; 
 AH bare their bosoms to the blow, 
 
 And call the wound Desire. 
 
 {She appears at the win doze.) 
 
 Prince. Ah ! I was waiting, lovely Porcia, 
 Till your voice drew me by the notes of love. 
 Or distanc'd 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
 
 6o THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 That in love's empire, as in others empire. 
 Rebellion sometimes prospers. 
 
 Por. That the night 
 
 Would give us leave to argue out their point ! 
 Which yet I fear it »vill 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. 
 
 Priiice. Not the first time that love has found him- 
 self 
 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 harj>.) 
 
 You know my father has been long resolv'd 
 To quit this government, and to return 
 To his own country place — which resolution,
 
 SCENE ii] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 6i 
 
 First taken on my brother's suppos'd 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 
 
 III news under sweet music ; though, indeed, 
 A treason to make sweet the poison'd cup. 
 
 Por. Who more than I — 
 
 Enter Julia zvithin, 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 nam'd : 
 Which carries poison to the heart 
 
 Desire had first inflam'd. 
 
 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,
 
 62 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 Who writing in my study, and much troubled 
 About your brother, was seduc'd 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 ? [Exif. 
 
 Por. Directl}' — 
 
 I've but a moment. 
 
 Prince {eutering). And you shall not need 
 Repeat the love call, for I heard — 
 
 Por. {play'wg 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 us'd. 
 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.
 
 scENK ii] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 63 
 
 Luis {within). Porcia ! 
 
 Por. Sir ! 
 
 Luis {within). It's time, indeed, to shut your 
 window. 
 
 Por. Harl<, 
 
 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, — {asir/e,) 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. 
 
 [Js she retires still singing from the zvindozv zvithin, 
 the Prince and Celio retire back into the garden.
 
 64 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 Scene III. A street before Don Diego's house hi Barce- 
 lona. — 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 still myself diguised. 
 
 Fab. And no doubt, sir, you will find good oppor- 
 tunity of talking to her. 'Tis the old and acknow- 
 ledged 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 
 music within. She must soon be here. Let us 
 withdraw round this corner till she come. [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE iv] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 65 
 
 Scene IV. — A garden leading down to the sea; on one 
 side a Portico. — Masks singing and dancing; in the 
 course of zvhich enter and mix with them, Juan, 
 Serafina, Leonelo, and Flora, and afterwards 
 Alvaro ; all masked. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Taiitara, 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, &c. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 C. F
 
 66 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 J Voice. The castanets ! 
 
 Voices. The castanets ! the castanets ! 
 
 Musician. What will you have ? 
 
 Voices. The Tarazana ! the Tarazana ! 
 
 \A dance, during zukich Alvaro observes Serafina. 
 
 Fab. You recognise her I 
 
 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. 
 
 A /v. Too late .? 
 
 Ser. I am engag'd. 
 
 A/v. Nevertheless — 
 
 Ser. Nay, sir, I am not apt 
 
 To change my mind. 
 
 A/v. I hop'd that in my favour 
 
 You might perhaps. 
 
 Ser. 'Twas a delusion. 
 
 A/v. But, 
 
 Fair Mask, didst never change your mind before ? 
 
 Se?: Perhaps once — to such purpose that that once 
 Forbids all other.
 
 SCENE iv] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 61 
 
 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. 
 
 5^/'. My lord, 'twas chiefly upon your account 
 That I refus'd to dance with him ; if you 
 Desire it, I am ready. 
 
 Juan. How, my love, 
 
 On my account ? 
 
 ^ei . 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. 
 
 Jlv. Well, do you still reject me ? — 
 
 Set: I am bidden 
 
 To dance with you ; what measure will you call I 
 
 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
 
 68 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 Amid its soft and slow divisions 
 To gaze on you and whisper in your ear. 
 {J minuet by the Masks : during zvhich Alvaro constantly 
 zvhispers 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. 
 
 J/t'. Brief as the happiness 
 
 That once was mine ! But — 
 
 Ser. Stay, sir, I will hear 
 
 No more. I had not danc'd 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. 
 
 jf/v. Serafina ! 
 
 Ser. {aloud). I am tired ; 
 
 Pardon me, friends, I cannot dance. 
 
 fuan. My love, 
 
 What is 't ? Unwell ? 
 
 Ser. I know not. 
 
 A Woman. Stop the ball !
 
 SCENE iv] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 69 
 
 Another. All in her honour too ! 
 
 Another. What is the matter ? 
 
 Juan. You are but tir'd with dancing. 
 
 ^er. 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 danc'd. 
 
 Leon. I'll watch him to the world's end — or 
 beyond, 
 If need be. 
 
 Juan. Good — Come, Serafina. 
 
 [^Exeunt Juan and Serafina. 
 
 Ah. 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 !)
 
 yo THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 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, (tvatching him). This must be some monk, 
 who knows of some better entertainment else- 
 where. 
 
 Ak'. 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 oj^ mask, i5c.) 
 
 Leon. Here is a harlequin sailor ! 
 
 Fabio. Well resolv'd. 
 
 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 ! {IVhistks.)
 
 SCENE iv] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 71 
 
 Enter Sailors. 
 
 5^/7. Captain ? 
 
 Ah. How is't for a cruise ? 
 
 Sail. Oh, never better ; just a breeze to l(eep W 
 The ship from looking in her glass too long. ' 
 
 Ah. Aboard, aboard then ! Farewell all my 
 hopes ; 
 My love, farewell for ever ! 
 
 Fokes {zvithi7i). Fire ! fire ! fire ! 
 
 Ah. What's this ? 
 
 Voices. Fire ! fire ! in Don Diego's palace ! 
 Help ! help ! 
 
 Ah. She there ! my life shall save the life 
 
 She said it jeopardied. 
 
 As he is going out, enter Juan zuith 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. 
 
 Ah. {taking Serafina in his arms). Trust me, sir. 
 
 [Juan rushes off. 
 Leon. Stop, my lord, stop a moment — he is gone, 
 and this man —
 
 72 THE PAINTER OF [act ii 
 
 Ah. Serafina in my arms ! my ship at hand ! 
 O love, O destiny ! — aboard, aboard — 
 
 'tis the merriest proverb of them all, 
 How one man rises by his neighbour's fall. 
 
 \Exit, carrfing 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 h.\NK».o. 
 isi Voice in the crozvd. The fire is getting under. 
 2nd Voice. No lives lost ? 
 
 'i,rd 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 faint- 
 ing as she was for help. Gentlemen, have you seen 
 any here with a lady, fainted, in their charge — a sailor, 
 
 1 think ? 
 
 \st Man. Not I, sir. 
 znd Man. Nor I. 
 
 yd Man. Stay, I think there were some sailors 
 with a lady in their arms.
 
 SCENE iv] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 73 
 
 '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 ; conjusion, Iffc.
 
 74 THE PAINTER OF [act hi 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. A room in Don Luis' countjy-house neai- 
 'Naples. Enter Don Luis readhig 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 charge 
 to a sailor standing near, while he himself returned 
 to help at the fire. No doubt this sailor was a pirate : 
 for he carried her off to his ship and set sail imme- 
 diately. Don Juan returning and finding her gone 
 rushes madly after ; casts himself into the sea in his 
 rage and desperation ; is rescued half drowned, and 
 taken to his house, from which he was missed — he 
 and his servant Leonelo — some days ago, taking scarce 
 any thing with him, and leaving no hint of whither 
 he is gone. And since that hour we have heard 
 nothing of him, or of Serafina."
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 75 
 
 My heart prevents my eyes from reading more. 
 
 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 ; 
 jBut honour needs must wince before a straw,! / 
 /And never rest until it be avenged. J 
 
 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 j-ourself alone : 
 This letter in your hand — What is it, sir ? 
 
 Luis. Nothing, nothing, Porcia ; (for Juan's sake 
 
 1 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 yow.
 
 -jS THE PAINTER OF [act iii 
 
 Luis. Well, why not ? 
 
 For. They say that those who ask unseasonably 
 Must be content with a refusal. 
 
 Luu. Nay, 
 
 Between us two no season's out of season. 
 
 For. So ? then I'll ask. Alvaro — 
 
 Luis. All but that ! 
 
 Ask me not that way. 
 
 For. 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 ! 
 
 For. 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. 
 
 For. But may not, sir, the thoughtlessness of youth 
 Be some excuse ? Pray you remember, sir. 
 How on a sudden you yourself determin'd
 
 SCENE i] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 77 
 
 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 advis'd, 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 efetnitically. 
 
 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. 
 
 For. 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. 
 
 For. Yes, Julia,
 
 78 THE PAINTER OF [act hi 
 
 Tzvo 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. J room in Don Luis' castle in the hills. — 
 Ente?- Alvaro a7id Fabio. 
 
 Jlv. How is't with Serafina ? 
 Fab. Nay, you know. 
 
 Ever the same, 
 
 Jlv. You mean still weeping ? 
 
 Fab. Ay. 
 
 Alv. Yes, from the hour when, fainting in my arms,
 
 SCENE ii] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 79 
 
 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 ceas'd to weep ; all my caresses 
 Unable to console her. 
 I fondly hoped that she — 
 
 Enter Serafina. 
 
 Set: Good Fabio, \_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 ? 
 
 Ah. No, Serafina, but — 
 
 Set: But what ? 
 
 Ah. And yet perhaps 'twas that I hop'd — 
 
 The very desperation of my act 
 Bringing its pardon with it, soon or late,
 
 8o THE PAINTER OF [act hi 
 
 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 rul'd 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
 
 SCENE ii] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 
 
 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, unsufFus'd 
 
 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 — forego me quite, 
 
 And give me up to some cold convent's cloister. 
 
 Where buried I may wear away — 
 
 Ah. No more. 
 
 Rather than give you up again, Serafina, 
 Pray heaven's thunder — {S^hot within.) 
 
 Ser. Again, this dreadful omen ! 
 
 'Tis for my death ! 
 
 Ah. Fear not — Belardo ! ho ! 
 
 What shot was that ? 
 
 C. G
 
 82 THE PAINTER OF [act hi 
 
 Enter Belardo. 
 
 Bel. Your sister Porcia 
 
 Is coming up the mountain ; nay, is now 
 At the very gate. 
 
 5^;-. O, whither must I go ! 
 
 Ah, Belardo, lead her hence. 
 
 Bel. Not that way, sir, 
 
 By which your sister enters. 
 
 All'. In here then. 
 
 I'll go and meet Porcia. 
 
 Ser. Mercy, heaven ! 
 
 \^he goes in at one dooj; as Porcia enters by another. 
 
 Ah. How now, Porcia, you look pleased to-day ! 
 
 For. And well I may — for two reasons, Alvaro. 
 
 Ah. Well, what are they ? 
 
 For. First, I have got my father to relax in his 
 humour against you. 
 
 Ah. My good sister ! 
 
 Per. So as he will see you at Bellaflor this very 
 evening. 
 
 Ah. Good ! and your second reason ? 
 
 Por. That coming up the pass, I made the crown- 
 ing shot of my life with this arquebuss — a hare at 
 full speed — flying, I might say.
 
 SCENE ii] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 83 
 
 Ah. Give you joy of both your hits, Porcia. 
 
 For. 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. 
 
 Ah. So— 
 
 For. 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 ? 
 
 For. Fear not, I shall soon be after you. 
 
 Alv. Well, if so, then — {apart to Belardo,) Bel- 
 ardo, remember you get the lady to her room directly 
 my sister is gone out. 
 
 For. 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. 
 
 Sier. {entering caut'iouslf). 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
 
 84 THE PAINTER OF [act jii 
 
 neither key nor bolt within. But she is gone and I 
 can get to my own. 
 Bel. No. 
 
 5^;-. Belardo ! why ? 
 
 Bel. Some one coming. 
 
 Set: Again ! [She hides as before. 
 
 Enter Prince. 
 
 Prince. How now, Belardo, where is your mis- 
 tress ? 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. 
 
 For. 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,
 
 SCENE ii] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 85 
 
 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 1 
 Spain too ; one of which country I have happen'd 
 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.
 
 86 THE PAINTER OF [act hi 
 
 Por. What now ? 
 
 Bel. What can make )-our brother return so sud- 
 denly ? 
 
 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 zvhere Serafina Is. 
 
 Prince. For your sake, Porcia. 
 
 Enfer Alvaro. 
 
 y^lv. I cannot be easy till I am assured that 
 Serafina Porcia here ? 
 
 Po?: Alvaro ! 
 
 Jlz'. You left me on a sudden ? 
 
 Por. I was tired, and came back for rest. 
 
 Jlv. So— 
 
 Por. But you ? 
 
 ^lz>. 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—
 
 SCENE ii] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 87 
 
 Ah. So that if he should relapse into ill-humour, 
 you know how to direct him. 
 
 Por. Well, shall we start again together ? 
 
 Ah. Is not that best r 
 
 Por. As you please. 
 
 Ah. {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 imprison'd 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. 
 
 Be/. Only this was wanting to the plot ! The 
 sister's gallant in love with the brother's mistress !
 
 88 THE PAINTER OF [act iu 
 
 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. 
 
 Pjince. 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 }ou believe. 
 
 ^er. I shall not be asham'd 
 
 To own the debt, though hopeless to repay it. 
 But heav'n shall do that for me. Farewell, my lord. 
 
 Prince. Farewell. \Excunt Prince and Serafina. 
 
 Bel. I wonder if they know the ancient line, 
 " I'll keep your secret, only you keep mine. " 
 
 {Exit.
 
 SCENE III] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 89 
 
 Scene III. The Prince's Villa. — Enter Don Juan hi 
 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. \Exlt 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 
 Reduc'd by that name Honour ; whose nice laws, 
 Accurst be he who framed ! 
 Little~he Tcnew the essence of the thing 
 He legislated for, who put my honour 
 \ Into another's hand ; n\ade-my free^right 
 1 Another's slave, for others to abuse,
 
 90 THE PAINTER OF [act hi 
 
 r^i And then myself before the world arraign'd, 
 
 To answer for a crime against myself ! 
 /j And one being vain enough to make the law, 
 I How came the silly world to follow it, 
 ^ Like sheep to their own slaughter ! And in all 
 I This silly world is there a greater victim 
 'I To its accursed custom than myself ! 
 
 Enfer Lkonelo, />oor/y drest. 
 
 Leon. Yes, one, 
 Who follows your misfortunes, and picks up 
 The crumbs of misery that fall from you ; 
 My chief subsistence now. 
 
 "Junn. 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 ) ou. 
 
 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
 
 SCENE 111] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 91 
 
 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 r 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 aveng'd. 
 
 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 chang'd you so your oldest friend would pass you
 
 92 THE PAINTER OF [act hi 
 
 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 oft" 
 Deijanira, 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.
 
 SCENE hi] his own dishonour 93 
 
 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 scorch t. 
 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,
 
 94 THE PAINTER OF [act iii 
 
 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. 
 
 Juati. 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 fice 
 
 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. 
 
 jfu^n. 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
 
 SCENE iv] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 95 
 
 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' Fi//a. — Enfer Luis 
 rt«^ Alvaro. 
 
 Jk'. 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
 
 96 THE PAINTER OF [act in 
 
 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. 
 
 ^Iv. 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. 
 
 Jk>. Don Juan ! 
 
 Luis. Yes, Don Juan. 
 
 Jlv. What of him ? 
 
 (I'll drink the cup at once !) {aside). 
 
 Luis. What evil star 
 
 Made him my friend ! 
 
 Jlv. 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,
 
 SCENE iv] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 97 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Ah. {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. 
 
 Ah. 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. 
 
 Ah. 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. 
 
 C. H
 
 98 THE PAINTER OF [act in 
 
 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. 
 
 Jlv. 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. 
 
 E7iter 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.
 
 SCENE iv] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 99 
 
 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 kno^v nothing of them r 
 
 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.
 
 loo THE PAINTER OF [act hi 
 
 (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 ? 
 
 Fed. Your pleasure's mine. Adieu, 
 
 Fair lady. 
 
 For. Farewell, sir. 
 
 Lids. Porcia, you 
 
 Will follow in the carriage. \Exeunt Luis and Pedro. 
 For. 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.
 
 SCENE v] HIS OWN DISHONOUR loi 
 
 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 
 it otherwise, danger cannot well appal him whom 
 sorrows like mine have left alive. 
 
 Bel. And, another time — dobloons, not diamonds. 
 \Exeunt Prince and Leonelo. 
 Here she mostl}' 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. 
 
 \Piits Juan into the grate d door, and locks it. 
 
 Juan {through the grated zvindoiv). 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. 
 
 J uan. 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.
 
 I02 THE PAINTER OF [act hi 
 
 To fight the self-same battle o'er again ! 
 
 Juan. He stands in the way ; I cannot see her face. 
 
 Bel. Still weeping, madam ? 
 
 ^er. 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 lad}'. 
 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
 
 SCENE v] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 103 
 
 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 ! 
 
 EfiUr Alvaro ; s/:e wakes and rushes to him. 
 
 Alvaro, 
 Save me, oh save me from him ! 
 
 Alv. So the wretch 
 
 Thrives by another's wretchedness. My love ! 
 
 Juan. Alvaro, by the heavens !
 
 104 THE PAINTER OF [act m 
 
 jilv. Calm yourself; 
 
 You must withdraw awhile. Come in with me. 
 "Juan. Villain ! 
 
 ^er. {clinging to Alvaro). What's that ? 
 Juan {shaking at the door). The door is fast ; 
 
 Open it, I say ! — 
 Then die — thou and thy paramour ! 
 
 [Shoots a pistol at each through the grating. — Both Jail : 
 Serafina into the arms of Belardo, who has come 
 in duiing the noise. — Then directly enter Don Luis, 
 Pedro, Porcia. 
 Luis. What noise is this ? 
 
 Ser. My father ! — in your arms 
 
 To die ; — not b)' )'our hand — Forgive me — Oh ! 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 Ped. {taking her i?i his arms). Mj' Serafina ! 
 
 Luis. And Alvaro ! 
 
 Jit'. 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.
 
 SCENE v] HIS OWN DISHONOUR 105 
 
 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. 
 
 Pnnce. Get }'ou to horse, 
 
 And leave the wind behind you. 
 
 Lti'u. Nay, my lord, -^ /' 
 
 Whom should he fly from ? not from me at least, / \rC^ 
 
 Who lov'd his honour as my own, and would )» A ^^. ^ 
 Myself have help'd him in a just revenge, 
 Ev'n on an only son. 
 
 Fed. I cannot speak. 
 
 But I bow down these miserable gray hairs
 
 1 06 THE PAINTEROF HIS OWN DISHONOUR 
 
 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 oiF 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 
 defindiendo la nohleza de la Pintura."
 
 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONtE 
 
 Alexander, Prhice of Parma. 
 
 NisiDA, hts Sister. 
 
 Don Cesar, kis Secretary. 
 
 ' I Gentlemen of the Court. 
 Don Felix, J 
 
 Donna Anna, Sister to Don Felix. 
 
 Elvira, ker Maic/. 
 
 Lazaro, Don Cesar s Serz'anf.
 
 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I. A Room in the Palace. — Enter the Prince 
 Alexander, and Don Arias. 
 
 IDRINCE. I saw her from her carriage, Arias, 
 As from her East, alight, another sun 
 New ris'n, or doubling him whose envious ray 
 Seem'd, as I watch'd her down the corridor. 
 To swoon about her as she mov'd along ; 
 Until, descending tow'rd my sister's room, 
 She set, and left me hesitating like 
 Some traveller who with the setting sun 
 Doth fear to lose his way ; her image still, 
 Lost from without, dazzling my inner eye — 
 Can this be love, Don Arias ? if not. 
 What is it ? something much akin to love. 
 
 Jr. But had you not, my lord, often before 
 Seen Donna Anna ? 
 
 109
 
 no KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 Prince. Often. 
 
 Jr. Yet till now 
 
 Never thus smitten ! how comes that, my lord ? 
 
 Prince. Well askt — though ignorantly. Know 
 you not 
 That not an atom in the universe 
 Moves without some particular impulse 
 Of heaven ? What yesterday I might abhor, 
 To-day I may delight in : what to-day 
 Delight in, may as much to-morrow hate. 
 All changes ; 'tis the element the world. 
 And we who live there, move in. Thus ;vith me ; 
 This lady I have often seen before, 
 And, as you say, was ne'er a sigh the worse, 
 Until to-day ; when, whether she more fair, 
 Or I less blind, I know not — only know 
 That she has slain me ; though to you alone 
 Of all my friends I would my passion own. 
 
 Jr. Much thanks ; yet I must wonder, good my 
 lord, 
 First, that in all your commerce with Don Cupid 
 You never, I think, dealt seriously till now. 
 
 Prince. Perhaps : but if Don Cupid, Arias, 
 Never yet tempted me with such an offer ? 
 Besides, men alter ; princes who are born
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 1 1 1 
 
 To greater things than love, nevertheless 
 May at his feet their sovereignty lay down 
 Once in their lives ; as said the ancient sage — 
 " He were a fool who had not done so once, 
 Though he who does so twice is twice a fool." 
 
 Jr. So much for that. My second wonder is. 
 That you commit this secret to my keeping ; 
 An honour that, surpassing my desert, 
 Yea, and ambition, frights me. Good my lord. 
 Your secretary, Don Cesar, — 
 To whom you almost trust the government 
 Of your dominions, — whom you wholly love, 
 I also love, and would not steal from him 
 A confidence that is by right his own ; 
 Call him, my lord : into his trusty heart 
 Pour out your own ; let not my loyalty 
 To you endanger what I owe to him ; 
 For if you lay't on me — 
 
 Prince. Don Arias, 
 
 I love Don Cesar with as whole a heart 
 As ever. He and I from infancy 
 Have grown together ; as one single soul 
 Our joys and sorrows shar'd ; till finding him 
 So wise and true, as to another self 
 Myself, and my dominion to boot,
 
 112 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 I did intrust : you are his friend, and surely 
 In honouring you I honour him as well. 
 Besides, Arias, I know not how it is, 
 For some while past a change has come on him ; 
 I know not what the cause : he is grown sad, 
 Neglects his business — if I call to him. 
 He hears me not, or answers from the purpose, 
 Or in mid answer stops. And, by the way, 
 We being on this subject, I would fain, 
 Being so much his friend, for both our sakes. 
 You would find out what ails and occupies him ; 
 Tell him from me to use my power as ever, 
 Absolute still : that, loving him so well, 
 I'd know what makes him so unlike himself; 
 That, knowing what it is, I may at least. 
 If not relieve his sorrow, share with him. 
 
 Ar. Oh, not unjustly do you bear the name 
 Of Alexander, greater than the great 
 In true deserts ! 
 
 Enter Lazaro {with a lettei). 
 
 Laz. Not here r my usual luck ; had I bad news 
 to tell my master, such as would earn me a broken 
 head, I should find him fast enough ; but now when 
 I have such a letter for him as must bring me a hand-
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 113 
 
 some largess, oh, to be sure he's no where to be 
 found. But I'll find him if I go to — 
 
 Prince. How now ? Who's there ? 
 
 Laz. The Prince ! — Mum ! {/^ida the letter and 
 turns to go). 
 
 Prince. Who is it, I say ? 
 
 Jr. A servant, my lord, of Don Cesar's, looking 
 for his master, I suppose. 
 
 Prince. Call him back ; perhaps he can tell us 
 something of his master's melancholy. 
 
 Jr. True, my lord. Lazaro ! 
 
 Laz. Eh ? 
 
 Jr. His Highness would speak with you. 
 
 Prince. Come hither, sir. 
 
 Laz. Oh, my lord, I do well enough here : if I 
 were once to kiss your Highness' feet, I could not 
 endure common shoe-leather for a month to come. 
 
 Jr. His humour must excuse him. 
 
 Prince. You are Don Cesar's servant, are you ? 
 
 Laz. Yes, one of your trinity ; so please you. 
 
 Prince. Of my trinity, how so ? 
 
 Laz. As thus ; your Highness is one with Don 
 Cesar ; I am one with him ; ergo — 
 
 Prince. Well, you are a droll knave. But stop, 
 stop : whither away so fast ? 
 
 c. i
 
 114 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 Laz. Oh, my lord, I am sure you will have none 
 of so poor an article as myself, who am already the 
 property of another too. 
 
 Prince. Nay, I like your humour, so it be in 
 season. But there is a time for all things. I want 
 you now to answer me seriously and not in jest : and 
 tell me the secret of your master's melancholy, which 
 I feel as my own. But perhaps he is foolish who 
 looks for truth in the well of a jester's mouth. 
 
 Laz. But not so foolish as he who should throw 
 it there. And therefore since my master is no fool, 
 it is unlikely he should have committed his mystery 
 to me. However, in my capacity of Ci'iado, whose 
 first commandment it is, " Thou shalt reveal thy 
 master's weakness as thy own," I will tell you what 
 I have gathered from stray sighs and interjections of 
 his on the subject. There has lately come over from 
 Spain a certain game of great fashion and credit called 
 Ombre. This game Don Cesar learned ; and, play- 
 ing at it one day, and happening to hold Basto, 
 Malilla, Spadille, and Ace of Trumps in his hand, 
 stood for the game ; and lost. On which he calls 
 out " foul play," leaves the party, and goes home. 
 Well, at night, I being fast asleep in my room, comes 
 he to me in his shirt, wakes me up, and, dealing cards
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 1 1 5 
 
 as it were with his hands, says, " If I let this trick go, 
 I am embeasted for that, and besides put the lead 
 into the enemy's hand ; therefore I trump with one of 
 my matadores, and then I have four hearts, of which 
 the ten-ace must make, or else let them give me 
 back my nine cards as I had them before discarding." 
 And this I take it is the cause of his dejection. ^ 
 
 Prince. The folly of asking you has been properly 
 chastised by the folly of your answer. You are right ; 
 Don Cesar would never have intrusted with a grave 
 secret one only fit for idle jest, 
 
 La%. Ah, they are always importing some non- 
 sense or other from Spain. God keep your Highness ; 
 I will take warning not to intrude my folly upon you 
 any more (until you try again to worm some truth 
 out of me). \_Aside and exit. 
 
 Ptince. A droll fellow ! Were one in the humour, 
 he might amuse. 
 
 1 I will not answer for the accuracy of my version of this 
 
 dilemma at Ombre : neither perhaps could Lazaro for his : 
 
 which, together with the indifference (I presume) of all present 
 
 readers on the subject, has made me indifferent about it. Cesar, I 
 
 see, starts with almost the same fine hand Belinda had, who 
 
 also was ■ , ■ r • i ^ in 
 
 " juit in the jaivs of ruin and Codille, 
 
 as he was, but, unlike him, saved by that unseen king of hearts 
 
 " Lurked in her hand and mourn d his captive queen."
 
 ii6 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 Ar. Oh, you will always find him in the same, 
 whenever you are in the mood. He cannot be sad. 
 
 Prince. He cannot be very wise then. 
 
 Ar. He is as God made him. Did you never 
 hear any of his stories ? 
 
 Ptince. I think not. 
 
 Jr. He will hardly tell you one of himself that 
 yet might amuse you. He was one day playing at 
 dice with me ; lost all his money ; and at last pawned 
 his very sword, which I would not return him, wish- 
 ing to see how he got on without. What does he 
 but finds him up an old hilt, and clapping on a piece 
 of lath to that, sticks it in the scabbard. And so 
 wears it now. 
 
 Prince. We will have some amusement of him by 
 and by. 
 
 Alas ! in vain I hope with idle jest 
 To cool the flame that rages in my breast. 
 Go to Don Cesar : get him to reveal 
 The sorrows that he feeling I too feel. 
 I'll to my sister ; since, whether away. 
 Or present. Donna Anna needs must slay, 
 I will not starve with absence, but e'en die 
 Burn'd in the sovereign splendour of her eye. 
 
 [Exeunt severally.
 
 SCENE ii] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 117 
 
 Scene II. A Room in Don Cesar's House. — Enter 
 Don Cesar and Lazaro meeting. 
 
 Laz. A letter, sir, Elvira just gave me. 
 
 Ces. A letter ! Give it me. How long have 
 you had it ? 
 
 Laz. I looked for you first at the Prince's. 
 
 Ces. Where I was not ? 
 
 Laz. You know it ! I am always looking for 
 what cannot be found in time. But if you like the 
 letter I shall claim my largess for all that. 
 
 Ces. Ah ! what does she say ? 
 
 Laz. The folly, now, of a man with his watch in 
 his hand asking other people for the time of day ! 
 
 Ces. My heart fails me. Even if your news be 
 good it comes late. [He reads the letter. 
 
 Laz. So let my reward then — only let it come at 
 last. 
 
 Ces. O Lazaro, half drunk with my success, 
 I lose my wits when most I've need of them. 
 She writes to me, my lady writes to me 
 So sweetly, yea, so lovingly ; 
 Methlnks I want to tear my bosom open. 
 And lay this darling letter on my heart. 
 Where shall I shrine it ?
 
 ii8 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 Laz.. Oh, if that be all, 
 
 Keep it to patch your shoe with ; I did so once 
 When some such loving lady writ to me. 
 And it did excellently ; keeping tight 
 Her reputation, and my shoe together. 
 
 Ces. O Lazaro ! good Lazaro ! take for this 
 The dress I wore at Florence. 
 
 La-z. Bless you, sir. 
 
 Ces. My letter ! oh my lady ! 
 
 Lax. I bethink me 
 
 Upon remembrance, sir, as I may say. 
 The pockets of that dress were very large 
 And empty. 
 
 Ces. They shall be well lined. Don Arias ! 
 
 Enter Don Arias. 
 
 Ar. Ay, Cesar, Arias coming to complain 
 On his own score, and that of one far greater. 
 
 Ces. A solemn preamble. But for the charge, 
 And him who heads it. 
 
 Ar. The Prince, our common Lord, 
 
 Who much perplext and troubled too, Don Cesar, 
 About the melancholy that of late 
 (No need say more of that which best you know)
 
 SCENE ii] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 119 
 
 Has clouded over you, has askt of me 
 Whom he will have to be your bosom friend, 
 The cause of it. — Alas, 'tis very plain 
 I am not what he thinks. — Well, I am come, 
 Say not as friend, but simple messenger, 
 To ask it of yourself 
 
 Ces. You do yourself 
 
 And me wrong, Arias ; perchance the Prince — 
 But yet say on. 
 
 Jr. His Highness bids me say 
 
 That if your sadness rise from any sense 
 Of straiten'd power, whatever residue 
 Of princely rule he hitherto reserved. 
 He gives into your hands ; as sov'reign lord 
 To govern his dominions as your own. 
 Thus far his highness. For myself, Don Cesar, 
 Having no other realm to lord you of 
 Than a true heart, I'd have you think betimes, 
 That, deep as you are rooted in his love, 
 Nay, may be all the more for that, he feels 
 Your distaste to his service, and himself: 
 I'd have you think that all a subject's merits. 
 However highly heap'd, however long, 
 Still are but heaps of sand, that some new tide 
 Of royal favour may wash clean away.
 
 120 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 One little error cancelling perhaps 
 
 The whole account of life-long services. 
 
 Be warn'd by me ; clear up your heavy brow, 
 
 And meet his kind looks with a look as kind, 
 
 Whatever cloud be on the heart within : 
 
 If not your friend, Don Cesar, as your servant 
 
 Let me implore you, 
 
 Ces. Oh, Don Arias, 
 
 I kiss his Highness' feet, and your kind hands 
 That bring his favours to me : and to each 
 Will answer separately. First, to him ; — 
 Tell him I daily pray that Heav'n so keep 
 His life, that Time, on which his years are strung. 
 Forget the running count ; and, secondly, 
 Assure him. Arias, the melancholy 
 He speaks of not a jot abates my love 
 Of him, nor ni}- alacrity in his service ; 
 Nay, that 'tis nothing but a little cloud 
 In which my books have wrapt me so of late 
 That, duty done, I scarce had time or spirit 
 Left to enjoy his gracious company : 
 Perhaps too, lest he surfeit of my love, 
 I might desire by timely abstinence 
 To whet his liking to a newer edge. 
 Thus much for him. For you, Don Arias,
 
 SCENE ii] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 121 
 
 Whose equal friendship claims to be repaid 
 
 In other coin, I will reveal to you 
 
 A secret scarcely to myself confest, 
 
 Which yet scarce needs your thanks, come at a 
 
 moment 
 When my brimm'd heart had overflow'd in words, 
 Whether I would or no. Oh, Arias, 
 Wonder not then to see me in a moment 
 Flying from melancholy to mere joy, 
 Between whose poles he ever oscillates, 
 Whose heart is set in the same sphere with mine : 
 Which saying, all is said. I love, my friend ; 
 How deeply, let this very reticence. 
 That dare not tell what most I feel, declare. 
 Yes, I have fixt my eyes upon a star ; 
 Toward which to spread my wings ev'n against hope, 
 Argues a kind of honour. I aspir'd, 
 And (let not such a boast offend the ears. 
 That of themselves have open'd to my story,) 
 Not hopelessly : the heav'n to which I pray'd 
 Answer'd in only listening to my vows ; 
 Such daring not defeated not disdain'd. 
 Two years I worshipp'd at a shrine of beauty. 
 That modesty's cold hand kept stainless still ; 
 Till wearied, if not mov'd b}' endless praj-ers.
 
 122 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 She grants them ; yea, on this most blessed day, 
 
 With this thrice blessed letter. You must see it. 
 
 That your felicitations by rebound 
 
 Double my own ; the first victorious trophy 
 
 That proud ambition has so humbly won. 
 
 Oh Arias, 'tis much I have to tell. 
 
 And tell you too at once ; being none of those 
 
 Who overmuch entreaty make the price 
 
 Of their unbosoming ; who would, if they knew 
 
 In what the honour of their lady lies, 
 
 Name her at once, or seal their lips for ever. 
 
 But you are trusty and discreet : to you 
 
 I may commit my heart ; beseeching you 
 
 To keep this love-song to yourself alone. 
 
 Assigning to the Prince, remember this. 
 
 My books sole cause of my abstraction. 
 
 Donna Anna de Castelvi — 
 
 (I can go on more freely now the name 
 
 Of her I worship bars my lips no more,) 
 
 Is she who so divides me from myself, 
 
 That what I say I scarcely know, although 
 
 I say but what I feel : the melancholy 
 
 You ask about, no gloomy sequestration 
 
 Out of the common world into a darker, 
 
 But into one a thousand times more bright ;
 
 SCENE ii] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 123 
 
 And let no man believe he truly loves, 
 
 Who lives, or moves, or thinks, or hath his being 
 
 In any other atmosphere than Love's, 
 
 Who is our absolute master ; to recount 
 
 The endless bead-roll of whose smiles and tears 
 
 I'd have each sleepless night a century. 
 
 Much have I said — have much more yet to say ! 
 
 But read her letter, Arias, the first seal 
 
 Of my success, the final one, I think. 
 
 Of my sure trust in you ; come, share with me 
 
 My joy, my glory, my anxiety ; 
 
 And above all things, once more. Arias, 
 
 Down to your secret'st heart this secret slip ; 
 
 For every secret hangs in greater fear 
 
 Between the speaker's mouth and hearer's ear 
 Than any peril between cup and lip. 
 
 Ar. You have good cause for jo}'. 
 
 Ces. You \vill say so 
 
 When you have read the letter. 
 
 Ar, You desire it. {Reads) 
 
 " To confess that one is loved is to confess that one 
 loves too ; for there is no woman but loves to be 
 loved. But alas, there is yet more. If to cover my 
 love I have pretended disdain, let the shame of now 
 confessing it excuse me. Come to me this evening
 
 124 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 and I will tell you what I can scarce understand 
 
 myself. Adieu, my love, adieu ! " 
 
 Your hands are full indeed of happy business. 
 
 Ces. Enough : you know what you shall tell the 
 Prince 
 In my behalf : if he be satisfied 
 I'll wait on him directly. 
 
 Jr. Trust to me. 
 
 Ces. Let my sighs help thee forward, O thou sun 
 What of thy race in heaven remains to run : 
 Oh do but think that Dafne in the west 
 Awaits thee, and anticipate thy rest ! 
 
 [^Exeunt Cesar and Lazaro. 
 
 Jr. Charg'd with two secrets, 
 One from my Prince the other from my friend, 
 Each binding equally to silence, each 
 Equally the other's revelation needing, 
 How shall I act, luckless embosomer 
 Of other's bosoms ! how decide between 
 Loyalty and love with least expense to both ! 
 The Prince's love is but this morning's flower, 
 As yet unsunn'd on by his lady's favour ; 
 Cesar's of two years' growth, expanded now 
 Into full blossom by her smiles and tears ; 
 The Prince too loves him whom his lady loves.
 
 SCENE in] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 125 
 
 And were he told, might uncontested leave 
 
 The prize that one he loves already owns ; 
 
 And so both reap the fruit, and make the excuse 
 
 Of broken silence, if it needs must break. 
 
 And yet I grope about, afraid to fill 
 
 Where ill-advised good-will may ruin all. [Exif. 
 
 Scene III. J Corridor in the Palace. — Enter Prince, 
 Don Felix, Donna Anna, and train. 
 
 Prince. I must show j-ou the way. 
 
 Anna. Your Highness must not do yourself so 
 great indignity. 
 
 Prince. To the bounds at least of my sister's 
 territory. 
 
 Anna. Nay, my lord, that were undue courtesy. 
 
 Prince. What courtesy, madam, can be undue 
 from any man to any lady ? 
 
 Anna. When that lady is your subject, whom your 
 very condescension dazzles to her own discomfiture. 
 
 Prince. What, as the morning star dazzles the 
 sun whom he precedes as petty harbinger ? If I 
 obey you 'tis that I fear my own extinction in your 
 rays. Adieu. 
 
 Anna. God keep your Highness. \Exit.
 
 126 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 Prince. Don Felix, will you attend your sister ? 
 
 Fe/Lr. I only stay to thank your Highness, (both 
 as subject and as servant,) for all the honour that you 
 do us ; may Heaven so prolong your life that even 
 oblivion herself — 
 
 Prince. Nay, truce to compliment : your sister 
 will not of my company, unless under your proxy. 
 So farewell. [Exi( Felix.] Is there a greater 
 nuisance than to have such windy nonsense stufF'd 
 into one's ears, when delight is vanished from the 
 eyes ! 
 
 Enter Arias. 
 
 But, Don Arias ! You have seen Cesar ? 
 
 Ar. Yes, my lord ; but ere I tell you about him, 
 would know how far this last interview with Donna 
 Anna has advanced your love. 
 
 Prince. Oh Arias, Arias, my love for her 
 So blends with my solicitude for him, 
 I scarce can hold me clear between the two. 
 Yet let me tell you. In my sister's room. 
 Whither I went, you know, upon our parting, 
 I saw my lady like a sovereign rose 
 Among the common flowers ; or, if you will, 
 A star among the roses ; or the star
 
 SCENE III] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 127 
 
 Of stars, the morning star : yea, say at once 
 The sun himself among the host of heaven ! 
 My eyes and ears were rapt with her ; her lips 
 Not fairer than the words that came from them. 
 At length she rose to go : like the ev'ning star 
 Went with the ev'ning ; which, how short, say love 
 Who'd spin each golden moment to a year. 
 Which year would then seem than a moment less. 
 
 Ar. Is then, my lord, this passion so deep fixt ? 
 
 Prince. Nay, but of one day's growth — 
 
 Ar. I come in time then, 
 
 My lord, in one word, if you love Don Cesar, 
 Cease to love Donna Anna. 
 
 Prince. Arias, 
 
 He who begins to hint at any danger 
 Is bound to tell it out — nothing, or all. 
 Why do you hesitate ? 
 
 Aj: Because, m}' lord. 
 
 But hinting this to you, I break the seal 
 Of secrecy to him. 
 
 Prince. But it is broken ; 
 
 And so — 
 
 A}\ Oh, Cesar, pardon him who fails 
 
 His pledge to you to serve his Prince ! My lord, 
 The cloud you long have seen on Cesar's brow,
 
 128 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 Is not, as he would have you think it, born 
 Of bookish studies only, but a cloud, 
 All bright within, though dark to all without, 
 Of love for one he has for two long years 
 Silently worshipt. 
 
 Pfince, Donna Anna ! 
 
 Jr. Ay. 
 
 Prince. Cesar loves Donna Anna ! be it so — 
 I love him, as you say, and would forego 
 Much for his sake. But tell me, Arias, 
 Knows Anna of his passion ? 
 
 Jr. Yes, my lord, 
 
 And answers it with hers. 
 
 Prince. Oh wretched fate ! 
 
 Desperate ere jealous — ^jealous ere in love ! 
 If Cesar but lov'd her, I could, methinks, 
 Have pardon'd, even have advanc'd his suit 
 By yielding up my own. But that she loves, 
 Blows rivalry into full blaze again. 
 And yet I will not be so poor a thing 
 To whine for what is now beyond my reach, 
 Nor must the princely blood of Parma 
 Run jealous of a subject's happiness. 
 They love each other then ? 
 
 Jr. I even now
 
 SCENE III] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 129 
 
 Have seen a letter — 
 
 Prince. Well ? 
 
 Jr. That Donna Anna 
 
 Has written him, and in such honey'd words — 
 
 Prince. Why, is it not enough to know she loves 
 him ? 
 You told me so : my mind made up to that, 
 Why should a foolish letter fright it back ? 
 And yet — yet, what last spark of mortal love 
 But must flame up before it dies for ever 
 To learn but what that foolish letter said ! 
 Know you ? 
 
 Jr. I saw it. 
 
 Prince. You saw it ! and what said it ? 
 
 Jr. After a chaste confession of her love. 
 Bidding him be to-night under her lattice. 
 
 Prince. Under her lattice, while his Prince is left 
 Abroad ; they two to whisper love together, 
 While he gnaws hopeless jealousy alone. 
 But why, forsooth, am I to be the victim ? 
 If I can quench my love for Cesar's sake, 
 Why not he his for me ? Tell me, Don Arias, 
 Does Cesar know my passion ? 
 
 Jr. How should he, 
 
 You having told the secret but to me ? 
 
 C. K
 
 I30 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 Prince. By the same means that I know his. 
 
 Jr. My lord, 
 
 My loyalty might well be spar'd that taunt. 
 
 Prince. Ah, Arias, pardon me, I am put out, 
 But not with you, into whose faithful charge 
 I vest my love and honour confidently. 
 Enough, in what I am about to do 
 I mean no malice or ill play to Cesar : 
 'Tis but an idle curiosity : 
 And surely 'tis but fair, that if his Prince 
 Leave him the lists to triumph in at leisure, 
 I may at least look on the game he wins. 
 You shall keep close to him, and tell me all 
 That passes between him and her I love. 
 
 At: But having taunted me with my first step 
 In your behalf, my lord — 
 
 Prince. Nay, sir, my will 
 
 At once absolves and authorizes you, 
 For what is told and what remains to tell. 
 
 Ar. But, sir — 
 
 Prince. No more — 
 
 Ar. I must obey your bidding. 
 
 But yet — 
 
 Prince. I may divert my jealousy, 
 If not avenge it.
 
 SCENE III] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 131 
 
 Jr. Ah ! what straits do those 
 
 Who cannot keep their counsel fall into ! 
 
 Prince. All say so, and all blab, like me and you ! 
 Look where he comes ; let us retire awhile. 
 
 [Prince and Arias retire. 
 
 Enter Cesar and Lazaro. 
 
 Ces. O Phoebus, swift across the skies 
 
 Thy blazing carriage post away ; 
 Oh, drag with thee benighted day, 
 And let the dawning night arise ! 
 Another sun shall mount the throne 
 
 When thou art sunk beneath the sea ; 
 From whose eft'ulgence, as thine own, 
 The affrighted host of stars shall flee. 
 Laz. A pretty deal about your cares 
 
 Does that same Phoebus care or know ; 
 He has to mind his own aftairs. 
 
 Whether you shake your head or no. 
 You talk of hastening on the day ? 
 
 Why heaven's coachman is the Sun, 
 Who can't be put out of his way 
 For you, sir, or for any one. 
 Ces. The Prince ! and something in my bosom 
 tells me
 
 132 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 All is not well. My lord, though my repentance 
 
 Does not, I trust, lag far behind my fault, 
 
 I scarce had dar'd to approach your Highness' feet, 
 
 Had not my friend, Don Arias, been before 
 
 As harbinger of my apology. 
 
 Prince. Cesar, indeed Don Arias has told me 
 The story of your sadness : and so well, 
 I feel it, and excuse it, as my own ; 
 From like experience. I do not resent. 
 But would divert you from it. Books, my friend, 
 Truly are so seductive company, 
 We are apt to sit too long and late with them, 
 And drowse our minds in their society ; 
 This must not be ; the cause of the disease 
 Once known, the cure is easy ; if 'tis books 
 Have hurt you, lay them by awhile, and try 
 Other society — less learn'd perhaps. 
 But cheerfuller — exchange the pent-up air 
 Of a close study for the breathing world. 
 Come, we'll begin to-night ; 
 Visit in disguise (as I have wish'd to do) 
 The city, its taverns, theatres, and streets, 
 Where music, masque, and dancing may divert 
 Your melancholy : what say you to this ? 
 
 Ces. Oh, my kind lord, whose single word of pardon
 
 SCENE III] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 133 
 
 Has turn'd all leaden grief to golden joy, 
 Made me another man, or, if you will, 
 The better self I was — 
 
 Pi'ince. Why this is well ; 
 
 To-night together then — 
 
 Ces. Yet pardon me. 
 
 Prince. How now ? 
 
 Ces. It almost would revive my pain 
 
 That you should spend yourself upon a cure 
 Your mere forgiveness has already wrought. 
 Let this day's happiness suffice the day, 
 And its night also : 'twill be doubly sweet, 
 Unbought by your annoj-ance. 
 
 Prince. Nay, my Cesar, 
 
 Fear not for that : after so long estrangement. 
 My pain would be the losing sight of you 
 On this first night of your recovery. 
 Lazaro ! 
 
 Laz. My lord ? 
 
 Prince. You too shall go with us. 
 
 Laz. And not a trustier shall your Highness find 
 To guard your steps. 
 
 Prince, What ! you are valiant r 
 
 Laz. As ever girded sword. 
 
 Prince, Your weapon good too ?
 
 134 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act i 
 
 Laz. He touches on the quick {aside). Yes, good 
 enough, 
 My lord, for all my poor occasions. 
 Although when waiting on your Grace, indeed, 
 A sword like yours were better. 
 
 Prince. You depreciate 
 
 Your own to enhance its value. Sharp is't ? 
 
 Laz.. Ay, 
 
 Not a steel buckler but at the first blow 
 'Twould splinter it in two. (The sword I mean.) 
 
 {Aside. 
 
 Prince. Well temper'd ? 
 
 Lax. As you bid it. 
 
 Prince. And the device 
 
 Inscrib'd upon it r 
 
 Lax. " Thou shalt do no murder " — 
 
 Having no love for homicide, per se. 
 Save on occasion. 
 
 Prince. Your description 
 
 Makes me desire to see that sword. 
 
 Laz. My lord r 
 
 Prince. Indeed it does. Show it me. 
 Laz. Oh, my lord, 
 
 I have a vow. 
 
 Ces. {aside). Oh weariness !
 
 SCENE III] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 135 
 
 Prince. A vow ? 
 
 Lnz. Ay, register'd in heaven ! 
 Never to draw this weapon from her sheath 
 Except on mortal quarrel. If in such 
 Your Highness' service challenge her, why, then 
 She shall declare herself 
 
 Ces. I'm desperate ! 
 
 But yet one effort more. My lord, you see 
 (You cannot fail) how your mere word of grace 
 Has of itself brighten'd me up again ; 
 I do beseech you — 
 
 P?ifice. Pardon me, my Cesar, 
 
 Rather I see the cloud that 'gins to break 
 Is not entirely gone'; nay, will return 
 If you be left alone — which must not be : 
 If not for your sake, Cesar, yet for mine, 
 Who feel for your disquiet as my own ; 
 And since our hearts are knit so close together. 
 Yours cannot suffer but mine straightway feels 
 A common pain ; seek we a common cure. 
 To-night I shall expect you. Until then. 
 Farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Ces. Fortune ! to see a fair occasion 
 
 So patiently pursued, so fairly won. 
 Lost at the very moment of success !
 
 136 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ii 
 
 O Lazaro — what will my lady say ? 
 
 Laz. That I can't guess. 
 
 Ces. What will she do ? 
 
 Laz. Oh that 
 
 Is answer'd far more easily. She'll stand 
 All night beside the window to no purpose. 
 
 Ces. Why she must say my love was all pretence, 
 And her offended dignity vindicate, 
 Rejecting me for ever ! Misery ! 
 
 Laz. Dear me, sir, what is now become of all 
 About, "Thou dawning night, benighted day." 
 " Thou coachman sun ! " etceteretera ? 
 
 Ces. Wilt thou be ever fool ? 
 
 Laz. If thou be not, 
 
 Listen — fools' bolts, they say, are quickly shot — 
 Who secrets have and cannot hold 'em, 
 Shall surely rue the day they told 'em. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. J Public Square hi Parma. — Night. — Enter 
 Prince, Cesar, Felix, Arias, and Lazaro, disguised. 
 
 Ar. A lovely night ! 
 
 Prince. As Night we choose to call,
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 137 
 
 When Day's whole sun is but distributed 
 Into ten thousand stars. 
 
 Fel. Beside the moon, 
 
 Who lightly muffled like ourselves reveals 
 Her trembling silver. 
 
 Laz.. What ! by way, you mean, 
 
 Of making up the account ? 
 
 Ces. {aside). To think, alas ! 
 
 The first sweet vintage of my love thus lost. 
 And, as my lady must too surely think. 
 By my forgetfulness. {Aloud!) My lord, indeed 
 The night wears on. May not the chiller air 
 That blows from the returning tide of day 
 Affect you ? 
 
 Prince. Nay, my state forbidding me 
 Much to be seen about the streets by day, 
 The night must serve my purpose. 
 
 Ces. {aside). Patience then ! 
 
 And I must try and draw my thoughts from her 
 I cannot reach. {Jloud.) How does the lady Flora 
 Please you, my lord ? 
 
 Prince. The lady Flora ? Oh, 
 
 What she of Milan ? Too fir off, I think. 
 For one's regards to reach. 
 
 /,rtz. Ah true, my lord ;
 
 138 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act n 
 
 What is the use of a mistress in the moon, 
 Unless one were the man there r 
 
 Jr. Signora Laura 
 
 Has a fair figure. 
 
 Laz. Yes, and asks a high one. 
 
 Felix. A hrmdsome hand. 
 
 Laz. At scolding, yes. 
 
 Jr. I think 
 
 She lives close by. 
 
 Laz. But don't you bid for her 
 
 Without fair trial first, my lord. Your women 
 Are like new plays, which self-complacent authors 
 Ofter at some eight hundred royals each, 
 But which, when once they're tried, you purchase dear 
 Eight hundred for a royal. 
 
 Ces. {aside). Now, methinks, 
 
 Ev'n now my lady at the lattice stands 
 Looking for me in vain, and murmuring 
 " Why comes he not ? I doubted I was late. 
 But he comes not at all ! " And then — Ah me, 
 I have forgotten to forget ! — 
 {Jloud) Celia sings well, my lord ? 
 
 Laz. A pretty woman 
 
 Can no more sing amiss than a good horse 
 Be a bad colour.
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 139 
 
 Ces. The old Roman law 
 
 To all the ugly women us'd to assign 
 The fortunes of the handsome, thinking those 
 Sufficiently endow'd with their good looks. 
 
 Laz. Ah ! and there Laura lives, the lass who said 
 She'd sell her house and buy a coach withal ; 
 And when they ask'd her, where she'd live, quoth she, 
 " Why, in my coach ! " " But when night comes," 
 
 say they, 
 " Where then ? " — " Why in the coach-house to be 
 sure ! " ^ 
 
 Ces. Indeed, indeed, my lord, the night wears on. 
 And sure your sister lies awake foreboding 
 Some danger to your person. 
 Consider her anxiety ! 
 
 Prince {aside). Nay, yours 
 
 Lies nearer to my heart. 
 
 Ces. My lord ? 
 
 Prince. I said 
 
 No matter for my sister, that was all ; 
 She knows not I'm abroad. 
 
 ' The ambition for a coach so frequently laughed at by 
 Calderon, is said to be in full force now ; not for the novelty of 
 the invention, then, nor perhaps the dignity, so much as for the 
 real comfort of easy and sheltered carriage in such a climate.
 
 I40 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ii 
 
 Ces. My hope is gone ! 
 
 Laz. There, yonder in that little house, there lives 
 A girl with whom it were impossible 
 To deal straightforwardly. 
 
 Prince. But why ? 
 
 L^z. She's crooked. 
 
 j4'/\ And there a pretty girl enough, but guarded 
 By an old dragon aunt. 
 
 Li7Z. O Lord, defend me 
 
 From all old women ! 
 
 Prince. How so, Lazaro ? 
 
 Laz. Oh, ever since the day I had to rue 
 The conjurer's old woman. 
 
 Prince. Who was she ? 
 
 L(7Z. Why, my lord, once upon a time 
 I fell in love with one who would not have me 
 Either for love or money : so at last 
 I go to a certain witch — tell him my story : 
 Whereon he bids me do this ; cut a locic 
 From my love's head and bring it to him. Well, 
 I watch'd my opportunity, and one day. 
 When she was fast asleep, adroitly lopp'd 
 A lovely forelock from what seem'd her hair, 
 But was an hair-loom rather from her wig 
 Descended from a head that once was young
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 141 
 
 As I thought her. For, giving it the witch, 
 To work his charm with, in the dead of night, 
 When I was waiting for my love to come. 
 Into my bed-room the dead woman stallc'd 
 To whom the lock of hair had once belong'd. 
 And claim'd me for her own. O Lord, how soon 
 "Sweetheart" and "Deary" chang'd to "Apage !" 
 And flesh and blood to ice. 
 
 Ces. {aside). Alas ! what boots it trying to forget 
 That which the very effort makes remember ? 
 Ev'n now, ev'n now, methinks once more I see her 
 Turn to the window, not expecting me. 
 But to abjure all expectation, 
 And, as she moves away, saying, (methinks 
 I hear her,) " Cesar, come when come you may. 
 You shall not find me here." " Nay, but my love, 
 Anna ! my lady ! hear me ! " Oh confusion. 
 Did they observe ? 
 
 Prince {aside to Arias). How ill, Don Arias, 
 Poor Cesar hides his heart — 
 
 Ar. Ev'n now he tries 
 
 The mask again. 
 
 Prince. Indeed I pity him, 
 
 Losing one golden opportunity ; 
 But may not I be pitied too, who never
 
 142 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ii 
 
 Shall have so much as one to lose ? 
 
 Ar. Speak low ; 
 
 You know her brother's by. 
 
 Prince. No matter ; true 
 
 Nobility is slowest to suspect. 
 
 Musician {sings within). 
 
 Ah happy bird, who can fly with tlie wind, 
 Leaving all anguish of absence behind 5 
 
 Like thee could I fly. 
 
 Leaving others to sigh, 
 The lover I sigh for how soon would I find ! ^ 
 
 Ces. Not an ill voice ! 
 
 Fel. Nay, very good. 
 
 Prince. How sweetly 
 
 Sweet words, sweet air, sweet voice, atone together ! 
 Arias, might we not on this sweet singer 
 Try Lazaro's metal and mettle ? you shall see. 
 Lazaro ! 
 
 Laz. My lord ! 
 
 Prince. I never go abroad 
 
 But this musician dogs me. 
 
 Laz. Shall I tell him 
 
 Upon your Highness's request, politely, 
 To move away ? 
 
 ^ This little song is from the Desdkha de la Voz.
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 143 
 
 Prince. I doubt me, Lazaro, , 
 
 He will not go for that, he's obstinate. 
 
 Laz. How then, my lord ? 
 
 Prince. Go up and strike him with your sword. 
 
 Laz. But were it brave in me, baclc'd as I am. 
 To draw my sword on one poor piping bird ? 
 If I must do it, let me challenge him 
 Alone to-morrow. 
 But let me warn him first. 
 
 Prince. Do as I bid you. 
 
 Or I shall call you coward. 
 
 Ces. Lazaro, 
 
 Obey his Highness. 
 
 Laz. O good providence, 
 
 Temper the wind to a shorn lamb ! 
 
 Musician {zvithin). 
 
 Ah happy bird, whom the wind and the rain, 
 And snare of the fowler, beset but in vain ; 
 
 Oh, had I thy wing. 
 
 Leaving others to sing. 
 How soon would I be with my lover again ! 
 
 Laz. {aloud zvithin). Pray God, poor man, if thou 
 be innocent 
 Of any ill intention in thy chirping. 
 The blade I draw upon thee turn to wood !
 
 144 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ii 
 
 A miracle ! A miracle ! {Rushing in.) 
 
 Prince. How now ? 
 
 Laz. The sword I lifted on an innocent man, 
 Has turn'd to wood at his assailant's prayer ! 
 Take it, my lord, lay't in your armoury 
 Among the chiefest relics of our time. 
 I freely give it you, upon condition 
 You give me any plain but solid weapon 
 To wear instead. 
 
 Prince. You are well out of it. 
 
 It shall be so. 
 
 Ces. My lord, indeed the dawn 
 
 Is almost breaking. 
 
 Prince. Let it find us here. 
 
 But, my dear Cesar, tell me, are you the better 
 For this diversion ! 
 
 Ces. Oh, far cheerfuller. 
 
 Though with some little effort. 
 
 Prince. And I too. 
 
 So love is like all other evils known ; 
 With others' sorrow we beguile our own. \_Exeunt.
 
 SCENE ii] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 145 
 
 Scene II. — The Garden of Donna Anna's House; 
 Donna Anna and Elvira at a zvindozv. — Dazvn. 
 
 Eh. Yet once more to the window ? 
 
 j4nna. Oh Elvira, 
 
 For the last time ! now undeceiv'd to know 
 How much deceiv'd I was ! 
 Alas, until I find myself despis'd, 
 Methought I was desir'd, till hated, lov'd ; 
 Was't not enough to know himself belov'd, 
 Without insulting her who told him so ! 
 Was't not enough — 
 Oh wonder not, Elvira, at my passion ; 
 Of all these men's enchantments, none more potent 
 Than what might seem unlikeliest — their disdain. 
 
 Eh. Indeed you have good cause for anger, 
 madam : 
 But yet one trial more. 
 
 Anna. And to what end ? 
 
 I'll not play Tantalus again for him. 
 Oh shameful insult ! had I dream'd of it. 
 Would I have written him so tenderly ? 
 Told my whole heart ? — But, once in love, what 
 
 woman 
 Can trust herself, alas, with pen and ink ? 
 
 C. L
 
 146 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act 11 
 
 Eh. Were he to come now after all, how then ? 
 Would }'ou reproach, or turn your back on him. 
 Or— 
 
 Aitna. Nay, I know not. Is't not possible, 
 He is detain'd, Elvira, by the Prince 
 Upon state business ? 
 
 Elv. You excuse him then ! 
 
 Anna. Oh, any thing to soothe me ! 
 
 Elv. Who excuses 
 
 Will quickly pardon. 
 
 Anna. A}', if he came now, 
 
 Now, as you say, Elvira, 
 And made excuses which I knew were false, 
 I would believe them still. Would he were come 
 Only to try. Could I be so deceiv'd ! 
 
 Enter Cesar and Lazaro, hclozv. 
 
 Laz. See you not day has dawn'd, sir ? 
 
 Ces. Mine, I doubt. 
 
 Is set for ever. Yet, in sheer despair, 
 I come to gaze upon the empty east ! 
 But look ! 
 
 Laz.. Well, sir ? 
 
 Ces. See you not through the twilight ?
 
 SCENE ii] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 147 
 
 Laz. Yes, sir ; a woman : and when I say a 
 woman, 
 I mean two women. 
 
 Ces. Oh see If it be she. 
 
 Laz. 'Twould make Elvira jealous, sir. 
 
 Ces. Oh lady. 
 
 Is it you ? 
 
 Anna. Yes I, Don Cesar : who all night 
 Have waited on your pleasure, unsuspecting 
 What now too well I know. 
 My foolish passion, sir, is well reveng'd 
 By shamed repentance. Oh, you come at last, 
 Thinking belike, sir, with the morning star 
 Retrieve the waste of night ; oh, you lov'd me, sir. 
 Or seem'd to do, till having won from me 
 Confession of a love I feel no more. 
 You turn it to disdain. Oh think not, sir. 
 That by one little deed in love, like law. 
 You gain the full possession of my heart 
 For ever ; and for this idle interview. 
 Do you so profit by it as to learn 
 Courtesy to a lady ; which when learn'd 
 Come and repeat to me. [Rei'urs from zvindozv. 
 
 Ces. And having now 
 
 Arraign'd me of the crime, why do you leave me
 
 148 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ii 
 
 To plead my exculpation to the winds ? 
 
 Donna Anna, I call Heav'n to witness 
 'Twas not my negligence, but my ill star 
 That envied me such ill-deserv'd delight. 
 If it be otherwise, 
 
 Or even you suspect it otherwise, 
 
 Spurn me, not only now, but ever, from you. 
 
 Since better were it with a conscience clear 
 
 Rejected, than suspiciously receiv'd. 
 
 The Prince has kept me all the night with him 
 
 About the city streets : your brother, who 
 
 Was with us, can bear witness. Yet if still 
 
 You think me guilty, but come back to say so. 
 
 And let me plead once more, and you once more 
 
 Condemn, and yet once more, and all in vain. 
 
 If you will only but come back again ! 
 
 Anna {retufning to the zvindozv). And this is 
 true ? 
 
 Ces. So help me Heav'n, it is ! 
 Why, could you, Anna, in your heart believe 
 
 1 could forget you ? 
 
 Anna. And, Don Cesar, you 
 
 That, were it so, I could forget my love ? 
 But see, the sun above the mountain-tops 
 Begins to peep, and morn to welcome him
 
 SCENE ii] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 149 
 
 With all her smiles and tears. We must begone. 
 
 I shall another quick occasion find, 
 
 When I shall call, and you — not lag behind ? 
 
 Ces. Oh once more taken to your heart again, 
 My shame turns glory, and delight my pain. 
 Yet tell me — 
 
 Jnna. Well ? 
 
 Ces. Of your suspicions one 
 
 Lingers within you ? 
 
 Anna. Ay, a legion. 
 
 That at your presence to their mistress' pride 
 Turn traitors, and all fight on Cesar's side ! 
 
 Ces. Farewell then, my divine implacable ! 
 
 Anna. Victim and idol of my eyes, farewell ! 
 
 \Exeunt severally. 
 
 Laz. Well, and what has my mistress to say to 
 me ? Does she also play the scornful lady ? 
 
 Elv. I ? why ? 
 
 Laz. Because my mistress' mistress does so to my 
 master, whose love I follow in shadow. 
 
 Elv. Oh, I did not understand. 
 
 Laz. When he's happy then I'm jolly ; 
 When he's sad I'm melancholy : 
 When he's love-infected, I 
 
 With the self-same fever fretted.
 
 I50 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ii 
 
 Either am bound like him to fry, 
 Or if he chooses to forget it, 
 
 I must even tal<e his cue, 
 
 And, Elvira, forget you. 
 
 Do you enact your lady. Now, 
 
 Begin. Be angry first — 
 Elv. But how ? 
 
 Laz. Hide up, no matter how or why, 
 
 Behind the window-blind, while I 
 Underneath it caterwaul ; — 
 Elv. What are the odds I don't reply ? 
 Laz.. Just the odds that I don't call. 
 
 Scene III. J Room in the Palace. — The Prince and 
 Don Felix, discovered at the hack of the stage. 
 
 Fel. Why is your Highness sad ? 
 
 Prince. Not sad, Don Felix : 
 
 Oh would it were some certain shape of sorrow 
 That I might grapple with, not a vague host 
 Of undefin'd emotions ! Oh how oft 
 The patching up of but a single seam. 
 Opens a hundred others ! Lucky he 
 Who can to disenchantment bare his eyes 
 Once and for all, and in oblivion 
 Shut up vain hope for ever !
 
 SCENE in] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 151 
 
 Enter Cesar, Arias, and Lazaro, in front. 
 
 Ces. {to Arias as they enter). And so at last was 
 satisfied. 
 
 Jr. His Highness and Don Felix. 
 
 Ces. I am sure that he who profits not by oppor- 
 tunity scarce covets it enough. Taking advantage of 
 the cleared heaven, I have here written my lady, 
 asking her when she will give me the meeting she 
 promised ; Lazaro, take the letter : Don Felix here, 
 you can easily deliver it. 
 
 Laz. I'll feign an errand, and so get into the 
 house. [^Exit. 
 
 Pel. {to Prince). Cesar and Arias, my lord. 
 
 Prince. I know their business. Oh what a tempest 
 does every breeze from that quarter raise in my bosom ! 
 Well, gentlemen ? 
 
 Jr. Cesar, my lord, was telling me — 
 
 Prince. About his melancholy studies still ? Pray 
 tell me. 
 
 Ces. Nay, my lord, all melancholy flies from the 
 sunshine of your presence. 
 
 Prince. What then ? 
 
 Ces. I still distrust myself; Don Arias must, my 
 lord, answer for mc.
 
 152 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act n 
 
 Prince. Don Arias, then ? 
 
 Ar. {aside) . Fresh confidence should bind me his anew. 
 But comes too late. 
 
 Ces. {aside to Arias). Be careful what you say. 
 
 Ar. Trust me. (Cesar retires!) 
 
 Prince {to Arias apart). Well now, Don Arias. 
 
 Ar. At first much enraged against him, at last she 
 yielded to his amorous excuses ; and, finding Don Felix 
 here, he has sent her a letter beseeching another meet- 
 ing. 
 
 Prince. When ? 
 
 Ar. This moment. 
 
 Prince. Who can doubt the upshot ! I must con- 
 trive to thwart them. {Aloud!) But ere I hear your 
 story. Arias, I must tell Don Felix what I was about 
 to do as these gentlemen came in and interrupted 
 me : that his sister was ill — had fainted — from some 
 vexation or fright, as I think. 
 
 Pel. Anna ? 
 
 Prince. So my sister told me. Had you not better 
 see to her ? 
 
 Pel. With your leave, my lord. \Exit. 
 
 Prince {aside). And so, as I \vished, prevent her 
 answering, if not getting, the letter. {Aloud!) I will 
 ask Nisida how it was. \Exit.
 
 SCENE iv] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 153 
 
 Ces. What did you tell the Prince to draw this 
 new trouble on me ? 
 
 Jr. Ay, even so. Blame him who has been even 
 lying in your service. Look you now, the Prince told 
 me he had overheard the names " Don Felix " and 
 " Donna Anna " between us as we came in talking ; 
 and, tethered to that, I was obliged to drag this faint- 
 ing fit into the service. 
 
 Ces. Oh, if Felix find Lazaro at his house ! 
 
 A?: Fear not, anxiety will carry him home faster 
 than a letter Lazaro. 
 
 Ces. Alas that the revival of my joy 
 Is the revival of a fresh annoy ; 
 And that the remedy I long'd to seize 
 Must slay me faster than the old disease. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. Jn Apartment in Don Felix's House. — 
 Donna Anna and Elvira. 
 
 Eh. Well, have you finisht writing ? 
 
 Anna. I have written. 
 
 Not finisht writing. That could never be ; 
 Each sentence, yea, each letter, as I write it, 
 Suggesting others still. I had hop'd, Elvira, 
 To sum my story up in a few words ;
 
 154 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ii 
 
 Took pen and paper, both at the wrong end : — 
 Tried to begin, my mind so full I knew not 
 What to begin with ; till, as one has seen 
 The fullest vessel hardly run, until 
 Some inner air should loose the lingering liquid, 
 So my charg'd heart waited till one long sigh 
 Set it a flowing. I wrote, eras'd, re-wrote. 
 Then, pregnant love still doubling thought on thought. 
 Doubled the page too hastily, and blotted 
 All that was writ before ; until my letter. 
 Blotted, eras'd, re-written, and perplext, 
 At least is a fair transcript of my heart. 
 Well, the sum is, he is to come, Elvira, 
 To-night, when Felix, as I heard him say. 
 Goes to our country house on business ; 
 And all will be more quiet. But here, read it. 
 Elv. My lord ! my lord ! — the letter ! 
 
 Enter Felix. 
 
 Anna {hiding the letter). Heavens ! 
 
 Fel. Too well 
 
 The traitorous colour flying from your ckeeks 
 Betrays your illness and my cause of sorrow. 
 What is the matter ? 
 
 Anna. Nothing, brother.
 
 SCENE I v] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 155 
 
 Fel. Nothing 1 
 
 Your changing face and your solicitude 
 To assure me there is nothing, but assure me 
 How much there is. I have been told in fact, 
 And hurried home thus suddenly. 
 To hear it all. 
 
 Jmia {aside). Alas ! he knows my secret ! 
 Felix, indeed, indeed, my love 
 Shall not dishonour you. 
 
 Fel. Your love ? 
 
 I'm more at loss than ever. But perhaps 
 You feign this to divert me from the truth. 
 What is the matter, truly ? 
 
 Anna. Be assur'd 
 
 I never will disgrace you. 
 
 Fel. Ah, she rambles. 
 
 Quite unrecover'd yet. 
 
 J una {apart to Elvira). What shall I do ? 
 
 Eh. {apart). Deny it all, there's many a step between 
 Suspicion and assurance. 
 
 Fel. You, Elvira, 
 
 (My sister cannot) tell me what has happen'd ? 
 
 Elv. Oh, nothing but a swoon, sir : 
 My mistress fainted : that is all : accounts 
 For all her paleness and discomfiture.
 
 156 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act 11 
 
 Fel. 'Twas that I heard. 
 
 Elv. I do assure you, sir, 
 
 We thought her dead — however she dissemble 
 Out of her love for you. 
 
 Fel. 'Twas kind of her : 
 
 But yet not kindness, Anna, to delude me 
 Into a selfish ignorance of your pain. 
 Enough, you are better now ? 
 
 Anna. Indeed. 
 
 Fel. That's well. 
 
 But, by the way, what mean you by '■^ your love''^ 
 And " not dishonouring me P'^ 
 
 Anna. " My love^^ and " not 
 
 Dishonouring ! ^^ did I say so ? I must mean, 
 My senses still half-drown'd, my love for you 
 That would not have you pain'd. A true love, Felix, 
 Though a mistaken, may be, as you say, 
 Yet no dishonour. 
 
 Fel. Still I have not heard 
 
 What caus'd this illness. 
 
 Anna {aside). He presses hard upon me. 
 
 But I'll out-double him. {Aloud.) The cause of it ? 
 Why — sitting in this room, 
 
 I heard a noise in the street there : went to the win- 
 dow.
 
 SCENE iv] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 157 
 
 And saw a crowd of people, their swords out, fighting 
 Before the door ; and (what will foolish fear 
 Not conjure up ?) methought that one of them 
 Was you — and suddenly a mortal chill 
 Came over me, and — you must ask Elvira 
 For all the rest. 
 
 Eh. {aside). Why ever have the trouble 
 Of coining lies when truth will pass as well ! 
 
 Enter Lazaro. 
 
 Laz. So far so good. 
 
 Fel. Lazaro ? 
 
 Laz,. {seeing Felix). Is't his ghost ? for certainly 
 I left his body at the palace. 
 
 Anna. My evil stars bear hard upon me ! 
 
 Laz.. I'm done for, unless a good lie — {Jloud.) 
 Ruffian, rascal, scamp ! 
 
 Fel. How now ? 
 
 Laz. Murderer ! villain ! 
 
 Fel. Softly, softly, breathe awhile ! what's the 
 matter ? 
 
 Laz. Nothing, nothing, yet had I not exploded 
 incidentally, or as it were superficially, I had altogether 
 burst. Oh the rascal ! the slave ! 
 
 Fel. But tell me the matter.
 
 158 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ii 
 
 Laz. Oh the matter — indeed the matter — you 
 may well ask it — indeed you may — Oh the murderer ! 
 
 Fe/. Come, come, tell us. 
 
 Laz. Ay, well, look here, my lords and ladies, 
 lend me your ears ; I was at cards : yes : for you 
 must know, my lord, I sometimes like a bout as my 
 betters do : you understand this ? 
 
 Fel. Yes— well ? 
 
 Laz. Well, being at cards, as I say : ay, and play- 
 ing pretty high too : for I must confess that sometimes, 
 like my betters — you understand ? 
 
 Fel. Go on — go on. 
 
 Laz. Well, being, as I said, at cards. 
 And playing pretty high too — mark me that — 
 I get into discussion or dispute, 
 (Whichever you will call it) with a man. 
 If man he may be call'd who man was none — 
 Ye gods ! to prostitute the name of man 
 On such as that ! — call him a manikin, 
 A mandarin, a mandrake. 
 Rather than man — I mean in soul, mark you ; 
 For in his outward man he was a man. 
 Ay, and a man of might. Nay, more than men, 
 A giant, one may say. Well, as I said, 
 This wretch and I got to high words, and then
 
 SCENE iv] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 159 
 
 (Whither high words so often lead) to blows; 
 
 Out came our swords. The rascal having seen 
 
 What a desperate fellow at my tool I was, 
 
 Takes him eleven others of his kidney, 
 
 Worse than himself, and all twelve set on me. 
 
 I seeing them come on, ejaculate, 
 
 " From all such rascals, single or in league, 
 
 Good Lord, deliver us," set upon all twelve 
 
 With that same sword, mark me, our gracious 
 
 Prince 
 Gave me but yesternight, and, God be praised, 
 Disgrac'd not in the giving — 
 Beat the whole twelve of them back to a porch, 
 Where, after bandying a blow with each. 
 Each getting something to remember me by, 
 Back in a phalanx all came down on me. 
 And then dividing, sir, into two parties. 
 Twelve upon this side — do you see ? and nine 
 On this — and three in front — 
 
 Fel. But, Lazaro, 
 
 Why, twelve and nine are twenty-one — and three — 
 Why, your twelve men are grown to twenty-four ! 
 How's this ? 
 
 La%. How's this ? why, counting in the shadows — 
 You see I count the shadows — twenty-four.
 
 i6o KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ii 
 
 Shadows and all — you see ! ^ 
 
 Fel. I see. 
 
 Lax. Well, sir, 
 
 Had not that good sword which our gracious Prince 
 Gave me but yesterday broke in my hand, 
 I should have had to pay for mass, I promise you. 
 For every mother's son of them ! 
 
 Fel. Indeed ? 
 
 But, Lazaro, I see your sword's entire : 
 How's that ? 
 
 Lax. The most extraordinary part 
 
 Of all— 
 
 Fel. Well, tell us. 
 
 Lax. Why, I had first us'd 
 
 My dagger upon one : and when my sword 
 Snapt, with its stump, sir, daggerwise I fought, 
 As thus ; and that with such tremendous fury, 
 That, smiting a steel buckler, I struck out 
 Such sparks from it, that, by the light of them. 
 Snatching up the fallen fragment of my sword, 
 I pieced the two together. 
 
 ^ One cannot fail to be reminded of the multiplication of 
 FalstafTs men in buckram, not the only odd coincidence between 
 the two poets. Lazaro's solution of the difficulty seems to me 
 quite worthy of Falstaff.
 
 SCENE iv] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET i6i 
 
 Fel. But the dagger 
 
 You fought with first, and lost, }'ou say — why, Lazaro, 
 'Tis in your girdle. 
 
 Laz. I account for that 
 
 Easily. Look, sir, I drew it, as I said, 
 And struck amain. The man I drew it on. 
 Seeing the coming blow, caught hold of it. 
 And struck it back on me ; I, yet more skilful. 
 With God's good help did so present myself 
 That, when he struck at me, my own dagger's point 
 Return'd into its sheath, as here you see it. 
 Enough, I heard the cry of "Alguazils !" 
 Ran off, and, entering the first open door. 
 Now ask for sanctuary at your feet. 
 
 Fel. I think it is your trepidation 
 Makes you talk nonsense. 
 
 Anna. Surely, my brother, this was the riot that 
 so frighted me. 
 
 Fel. And was I then the man, " if man it could be 
 called who man was none," that Lazaro fought with r 
 
 Anna. I know not, I only know 'twas some one 
 of a handsome presence like yours. 
 
 Fel. {aside). Perhaps his master — I much suspect 
 it was Cesar that was dicing, and afterward fighting ; 
 and his servant, to cover him, invents this foolish 
 
 c. M
 
 i6z KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act n 
 
 story — {Aloud^ I will look into the street and see 
 if it be dear. [Exit. 
 
 Elv. Now say your say. 
 
 Jnna {giving Lazaro het letter). And quickly, 
 Lazaro ; taking this letter — 
 
 Laz. {giving Cesar's). And you this premium 
 upon it. 
 
 Jnna. Bid him be sure to come to me this even- 
 ing ; I have much to say. And thus much to you, 
 Lazaro ; your quarrel came in the nick of time to 
 account for a swoon I had occasion to feign. 
 
 Eh. Quick ! quick ! he's coming back. 
 
 Laz. Madam, farewell. 
 
 Jyina. And if my plot succeed, 
 
 Feign'd quarrel shall to true love-making lead. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. J Room in the Palace ; Cesar and Arias 
 talking: to ivhom after a time enter Lazaro. 
 
 Laz. Oh, I have had rare work. 
 Ces. The letter ! {takes it from Lazaro). 
 Ar. And how did all end ? 
 
 Laz. Well — as I am home at last safe and sound. 
 Ces. Arias, you share my heart ; even read my 
 letter with me. {The^ read.)
 
 SCENE v] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 163 
 
 Laz. {aside). That my master should trust that 
 babbler who let out about my wooden sword to the 
 Prince ! my life upon't, he'll do the same to him ; 
 for he who sucks in gossip is the first to leak it. 
 
 Jr. Sweetly she writes ! 
 
 Ces. How should it be but sweet, 
 
 Where modesty and wit and true love meet I 
 
 Ar. And expects you this evening ! 
 
 Ces. Till which each minute is an hour, each hour 
 A day, a year, a century ! 
 
 Lax. And then 
 
 In saecula sasculorum. Amen. 
 
 Ar. The Prince ! 
 
 Ces. I dread his seeing me. 
 
 Ar. But how ? 
 
 Ces. Lest, as already twice, he thwart me now. 
 
 Enter Prince. 
 
 Prince. Cesar here, when I am on fire to know 
 the upshot of my plot upon his letter ! I must get 
 quit of him, 
 
 Ces. Good day, my lord. 
 
 Prince. Well, any news abroad ? 
 
 Ar, Not that I know of, my lord.
 
 164 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act 11, sc. v 
 
 Prince. Cesar, there are despatches in my closet, 
 have been lying there since yesterday, should they 
 not be seen to at once ? 
 
 Ces. My lord ! (Jside.) I foresaw it ! 
 
 Prince. Yes ! I would have you look to them 
 and report them to me directly. 
 
 Ces. {aside.) Ah, this is better ! {Aloud) I'll 
 see to them. 
 
 {Aside) And then, I trust, day's work with day- 
 light o'er, 
 Man, nor malicious star, shall cross me more. 
 
 \Exeunt Cesar and Lazaro. 
 
 Prince. And now about the letter ? 
 
 Ar. I only know, my lord, that though Felix got 
 home first, Lazaro got there somehow, somehow gave 
 her the letter, and somehow got an answer. 
 
 Prince. Hast seen it ? 
 
 Ar. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Prince. And — 
 
 Ar. She appoints another meeting this evening. 
 
 Prince. And I must myself despatch his work, so 
 as to leave him free to-night ! Oh Arias, what can 
 I do more \ 
 
 Ar. Cannot your Highness go there yourself, and 
 so at least stop further advancement ?
 
 ACTin,sc. I.] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 165 
 
 Prince. True, true ; and yet I know not ; it might 
 be too suspicious. I must consider what shall be done ; 
 And what more subtle engine I may try 
 Against these lovers' ingenuity. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. A Room in the Palace. — Prince and Don 
 Arias. 
 
 Ar. How well the night went ofF ! did not the 
 music, 
 The lights, the dances, and the ladies' eyes, 
 Divert your Grace's sadness ? 
 
 Prince. Rather, Arias, 
 
 Doubled it. 
 
 Whithersoever Donna Anna mov'd. 
 My eyes, that ever followed hers along, 
 Saw them pursue Don Cesar through the crowd 
 And only rest on him ; I curs'd him then. 
 And then excus'd him, as the judge should do 
 Whose heart is yearning with the guilt he damns. 
 
 Ar. Where will this passion end ? 
 
 Prince. I think in death, 
 
 Led by the fatal secret you have told me.
 
 1 66 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act ih 
 
 Ar. I err'd, my lord ; but all shall yet be well. 
 But hush ! Don Cesar comes. 
 
 Prince. Make out of him 
 
 How sits the wind of love. Behind this screen 
 I'll listen. {Jiides) 
 
 Enter Cesar. 
 
 Ar. Well, Don Cesar ? 
 
 Ces. Nay, ill, Don Cesar ! 
 
 Misfortune on misfortune ! ev'n good fortune 
 Forswears her nature but to scowl on me ! 
 Led by her letter, as the shades of night 
 Were drawing in, I went — not now to stand 
 Under her lattice with the cold, cold moon 
 For company, but in the very room 
 My lady warms and lightens with her presence ! 
 There when we two had just begun to whisper 
 The first sweet words of love, upon a sudden 
 As by some evil spirit prompted, her brother 
 Comes in, and on some frivolous pretext 
 Carries her to the palace. I suspect 
 He knows my purpose. 
 
 Ar. Nay — 
 
 Prince {listening). He little thinks 
 
 His evil spirit is so near him now.
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 167 
 
 Ces. Ay, and dead weary of these sicken'd hopes 
 And lost occasions, I have resolv'd to break 
 Through disappointment and impediment, 
 And turning secret love to open suit. 
 Secure at once her honour, and her brother's, 
 And my own everlasting happiness, 
 By asking her fair hand, fore all the world ! [Exif. 
 
 Ar. You heard, my lord ? 
 
 Prince {advancing. And if he ask her hand, 
 
 Felix will grant it as assuredly 
 As I would my own sister's ! Oh, Don Arias, 
 What now ? 
 Ar. Don Felix comes. 
 
 Prince. There's yet one way, 
 
 He comes in time — Felix ! 
 
 Enter Felix. 
 
 Fel My lord ! 
 
 Prince. Come hither. 
 
 You came in time — were present in my thoughts 
 Before your coming. Hark you. I have long 
 Long'd to requite your many services, 
 By more substantial meed than empty breath, 
 Too oft, they say, the end of princes' favour.
 
 1 68 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act hi 
 
 Much I design for you ; but in mean time, 
 
 As some foretaste and earnest of my love, 
 
 A kinsman, a near Icinsman of my own, 
 
 Has set his heart upon the lady Anna, 
 
 Your sister ; fain would have her hand in marriage : 
 
 And I, with your good liking. 
 
 Have promis'd it to him. 
 
 Fel. Oh, my good lord, 
 
 Your favour overpowers me ! 
 
 Prince. Much content 
 
 Both for his sake, so near of my own blood, 
 (His letters show how deep his passion is,) 
 And yours, if you approve it. 
 
 Fel. Did I not. 
 
 Your will would be my law. 
 
 Prince. Why this is well then. 
 
 We'll talk it over at our leisure ; meanwhile, 
 For certain reasons, let this contract be 
 Between ourselves alone — you taking care 
 To pledge your sister's hand no other way. 
 
 Fel. Oh, trust to me, my lord — Heav'n watch 
 above 
 Your Highness ! 
 
 Prince {aside). Oh mad end of foolish love ! [^Exit. 
 
 Fel. I'll straight away,
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 169 
 
 And tell my sister of the happiness 
 Awaits her. And may be shall learn of her 
 How my own suit prospers with Nisida, 
 The Prince's sister, which his present favour 
 Now blows upon so fairly. Cesar ! 
 
 Enter Cesar. 
 
 Ces. Well found at last. Oh, Felix ! 
 
 fel. What is't now ? 
 
 Your heart seems labouring. 
 
 Ces. Yours must lighten it. 
 
 You know, Don Felix, how by blood and birth 
 I am a gentleman — not less, I trust. 
 In breeding and attainment ; my estate 
 Sufficient for my birth — nurst by the Prince 
 In his own palace from my earliest years. 
 Until, howe'er unworthy of such honour, 
 Receiv'd into his inmost heart and council : 
 So far at least fitted for state affairs, 
 As ever given from my earliest youth 
 Rather to letters than to arms. Enough : 
 You know all this, and know, or ought to know. 
 How much I am your friend ? 
 
 fel. I do believe it.
 
 I70 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act iii 
 
 Ces. Yea, Felix, and would fain that friendship 
 knit 
 By one still closer tie — Have you not guess'd. 
 By many a sign more unmistakeable 
 Than formal declaration, that I love — 
 Presumptuously perhaps — but that I love 
 One of your house. Which saying all is said : 
 For she is all your house who calls you " Brother." 
 
 Fel. Cesar, Heav'n knows how faithfully my 
 heart 
 Answers to yours in all ; how much I prize 
 The honour you would do me. Would to God 
 That I had seen the signs of love you talk of, 
 Pointing this way ; there is, I do assure you, 
 No man in all the world to whom more gladly 
 I would ally my sister and myself ; 
 But I did not. I grieve that it is so. 
 But dare not cancel what is now, too late. 
 Irrevocably agreed on with another. 
 
 Ces. By this " too late," I think you only mean 
 To tantalize my too late declaration. 
 If that be your intent, I am well punisht 
 Already ; be content with my contrition. 
 You say you love me ; and would well desire 
 To see me wed your sister ; seal at once
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 171 
 
 My happiness, nor chill the opening day, 
 Nor my love's blossom, by a lingering " VeaP 
 
 Fel. Indeed, indeed, my Cesar, not to revenge 
 Delay of speech, or insufficient token. 
 But with repeated sorrow I repeat, 
 My sister's hand is pledg'd beyond recall, 
 And to another ; whom, for certain reasons, 
 I dare not name, not even to herself, 
 As yet — 
 
 Ces. If I survive, 'tis that fate knows 
 How much more terrible is life than death ! 
 Don Felix, you have well reveng'd yourself 
 Upon my vain ambition, speech delay'd. 
 And signs that you would not articulate ; 
 But let my fate be as it will, may hers. 
 Hers, yea, and his whose life you link to hers. 
 Be so indissolubly prosperous. 
 That only death forget to envy them ! 
 Farewell. 
 
 Fel. Farewell then : and remember, Cesar, 
 
 Let not this luckless business interrupt 
 Our long and loving intimacy. 
 
 Ces. Nay, 
 
 It shall not, cannot, Felix, come what may. 
 
 \_Excunt severally.
 
 172 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act iii 
 
 Enter Prince, 
 
 Prince. When in my love's confusion and excess 
 
 I fancy many a fond unlikely chance, 
 Desire grows stronger, resolution less, 
 
 I linger more the more I would advance. 
 False to my nobler self, I madly seize 
 
 Upon a medicine alien to my ill ; 
 And feeding still with that should cure disease. 
 
 At once my peace and reputation kill 
 By turns ; as the conflicting passions fire, 
 
 And chase each other madly through my breast, 
 I worship and despise, blame and admire. 
 
 Weep and rejoice, and covet and detest. 
 Alas ! a bitter bargain he must choose, 
 Who love with life, or life with love, must lose ! 
 
 Enter Lazaro. 
 
 Laz.. Where can my master be ? I shall go crazy, 
 I think, running from room to room, and house to 
 house, after him and his distracted wits. 
 
 Prince. Lazaro ! Well, what news abroad ? 
 
 Laz,. Ah, my lord, there has been little of that 
 under the sun this long while, they say. For 
 instance, the slasht doublets just come into fashion.
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 173 
 
 and which they call new ; why 'twas I invented 
 them years ago. 
 
 Prince. You ? how ? 
 
 Laz. Why, look you ; once on a time when I 
 was not so well off as now, and my coat was out at 
 elbows, the shirt came through : many saw and 
 admired — and so it has grown into a fashion. 
 
 Prince. Who listens to you but carries away food 
 for reflection ! \^Exit. 
 
 Laz. Aha ! you are somewhat surfeited with that 
 already, I take it. 
 
 So while the world her wonted journey keeps, 
 
 Lazarus chuckles while poor Dives weeps. 
 
 Enter Cesar. 
 
 Ces. Lazaro, I waited till the Prince was gone. 
 Listen to me. Don Felix has betroth'd 
 His sister to another, not to me ; 
 He will not tell me whom, nor does it matter : 
 All ill alike. But out of this despair 
 I'll pluck the crown that hope could never reach. 
 There is no time to lose ; this very night 
 I'll carry her away. 
 
 Laz. Only beware 
 
 Telling Don Arias what you mean to do.
 
 174 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act hi 
 
 Is't possible you see not all along 
 
 Your secret playing on his faithless lips ? 
 
 Here's one last chance. 
 
 Ces. True, true. 
 
 Laz. You cannot lose 
 
 By secrecy — what gain by telling him ? 
 
 Ca. You may be right : and to clear up the 
 cause 
 Of past mischance, and make the future safe, 
 I'll take your counsel. 
 
 Laz. Then hey for victory ! 
 
 Meanwhile, sir, talk with all and trust in none, 
 And least of all in him is coming hither. 
 And then in ocean when the weary sun 
 Washes his swollen face, " there shall be done 
 A deed of dreadful note." 
 
 Enter Arias. 
 
 Jr. How now, Don Cesar ? 
 Laz. (aside). Here are you, be sure, 
 
 When aught is stirring. 
 
 Jr. How speeds Love with you ? 
 
 Laz. {aside). The lighter, sir, now you are left 
 behind.
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 175 
 
 Ces. Arias, my friend ! All's lost ! 
 The love I grew deep in my heart of hearts 
 Is wither'd at the moment of its blossom. 
 I went to Felix, ask'd his sister's hand : 
 It was betroth'd, he told me, to another : 
 I was too late. All's lost ! It were in vain 
 Weeping for that I never can attain : 
 I will forget what I must needs forego. 
 And turn to other — 
 
 Laz. {to Arias). Pray, sir, pardon me ; 
 But pri'thee say no more to him just now ; 
 It brings on such a giddiness. 
 
 Jr. Alas ! 
 
 But can I be of service ? 
 
 Laz. Only, sir. 
 
 By saying nothing more. 
 
 Jr. I am truly sorry. [Exit. 
 
 Laz. That you can lie no longer in the matter. 
 Oh, the Lord speed you ! 
 
 Ces. O Love, if mortal anguish ever move thee, 
 At this last hour requite me with one smile 
 For all thy sorrows ! let what I have sufFer'd 
 Appease thy jealous godhead ! I complain not 
 That you condemn my merits as too poor 
 For the great glory they aspire unto ;
 
 176 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act in 
 
 Yet who could brook to see a rival bear 
 
 The wreath that neither can deserve to wear ! 
 
 Entej- Prin'Ce and Arias. 
 
 Prince {to Arias). Even so ? 
 
 Good. That he may not think 'twas out of malice, 
 I made my business trench upon his love, 
 Now that his love's but Love-in-idleness, 
 I'll occupy him still. Cesar ! 
 
 Ces. My lord ! 
 
 Prince. I had like to have forgot. 'Tis Monday, 
 is't not ? 
 I have despatches both for Rome and Naples. 
 We must see to them to-night. 
 
 Ces. My lord ! 
 
 Prince. Bring hither 
 
 Your writing. 
 
 Ces. {apart). Oh ! the cup-full at my lips, 
 And dasht down, and for ever ! 
 [To Lazaro.] Villain, the victory you told me of! 
 
 Lax. What fault of mine, sir ? 
 
 Ces. What fault ! said you not 
 
 All now was well ? 
 
 La%. Is't I who make it wrong ? 
 
 Ces. You meddled.
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 177 
 
 Prince. Are yoxx ready ? 
 
 Ces. Immediately. 
 
 Alas, alas ! how shall my pen run clear 
 Of the thick fountain that is welling here ! 
 
 Prince {aside). And I shall learn from you how 
 that dark pair 
 Contrive to smile, Jealousy and Despair. 
 [^Desk and papers brought in : exeunt Arias and Lazaro. 
 Now, are you ready ? (Cesar sits at the desk.) 
 
 Ces. Ay, my lord. 
 
 Prince. Begin then. 
 
 " I am secretly " — 
 
 Ces. " Secretly " — driven to madness ! 
 
 Prince. "About the marriage" — 
 
 Ces. " Marriage " — that never shall take place ! 
 
 Prince. " All is fair for you " — 
 
 Ces. " For you " — though perdition to me ! 
 
 Prince. " Believe me " — 
 
 Ces. I shall not survive it ! 
 
 Prince. " That Donna Anna of Castelvi " 
 
 Ces. " That Donna Anna " — I can write no more ! 
 
 Prince. " Is such in birth, beauty, and wit " — 
 
 Ces. Oh, my lord, pardon me ; but may I know 
 This letter's destination ? 
 
 Prince. Eh ? to Flanders. 
 
 C. N
 
 178 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act m 
 
 Why do you ask ? 
 
 Ces. To Flanders ! But, my lord, 
 
 Surely no Flemish courier leaves to-day. 
 Might not to-morrow — 
 
 Prince {aside). At the name of Anna 
 
 His colour chang'd. {Aloud.) No matter. 'Tis begun. 
 And we'll ev'n finish it. Where left I off? 
 
 Ces. {rending. "Can write no more" — 
 
 Prince. Eh? "Write no more ?" Did I 
 
 Say that ? 
 
 Ces. My lord ? 
 
 Prince. The letter. Give me it. 
 
 Ces. {aside). Come what come may then, what is 
 writ is writ ! 
 
 Prince {reading). " I am secretl)- driven to madness 
 about the marriage that never shall take place. All is 
 fair for you, though perdition to me. Believe me I 
 shall not survive it, that Donna Anna — I can write 
 no more." 
 Was this what I dictated ? 
 
 Ces. {th}-ozvinghimselfatthe'?K\-iict'sfeet). O my lord, 
 O noble Alexander ! if the service 
 You have so often prais'd beyond desert 
 Deserve of you at all, snatch not from me 
 The only crown I ever ask'd for it,
 
 SCENE i] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 179 
 
 To gild a less familiar brow withal. 
 
 This lady, Donna Anna, 
 
 Whom you are now devoting to another, 
 
 Is mine, my lord ; mine, if a two years' suit 
 
 Of unremitted love not unreturn'd 
 
 Should make her mine ; which mine beyond dispute 
 
 Had long ere this have made her, had not I 
 
 How many a golden opportunity 
 
 Lost from my love to spend it on my Prince ! 
 
 And this is my reward ! Oh, knew I not 
 
 How the ill star that rules my destiny 
 
 Might of itself dispose the gracious Prince, 
 
 Who call'd me for his friend from infancy, 
 
 To act my bitterest enemy unawares, 
 
 I might believe some babbler — 
 
 Prince. Nay, Don Cesar, 
 
 If in all these cross purposes of love 
 You recognise the secret hand of fate. 
 Accuse no mortal tongue, which could not reach 
 The stars that rule us all, wag as it would. 
 Enough. I am aggriev'd, and not, I think. 
 Unjustly, that without my pleasure, nay. 
 Without my knowledge even, you, my subject, 
 And servant, (leaving the dear name of friend,) 
 Dispos'd so of yourself, and of a lady
 
 i8o KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act hi 
 
 Whose grace my court considers as its own. 
 Give me the pen : and, as you write so laxly, 
 I must myself report — 
 
 Ces. My lord ! 
 
 Prince. The pen. (He zvrltes.) 
 
 Ces. If in misfortune's quiver there be left 
 One arrow, let it come ! 
 
 Prince. You could not write, 
 
 Don Cesar ; but perhaps can seal this letter : 
 'Tis for Don Felix ; send it to him straight. 
 Or stay — I'd have it go by a sure hand : 
 Take it yourself directly. 
 
 Ces. At one blow 
 
 My love and friendship laid for ever low ! \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Felix and Arias. 
 
 Jr. The letter must be written. 
 
 Prince. Oh, Don Felix, 
 
 I have this moment sent to you. No matter : 
 'Twas but to say I have this instant heard 
 Your sister's bridegroom is in Parma ; nay, 
 Perhaps already at your house. 
 
 Fel. Oh, my lord, 
 
 How shall I thank you for this gracious news ?
 
 SCENE ii] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET i8i 
 
 Prince. Nay, we will hear them from your sister's 
 lips. 
 To her at once. {Exit Felix. 
 
 And now, Don Arias, 
 You have to swear upon the holy cross 
 That hilts this sword, that neither Donna Anna 
 Know that I ever lov'd her, nor Don Cesar 
 I ever cross'd his love. 
 
 Ar. Upon this cross 
 
 I swear it ; and beseech you in return 
 Never, my lord, to tell Don Cesar who 
 Reveal'd his secret. 
 
 Prince. Be it so. I promise. 
 
 And now to see whether indeed I dare 
 Compete with him whose lofty name I wear. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A room in Felix's House. — Anna and Elvira. 
 
 Anna. Beside the charge of my own love, Elvira, 
 Whose crosses, I believe, will slay me soon, 
 My brother has confided to me at last. 
 His passion for the Princess Nisida ; 
 And, for he knows that I am near her heart, 
 Would have me whisper it into her ears ; 
 Which, were it such a passion as / feel,
 
 1 82 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act hi 
 
 His eyes would have reveal'd her long ago. 
 However, I have told her, and have got 
 An answer such — But look ! he comes. 
 
 Enter Felix. 
 
 Fcl. Oh, sister. 
 
 Might but your news be half as good as mine ! 
 A largess for it, come. You are betroth'd, 
 By me, and by the Prince himself, to one 
 In all ways worthy of you, and who long 
 Has silently ador'd. 
 
 Jnna {aside). Is it possible ? 
 
 Cesar ! {Aloud). Well, ask the largess that you will. 
 
 Fel. The Princess — 
 
 Anna. Well ? 
 
 Fel. What says she ? 
 
 Anna. All she could 
 
 At the first blush — nothing — and that means all : 
 Go to her, and press out the lingering Yes 
 That lives, they say, in silence. 
 
 Fet. Oh, my sister ! 
 
 But who comes here ? 
 
 Ente7- Cesar and Lazaro. 
 
 Ces. {gh'ing the letter). I, Felix. This must be 
 My warrant — from the Prince. Oh misery !
 
 SCENE ii] KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET 183 
 
 Fel. I thank you, Cesar. {Reads.) 
 *' Because happiness is the less welcome when antici- 
 pated, I have hitherto withheld from you that he to 
 whom I have engaged your sister's hand, is — Don 
 Cesar ! in whom unites all that man or woman can 
 desire. If the man lives who can deserve such glory, 
 it is he. Farewell." 
 
 Ces. Great Heav'n ! 
 
 Fc/. Nay, read the letter. 
 
 Enter Prince, Nisida, Arias, and Train. 
 
 Prince. He shall not need, 
 
 Myself am here to speak it. 
 
 Ces. (kneeling). Oh, my lord ! 
 
 Prince, Rise, Cesar. If your service, as it did, 
 Ask'd for reward, I think you have it now ; 
 Such as not my dominion alone. 
 But all the world beside, could not supply. 
 Madam, your hand ; Don Cesar, yours. I come 
 To give away the bride : 
 And after must immediately away 
 To Flanders, where by Philip's trumpet led, 
 I will wear Maestricht's laurel round my brows ; 
 Leaving meanwhile Don Felix Governor 
 Till my return — by this sign manual. 
 
 (Puts Nisida's /Mnd in Felix's.)
 
 1 84 KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET [act hi 
 
 Fel. My lord, my lord ! 
 
 Laz. Elvira ! 
 
 Elv. Lazaro ! 
 
 Lax. I must be off. Our betters if we ape, 
 And they ape marriage, how shall we escape ? 
 
 Ar. And learn this moral. None commend 
 A secret ev'n to trustiest friend : 
 Which secret still in peril lies 
 Even in the breast of the most wise ; 
 And at his blabbing who should groan 
 Who could not even keep his own ? 
 
 There are three other plays by Calderon, on this subject of 
 keeping one's love secret ; a policy whose neglect is punisht by 
 a policy characteristically Spanish. i. Amigo, Amante,y Leal: 
 which has the same Prince and Arias, only the Prince confides 
 his love to his rival. 2. El Secreto a Voces : where it is the 
 ladies who shuffle the secret about the men. And 3. Basta 
 CalloKf a more complicated intrigue than any.
 
 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Gil Perez. 
 
 Isabel, 
 
 Don Alonso, 
 
 Manuel Men 
 Pedro, "^ 
 Casilda, J 
 
 dez, j 
 
 his Siste} . 
 
 his izvo Friends. 
 
 Servants in his house. 
 
 Donna Juana, a Portuguese Lady. 
 
 Juan Baptista, a Lover oj Isabel. 
 
 The Lord High Admiral of Portugal. 
 
 Donna Leonor, his Cousin. 
 
 A Sheriff. 
 
 A Judge. 
 
 Leonardo, a Traveller. 
 
 Alguazils, Officers, Attendants, Farmers, &c. 
 
 i86
 
 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. Outside Gil Perez's House. — Enter Pedro, 
 running; Gil Perez after him with a drazcn dag- 
 ger ; and Isabel and Casilda interceding. 
 
 TSJB. Fly, Pedro, fly ! 
 
 Gil. And what the use his flying 
 
 If I be after him ? 
 
 Ped. Hold him ! hold him back, 
 
 Both of you ! 
 
 Gil. By the Lord, I'll do for him. 
 
 Lab. But why so savage with him ? 
 
 Gil. He must pay 
 
 The long arrear of mischief you've run up. 
 
 Isab. I understand you not. 
 
 Gil. I'll kill him first. 
 
 And then explain. 
 
 Isab. I, who dread not bodily violence. 
 Dread your injurious words. What have I done 
 187
 
 1 88 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 That you should use me thus ? — my enemy, 
 And not my brother. 
 
 Gil. You say well your enemy, 
 
 Who, if you do as you have done so long, 
 Will one day bathe his sword in your heart's blood, 
 And after in his own, and so wipe out 
 One scandal from the world. 
 
 Ped. As the good soul 
 
 Who meddles to make peace between two brawlers 
 Oft gets the bloody nose, I'll take the hint. 
 Farewell, fair Spain ! for evermore farewell ! 
 
 Gil. Here ! hark you, sir ; 
 Before you go ; you have escap'd this time 
 By luck, not by desert. I give you warning. 
 Keep from my sight : for if I see your face 
 Fifty years hence, among the antipodes, 
 I'll pay you off. 
 
 Ped. Pray don't disturb yourself; 
 
 I'll take you at your word, and straight be oft 
 To some old friends of mine — indeed relations — 
 In central Africa — the Ourang Outangs : 
 A colony so distant as I trust 
 Will satisfy us both. And so, good bye. 
 
 Exit ; Casilda ajier him. 
 
 Isab. He's gone, poor fellow.
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN i8( 
 
 And now perhaps, sir, as we are alone, 
 You'll tell me why you do affront me thus. 
 
 Gil. Sister — oh, would to God that I had none 
 To call by such a name at such expense ! 
 And can you think that I have been so blind, 
 As well as dumb, not to be ware the tricks 
 Of the sly gentleman who follows you 
 So constantly, and who, if this goes on, 
 Will one day filch away, not your own only, 
 But the long garner'd honour of our house ? 
 Why, I have seen it all from first to last. 
 But would not show my teeth till I could bite ; 
 Because, in points like this, a man of honour 
 Speaks once, and once for all. 
 This once is now. I'll speak my mind to you ; 
 Which, if you cannot understand, to-morrow 
 I must repeat in quite another language. 
 I know your man — Juan Baptista — one 
 Not man enough for me, and so, I tell you, 
 Not for my sister. This should be enough. 
 Without his being, as he is, a Jew. 
 To get you from his reach I brought you here 
 To Salvatierra, deep amid the mountains, 
 And safe enough I thought ; but even here 
 His cursed letters reach you through the hands
 
 I90 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 Of that fine rascal I have just pack'd oft. 
 There ; I have told my story ; take't to heart ; 
 Dismiss your man at once, or, by the Lord, 
 If you and he persist, I'll fire his house, 
 And save the Inquisition that much trouble. 
 
 Isab. Your anger makes you blind — accusing me 
 Of things I never did. 
 
 Gil. You never did ! 
 
 Isab. But so it is, poor women must submit 
 To such insinuations. 
 
 Gil. Pr^y? was't I 
 
 Insinuated that letter then ? 
 
 Isab. Peace, peace ! 
 
 I can explain it all, and shall, when fit. 
 What would you have of me ? You are my brother, 
 And not my husband, sir ; consider that : 
 And therefore, in fraternal kindness bound. 
 Should even take my word without ado. 
 You talk of honour : is not honour then 
 Slow to suspect — would rather be deceived 
 Itself than prematurely to accuse ? 
 I am your sister, Perez, and I know 
 My duty towards you and myself Enough — 
 Which, if you cannot understand, to-morrow 
 I must repeat in quite another language. \Exit.
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 191 
 
 Gi/. She says not ill ; it better were indeed 
 Had I kept on the mask a little longer, 
 Till they had dropt theirs beyond all denial. 
 She's right, and I was wrong ; but from this time 
 I'll steer another course. 
 
 Enter Casilda. 
 
 Cas. A gentleman 
 
 (Of Portugal, he saj's,) is at the door, 
 And asks for you. 
 
 Gil. Bid him come in. Away, 
 
 My troubles, for awhile ! \_Exit Casilda. 
 
 Ente?- Manuel Mendez. 
 
 Man. 'Twas well, Gil Perez, 
 
 You sent so quickly, or my impetuosity 
 Had overrun your leave. 
 
 Gil. What, Manuel Mendez ! 
 
 Come to my arms. What ! you in Salvatierra ? 
 
 Man. And, I assure you, at no small expense 
 Of risk and heart-ache. 
 
 GU. That's unwelcome news. 
 
 Man. Not when 'tis all forgotten in the joy 
 Of seeing you again. 
 
 Gil. I shall not rest
 
 192 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 Till I have heard ; ill-manner'd though it be 
 To tax a man scarce winded from a journey 
 With such expense of breath. 
 
 Man. Then listen, Gil. 
 
 You, I am sure, remember (time and absence 
 Cannot have washt so much from memory) 
 The pleasant time when you were last at Lisbon, 
 And grac'd my house by making it your home. 
 I need not tell of all we did and talk'd, 
 Save what concerns me now ; of the fair lady 
 You knew me then enamour'd of, (how deeply 
 I need not say — being a Portuguese, 
 Which saying, all is said) — Donna Juana, 
 At whose mere name I tremble, as some seer 
 Smit with the sudden presence of his God. 
 Two years we lived in the security 
 Of mutual love, with so much jealousy 
 (Without which love is scarcely love at all) 
 As serv'd to freshen up its sleeping surface. 
 But not to stir its depths. Ah, dangerous 
 To warm the viper, or, for idle sport. 
 Trust to the treacherous sea — sooner or later 
 They turn upon us ; so these jealousies 
 I lik'd to toy with first turn'd upon me ; 
 When suddenly a rich young cavalier,
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 193 
 
 Well grac'd with all that does and ought to please, 
 
 (For I would not revenge me with my tongue 
 
 Upon his name, but with my sword in 's blood,) 
 
 Demanded her in marriage of her father ; 
 
 Who being poor, and bargains quickly made 
 
 'Twixt avarice and wealth, quickly agreed. 
 
 The wedding day drew nigh that was to be 
 
 The day of funeral too — mixt dance and dirge, 
 
 And grave and bridal chamber both in one. 
 
 The guests were met ; already night began 
 
 Loose the full tide of noisy merriment, 
 
 When I strode in ; straight through the wedding 
 
 throng 
 Up to the bride and bridegroom where they were. 
 And, seizing her with one hand, with the other 
 Struck him a corpse ; and daring all, to die 
 Fighting, or fighting carry off my prize. 
 Carried her off ; lifted her on a horse 
 I had outside ; struck spur ; and lightning-like 
 Away, until we reach'd the boundary 
 Of Portugal, and, safe on Spanish ground, 
 At last drew breath and bridle. Then on hither. 
 Where I was sure of refuge in the arms 
 Of my old friend Gil Perez ; whom I pray 
 Not so much on the score of an old friendship, 
 c. o
 
 19+ GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 So long and warm, but as a fugitive 
 
 Asking protection at his generous hands — 
 
 A plea the noble never hear in vain. 
 
 Nor for myself alone, but for my lady 
 
 Who comes with me, and whom I just have left 
 
 Under the poplars by the river-side, 
 
 Till I had told my news, and heard your answer. 
 
 A servant whom we met with on the way, 
 
 Pointed your house out — whither, travel-tir'd, 
 
 Press'd for my life, and deep in love with her 
 
 I bring, as curst by those I left behind, 
 
 And trusting him I come to — 
 
 Gil. Tut, tut, tut ! 
 
 Go on so, I'll not answer you at all ; 
 All this fine talk to me ! from Manuel Mendez ! 
 As if 'twere not enough to say " Friend Gil, 
 I've left a gentleman I slew behind. 
 And got a living lady with me, so 
 Am come to visit you." Why go about 
 With phrases and fine speeches ? I shall answer 
 Quite unpolitely thus, " Friend Manuel, 
 This house of mine is yours — for months, for years. 
 For all your life, with all the service in 't 
 That I or mine can do for you." So back, 
 And bring your lady, telling her from me
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 195 
 
 I stay behind because I am unapt 
 
 At such fine speeches as her lover makes. 
 
 Man. Oh, let me thank you — 
 
 Gi/. Nay, 'twere better far 
 
 Go to your lady ; who may be ill at ease 
 Alone in a strange place. [Exit Manuel. 
 
 What, Isabel ! {S6e enters.) 
 Isabel, if my former love and care 
 Deserve of you at all, forget awhile 
 All difference, (for there's a time for all,) 
 And help me now to honour an old friend 
 To whom I owe great hospitalities ; 
 Manuel Mendez, who with his bride is come 
 To be my guest. 
 
 Isab. I'll do my best for you. 
 
 But hark ! what noise ? {Shouts and fighting zcithln.) 
 
 Gil. A quarrel's up somewhere. 
 
 Voice within. Take him alive or dead. 
 
 Another voice. He'll slip us yet ! 
 
 Isab. Some one on horseback flying at full speed 
 From his pursuers. 
 
 Voices within. Fire upon him ! fire ! (Shots within.) 
 
 Isab. Mercy, he's dead ! 
 
 Gi/. Not he ; only his horse ; 
 
 And see he's up again, and gallantly
 
 196 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 Flashing his sword around on his pursuers 
 Keeps them at bay, and fighting, fighting, still 
 Retreats — 
 
 Lab. And to our house too — 
 
 Enter Don Alonso. 
 
 Jlon. Shelter ! shelter ! 
 
 In pity to a wretched man at last 
 Foredone ! 
 
 Gil. What, Don Alonso ! 
 
 Jlon. But a moment, 
 
 To ask you cover my retreat, Gil Perez ; 
 My life depends on reaching Portugal. 
 
 Gil. Away then to the bridge you see below there. 
 God speed you. 
 
 Jlon. And keep you ! [^Exit. 
 
 Voices zvithout. This way ! this way ! 
 
 Gil. But just in time ! 
 
 Enter Sheriff with Officers. 
 
 Officer. I'm sure he pass'd by here. 
 
 Gil. Well, gentlemen, your business ? 
 
 Sher. Don Alonso — 
 
 Came he this way ? 
 
 Gil. He did, and he went that, 
 
 And must almost, unless I much mistake,
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 197 
 
 Be got to Portugal. For, by the Lord, sir, 
 His feet seem'd feather'd with the wind ! 
 
 ^her. - Away then ! 
 
 After him ! 
 
 Gil. Stop a moment ! 
 
 ^her. Stop ! what mean you ? 
 
 Gil. Just what I say. Come, Mr. Sheriff, come, 
 You've done your duty ; be content with that ; 
 And don't hunt gentlemen like wolves to death ; 
 Justice is one thing, and fair play's another. 
 All the world over. 
 
 Sher. When I've got my man 
 
 I'll answer you. 
 
 Gil. Perhaps before. 
 
 Uer. Why, sir. 
 
 Would you detain me ? 
 
 Gil. Why, if logic fails, 
 
 I must try other argument. 
 
 Zher. As what, sir ? 
 
 Gil. Why, mathematical. As how ? Look here. 
 You see me draw this line. Well then, 'fore God, 
 The man who passes it — dies. Q. E. D. 
 
 Sher. Down with him ! 
 
 Gil. Back, I advise you. 
 
 Voices. Down with him !
 
 198 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 Gil. Chicken-hearts ! Curs ! Oh, you will down 
 with me, 
 Will you indeed ? and this the way you do it ? 
 
 {He fights zvUh them.) 
 One. Oh, I am slain. 
 She?'. I'm wounded. 
 
 Gil. Back with you ! 
 
 [^Exit, (l?iving them in. 
 
 Scene II. The River-side. — Enter Jvaka i?ndMAi<v?.L. 
 
 Jua. Oh never did I owe more to your love, 
 Than for this quick return. 
 
 Man. O my Juana, 
 
 The love such beauty as your own inspires, 
 Surmounts impossibilities. However, 
 I needed not go on to Salvatierra, 
 Lighting on what I look'd for by the way. 
 Among the mountains ; where my friend Gil Perez 
 (Whose honour I insult if I declare it) 
 Has pitcht his tent, with hospitality 
 Prophetic of our coming ; 
 So peaceably our love may fold its wings 
 Under the shadow of my friend's. 
 
 Jua. Oh, Manuel,
 
 SCENE ii] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 199 
 
 She who has left home, country, friends, and fame, 
 And would contentedly leave life, for you. 
 Desires no other temple of her love 
 Than a bleak rock, whose unchang'd stedfastness 
 Shall not out-wear her own. 
 
 Alon. {zL'ithin). I can no more ! 
 
 Jua. Listen ! What noise is that ? 
 
 Man. A cavalier 
 
 Still with his sword in his exhausted hand. 
 He fills ! 
 
 Enter Alonso, who falls at the side. 
 
 Alon. They e'en must have me. 
 
 Man. Courage, sir. 
 
 Wounded ? {Voices zvith'in.) 
 
 Alon. Hark ! the bloodhounds are close by ; 
 And worse, they must have slain Gil Perez first. 
 Who else — 
 
 Enter Gil. 
 
 Gil. Confound the rogues, they've got the bridge 
 And the way to 't, and heav'n itself, I think. 
 To fight upon their side. 
 
 Man. Gil, what is this ?
 
 200 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 Gil. Trying to help a friend out of a ditch, 
 I've tumbled in myself 
 
 Man. Come, we are two 
 
 In hand, and one in heart ; at least can fight 
 And die together. 
 
 Jhn. Nay, add me ; 
 
 The cause — 
 
 Gil. There's but a moment. Manuel, 
 
 I charge you b)' your friendship. 
 Draw not your sword to-day. 
 
 Man. Not I my sword 
 
 When theirs are on you ? 
 
 Jua. {dining to Manuel). Heav'ns ! 
 
 Voices, tcithin. This way ! this way ! 
 
 Man. They're coming. 
 
 Gil. {to Alonso). Listen ! you can swim ? 
 
 Alon. Alas — 
 
 Gil. I mean upon my shoulders. Manuel, 
 We two shall cross to Portugal, 
 Where follow us they may, but cannot seize us. 
 Meanwhile I leave you master of my house 
 And honour, centred (no time to say more) 
 In Isabel, my sister. Swear to me 
 That you will see to this. 
 
 Man. I swear it, Gil.
 
 SCENE III] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 201 
 
 Gi/. Enough, your hand ! Adieu ! Now cour- 
 age, sir ! 
 (Takes Alonso on his shoulders and plunges into the liver.) 
 
 Jua. The man swims like a dolphin. 
 
 Gil. (within). Manuel. 
 
 Remem.ber ! 
 
 Man. How he wrestles with the flood ! 
 
 And now is half-way over. 
 
 Gil (zcitkin). Manuel, 
 
 Remember ! I have trusted all to you. 
 
 Man. Waste not your breath. I'll do 't. 
 
 Gil. (zvithin). Adieu ! 
 
 Man. Adieu ! 
 
 [^Exit Manuel with Juan a. 
 
 Scene III. The Portuguese bank of the River. — Entet 
 the Admiral of Portugal and Donna Leonor as 
 from hunting. 
 
 Adm. Since summer's fiery Sirius, fair cousin. 
 Neither from place nor power in heaven declines. 
 Will you not rest ? 
 
 Leonor. Ah, what a noble sport 
 
 Is hunting ! who so abject-spirited 
 As not to love its generous cruelty ?
 
 202 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 Adm. It is indeed a noble imitation 
 Of noblest war. As when a white-tuskt boar 
 Holds out alone against the yelling pack, 
 Gores one, o'erthrows another, all the while 
 Bristling his back like to some ridge of spears : 
 While many a gallant hound, foil'd in his onset. 
 Tears his own flesh in disappointed rage. 
 Then to the charge again — he and his foe, 
 Each with redoubled fury firing up : 
 A chivalry that nature has implanted 
 Ev'n in the heart of beasts. 
 
 Leonor. So in falconrj', 
 
 That I love even better ; when the heron 
 Mounts to the wandering spheres of air and fire, 
 Pois'd between which alternately she burns 
 And freezes, while two falcons, wheeling round. 
 Strive to out-mount her, tilting all along 
 The fair blue field of heaven for their lists ; 
 Until out-ris'n and stricken, drencht in blood, 
 Plumb down she falls like to some crimson star ; 
 A rivalry that nature has implanted 
 Ev'n in the breast of birds. 
 
 Enter Pedro. 
 Fed. Which is the way, I wonder r What with
 
 SCENE III] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 203 
 
 fright and weariness, I must rest awhile. Well, this 
 is Portugal, where, to be sure, a poor Spanish pimp 
 may hope to escape ferocious honour. That I should 
 lose a post where others make their thousands at my 
 first function ! But who are these ? Fine folks too ! 
 Pray Heaven they be in want of an officer. 
 
 Adm. A horse will soon carry you to the villa. 
 Hark you, sir ! {To Pedro.) 
 
 Ped. My lord ! 
 
 Adrri. Who are j'ou ? 
 
 Pcd. Nay, how should I know ? 
 
 Adm. But are you one of my people ? 
 
 Ped. Yes, if you like it. As said Lord Some- 
 body, who neither serv'd king, man, nor God, but 
 who entering the palace one day at supper-time, and 
 seeing all the chamberlains at work without their 
 coats, whips oft" his, and begins carrying up dishes. 
 Suddenly in comes the major-domo, who perceiving 
 a stranger, asks if he be sworn of the service. " Not 
 yet," says he, ''but if swearing is all that's wanted, I'll 
 swear to what you please." So 'tis with me. Make 
 me your servant, and I'll swear and forswear anything. 
 
 Adm. You are liberal of your humour, 
 
 Ped. 'Tis all I have to be liberal of ; and it 
 would not be right to spare that.
 
 204 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 Gil. {within). Hold on, hold on ! 
 
 Leonor. Who's that ? 
 
 Adm. Look, some one with erect head and 
 vigorous arms, buffeting the wave before him. 
 
 Leonor. With another on his shoulders too. 
 
 J dm. {to Pedro). Now, would you win an 
 earnest of future favour, plunge in to his assistance. 
 
 Ped. I would, sir, but I'm a wretched swimmer. 
 
 Leonor. They have reacht the shore at last. 
 
 Entet Gil Perez and Alonso, drenckt. 
 
 Ahn. Thank Heaven for our escape ! 
 
 Gil. Ah, we're well quit of it. 
 
 Ped. Now, sir, if I can help. But Lord ha' 
 mercy ! {Zees Gil.) 
 
 Adm. What ! going just when you are wanted ? 
 
 Ped. I was born, my lord, with a tender heart ; 
 that seeing these poor fellows so drencht, bleeds for 
 them. That he should pursue me even to Portugal ! 
 {Is creeping azvay.) 
 
 Adm. What ! only just come, and going ? 
 
 Ped. Oh, my lord, a sudden call. Excuse me. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Adm. 'Tis an idiot. But let me help you.
 
 SCENE III] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 205 
 
 Alon. My life is in your hand. 
 
 Adm, In my hand ? How is that ? 
 
 Alon. You shall hear, if I may first know to whom 
 I tell my story. Misfortune forces me to be cautious. 
 
 Adm. You are right ; but need fear nothing from 
 the Lord High Admiral ot Portugal, who now speaks 
 to you, and pledges himselt to protect you so long as 
 you stand on his estate. 
 
 Alon. Enough, my lord. 
 My name is Don Alonso de Tordoya, 
 Not un-illustrious in Spain. I love 
 A noble lady ; whom going to visit, 
 When this same westering sun was young in heav'n, 
 I found a rival with her. I rush'd out. 
 Bidding him follow with his sword ; he follow'd ; 
 We fought, and with two passes in his side 
 I left him dead : the cry was after us ; 
 The officers of justice at my heels. 
 No time to lose ; I leap'd upon a horse. 
 And rode, until a shot, aim'd at his rider, 
 Kill'd him ; then, taking to my feet, fled on, 
 Till, coming to a country house, I saw, 
 To my great joy, my friend — 
 
 Gil. Here enter I ; 
 
 Who, seeing Don Alonso so hard set,
 
 2o6 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i 
 
 OfFer'd my services to keep them back 
 
 Till he was safe in Portugal. 
 
 That country house of mine — a pleasure house 
 
 Some call it, though I've found but little there — 
 
 Stands in a narrow mountain gorge, through which 
 
 He and the bloodhounds after him must pass 
 
 To reach the river ; as he says, he came. 
 
 And saw, and fled ; had scarce got fifty yards, 
 
 Up comes the Sheriff with his yelling pack 
 
 Panting and blowing. First most courteously 
 
 I begg'd them spare themselves as well as him 
 
 Further pursuit, but all in vain ; push on 
 
 They would ; whereon I was oblig'd to draw ; 
 
 Disabled four or five, Heav'n help their souls ! 
 
 Till, having done as much as he to figure 
 
 In justice's black book, like him I fled 
 
 After him to the river ; where on finding 
 
 The bridge occupied by the enemy. 
 
 Catching my sword between my teeth, and him 
 
 Upon my shoulders, I so dash'd in, 
 
 And, at last, over ; where now, thanks to Heav'n, 
 
 We meet your Excellency, who vouchsafes 
 
 Your shelter and protection. 
 
 Adm. 'Twas my word, 
 
 And I'll abide by't.
 
 SCENE III] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 207 
 
 Alon. I have need 
 
 Of all assurance, for the man I slew 
 Was of great note. 
 
 Adm. His name ? 
 
 Alon. Prefacing that he was a cavalier 
 Of wholly noble parts and estimation. 
 And that 'tis no disparagement to valour 
 To be unfortunate, I may repeat it, — 
 Don Diego d'Alvarado. 
 
 Adm. Wretched man ! 
 
 My cousin ! you have slain him ! 
 
 Leonoi. You have slain 
 
 My brother, traitor ! 
 
 Gil. Oh, I see my sword 
 
 Must e'en be out again. 
 
 Alon. Your Excellency 
 
 Will pause before he draws his sword on one 
 Surrender'd at his feet. My lord, remember 
 I slew Don Diego in the face of day. 
 In fair and open duel. And, beside, 
 Is not your Excellency's honour pledg'd 
 To my security? 
 
 Gil. Beside all which, 
 
 I say that if all Portugal, and all 
 Within it, admiralty and army too.
 
 2o8 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act i, sc. hi 
 
 Combine, you shall not touch him while I live. 
 
 Adm. I know not what to do ; upon one side 
 My promise, on the other the just call 
 Of retribution for my kinsman's death. 
 I must adjudge between them. Don Alonso, 
 The word of Honour is inviolable. 
 But not less so her universal law. 
 So long as you stand upon ground of mine 
 I hold your person sacred : for so far 
 My promise holds ; but set your foot beyond 
 E'en but an inch — remember, death awaits you. 
 And so farewell. 
 
 Leonor. Nay, hold ! though you have pledged 
 
 Your promise — 
 
 Adm. What I pledge is pledg'd for you. 
 
 As for myself; content you. 
 
 \Exeunt Admiral and Leonor. 
 
 Alon. Well, friend Gil, 
 
 What say you to all this ? 
 
 Gil. Why then, I say, 
 
 At least 'tis better than it was. To-day 
 The mouse, shut in the cupboard, there must stay : 
 But will jump out to-morrow — if she may.
 
 ACT II, sc. i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 209 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. A Wood near San Lucar in Andalusia. — 
 Enter Manuel and Juana as travelling. 
 
 Man. Misfortune on misfortune ! 
 
 Jua. A}', they call 
 
 One to another. 
 
 Man. Ah, my love ! 
 
 That you should wander thus about with me 
 And find no home ! Gallicia, that I thought 
 Should be our port, unkindly storm'd us out 
 To Salvatierra, whence before the gale 
 We drive to Andalusia. 
 
 Jua. Manuel, 
 
 My home Is ever where you are. 
 
 Man. Oh how 
 
 Requite such love ! but you shall rest awhile 
 Till I and the poor fellow we plck'd up 
 Have found fit resting-place in San Lucar. 
 Pedro ! 
 
 Enter Pedro. 
 Ped. Sir ! 
 
 Man. Come you with me ; 
 
 While you, Juana, underneath those trees — 
 c. p
 
 2IO GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act n 
 
 Jua. Weep your departure. \Exit Juana, 
 
 Mnn. It shall not be long. 
 
 Although her grief blindly anticipates 
 A longer separation than she knows ! 
 
 Ped. Alas, and how is that ? and how can you 
 Foredoom such pain to one who loves you so ? 
 Pardon me who am but your servant, sir. 
 And that but these two days, for saying it. 
 
 Man. Ah, Pedro, 'tis not I who wills all this, 
 But fate ; that, stronger than all human will, 
 Drove me from Portugal to Gallicia, 
 Thence hither ; where my fate still urging on, 
 I must to sea, joining the armament 
 That sails to plant the banner of the church 
 Over the golden turrets of the north : 
 Leaving my lady — not, as you surmise, 
 Deserted and dishonour'd here behind, 
 But in some holy house at San Lucar, 
 With all the little substance I possess, 
 Till I return. For to a soldier 
 His sword is property enough. [Drums zvithin.) 
 
 Ped. And hark 
 
 The drum that answers you — 
 
 Man. No doubt a troop 
 
 Recruiting for this war.
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 211 
 
 Ped. See, they are coming. 
 
 Man. I'll take occasion by the forelock then. 
 Pedro, go, tell the Ensign of the troop 
 Two men would join his ranks. I'll to Juana. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Gil Perez lo'ith soldiers. 
 
 Ped. This one looks affable. Pray, sir, can you 
 courteously inform me which is the Ensign ? 
 
 Soldier. There — he with the red sash. 
 
 Ped. What, he with the lofty presence and broad 
 shoulders ? 
 
 Soldier. Ay ! 
 
 Gil (to the soldiers). Well then, my lads, we shall 
 agree together very well, eh ? 
 
 Soldiers. Long live our noble Ensign ! 
 
 {Exeunt soldiers. 
 
 Ped. Now's the time ! 
 
 Gil {to himself). 'Fore heaven, this soldiering 
 would be pleasant enough did not that trouble follow 
 and plague me. 
 
 Ped. Sir ! 
 
 Gil. Leaving Isabel at such a risk — 
 
 Ped. Sir Ensign ! 
 
 Gil. That as fast as I gain honour here I run the 
 chance of losing more at home.
 
 212 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii 
 
 Fed. Noble Sir Ensign ! 
 
 Gil. One good thing, however, my good Manuel 
 keeps guard for me. 
 
 Fed. He must surely be deaf this side — I'll try 
 the other. Noble Ensign ! 
 
 Gil {turning round). Who is that ? 
 
 Fed. (recognising him gradually). A soldier — no, I 
 only mean one who would be — no soldier. If I said 
 I wish'd to be a soldier, sir, I lied. 
 
 Gil. Rascal ! you here ? did I not warn you 
 whenever and wherever — 
 
 Ped. Oh yes, yes, but how should I ever expect 
 to find you here a soldiering ? 
 
 Gil {setting upon him). I'll teach you I am here, 
 scoundrel, to whom I owe half my trouble. 
 
 Ped. Help ! murder ! help ! 
 
 Enter Manuel. 
 
 Man. A soldier set upon my servant ! stop, sir ! 
 how do you dare — Gil Perez ! 
 
 Gil. Manuel ! 
 
 Man. Why, did I not leave you in Portugal ? 
 
 Gil. And I you at Salvatierra, engaged to me by 
 solemn promise and old love to guard my honour 
 there ?
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 213 
 
 Man. We both have cause for wonder. I will 
 tell you all ; but first we must be alone. 
 
 Gi/. Ay, another wonder ; this fellow yours ? 
 
 Man. In travelling hither we found him by the 
 way, and took him. 
 
 Gi/. Well, this saves your life for this time, sir : 
 but, remember, you will not always have a friend at 
 hand to do so much for you. 
 
 Pe^. I know that ; I only wish you would be so 
 gracious as to tell me where you are next bound, that 
 I may take good care not to go thither. But I know 
 one place at least to which you cannot follow me — 
 my own estate — and thither I set off immediately. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Gil. We are alone. Come, I will tell you first 
 My story. As you say you saw us last, 
 Alonso and myself, in Portugal ; 
 Such an escape as (so the wise men say) 
 Is from the frying-pan into the fire. 
 We landing from the river on the estate 
 Of that great potentate the High Admiral, 
 Whose cousin, it turn'd out, was the very man 
 Alonso slew ; whereat the Admiral, 
 Who had, before he knew this, promis'd us 
 Protection, gave us truly such protection
 
 2 14 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii 
 
 As the cat gives the mouse that she thinks safe 
 
 Under her paw. But we escap'd from her, 
 
 And after much adventures came at last 
 
 To San Lucar here, where the Dulce, who now 
 
 Is general of the war that our good king 
 
 Wages with England, courteously receiv'd us ; 
 
 Gave Don Alonso a regiment ; made me 
 
 An Ensign in it as you see ; enough — 
 
 I know you will not wish a longer story 
 
 From one whose heart, until you tell him yours, 
 
 Hangs from a hair. 
 
 Man. To take the story up then 
 
 Where you did, Perez — scarcely had you plung'd 
 Into the river, than the sheriff's rout 
 Came after you ; but, seeing all was lost, 
 Went angry to their homes, and I to yours ; 
 Where I receiv'd such hospitality 
 As our old friendship — But I falter here. 
 Scarce knowing how to tell — 
 Nay, almost doubting if to tell at all. 
 Or to conceal, what to conceal and tell 
 At once were best. You made me promise, Gil, 
 At parting — yea, with those last words hard wrung 
 Out of your breathless struggle with the flood — 
 That I would watch the honour of your house.
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 215 
 
 I did so : and it is because I did so 
 That I was forc'd to leave it. 
 
 GU. Manuel, 
 
 Your words are slaying me by syllables. 
 But tell me all — How was't ? 
 
 Man. One Juan Baptista 
 
 Courted your sister. 
 
 Gi/. Well ? 
 
 Man. And came at last 
 
 To such a boldness, that one night he stole 
 Into the house. 
 
 Gi/. Manuel ! 
 
 Man. I, who was watching, 
 
 Ran from my chamber, found a muffled man ; 
 Threw myself on him ; he, alerter yet, 
 Leap'd from the window, and I after him 
 Into the street, where two he'd posted there 
 Came to his rescue ; one of them I slew. 
 The other wounded, while the rogue himself 
 Fled and escap'd. What could I do, my friend, 
 A foreigner, charg'd with a homicide 
 In a strange country, with Juana too 
 Involv'd with me ? If I were wrong to fly, 
 I did so thinking how yourself would act 
 In a like case.
 
 2i6 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii 
 
 Gil. 'Tis true, I cannot blame you. 
 
 Ah ! he said truer may be than he meant, 
 Who liken'd a true friend to a true mirror, 
 That shows one all oneself indeed, but all 
 Revers'd ; that when I look into your breast 
 To see my honour, I but see disgrace 
 Reflected there. I must begone at once 
 To Salvatierra ; for to leave my name 
 In danger is to let it run to shame. 
 
 Enter Alonso. 
 
 Oh, Don Alonso, you are come in time. 
 If aught that I have ever done for you 
 Deserve return, requite me, I beseech you. 
 By giving Manuel here the Ensigncy 
 I must throw up. 
 
 AIo)i. But why ? 
 
 Gil. I must at once 
 
 To Salvatierra, where my honour lies 
 In the utmost peril. 
 
 Jlon. But — 
 
 Gil. I am resolv'd. 
 
 Alon. I fain might try dissuade you, but I know 
 Your honour will not call in vain. Enough :
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 217 
 
 Be't as you will — on one condition. 
 
 Gil. Well ? 
 
 Jlon. That I may go with you, and share your risk, 
 Who more than shar'd, and conquer'd mine. 
 
 Man. Nay, sir, 
 
 If any one do that it must be I, 
 His older friend, who bringing this ill news 
 Must see him safely through it. 
 
 J Ion. But 'twas I 
 
 Who drew him from his home, where, till I came, 
 He liv'd in peace and quiet, but where now 
 This outrage has grown up in his forc'd absence. 
 And surely, the world over, 'tis ill manners 
 For one who, having drawn a friend from home. 
 Lets him return alone. 
 
 Man. Well, be you courteous, 
 
 I'll not be cowardly. 
 
 Gil. Oh, this rivalry 
 
 Proves the nobility of both ! But, friends, 
 Neither must go with me ; you both are here 
 Fled in like peril of your lives from home. 
 And how could I avail me of your love 
 At such a price ? Nay, I may want you both 
 In greater risks hereafter ; and whom look to. 
 If you be lost ?
 
 2i8 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii 
 
 Alon. True, but if one of us 
 
 Went with you now, the other — 
 
 Man. And that one 
 
 Must be myself. 
 
 Alon. You see, sir, one icill go. 
 
 Do you choose which. 
 
 Man. Content. 
 
 Gil. How shall I choose. 
 
 When to choose one must needs the other hurt ? 
 But if it needs must be — 
 I say that Don Alonso, so cngag'd 
 In high and even holy business here. 
 Must not forego't for mine. If one will come, 
 Let it be Manuel. 
 
 Alon. I live to hear 
 
 This insult from your lips ! But I'll have vengeance ; 
 Neither shall go unless you take with you 
 Thus much at least to compensate 
 For what you leave. These jewels may assist you 
 Where my sword cannot. {Giving jewels.) 
 
 Gil. I accept them, sir. 
 
 As freely as they're given. Come, embrace me. 
 And now to punish an unworthy sister. 
 And that ill traitor, from whose heart I swear 
 My bleeding honour with this sword to tear.
 
 SCENE ii] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 219 
 
 Scene II. Outside Gil Perez's House at Salvatierra ; 
 as in Act I. Scene I. — Enter Isabel and Casilda. 
 
 Isab. What ! Donna Leonor d'Alvarado, come 
 to Salvatierra ? 
 
 Cas. Yes. 
 
 Isab. And for what purpose ? 
 
 Cas. They say, to avenge her brother's death. I 
 myself have seen her conferring with Juan Baptista. 
 
 Isab. And what do you infer from that ? 
 
 Cas. He is, they say, chief witness against Don 
 Alonso and your brother, for this murder. 
 
 Isab. Against my brother too ! O Casilda, is it 
 not shameful that Juan Baptista should revenge with 
 slanders behind my brother's back whom he dares not 
 meet face to fice ! Nay, that a traitor be revenged 
 at all on him he has betrayed ! thriving here at home 
 while my brother is banisht ! 
 
 Cas. But there's something else. He charges your 
 brother's friend Manuel with murdering his men. 
 
 Isab. In proving which, my honour must be pub- 
 licly canvassed and compromised ! 
 
 Enter Pedro. 
 Ped. Oh, what a long way it has seemed ; as it will
 
 2 20 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii 
 
 when fear fetters one's legs. Oh, permit me, madam, 
 since fate has sent me back to your feet, to kiss but 
 the little toe, the pink, the pearl, the petty Benjamin 
 of those ten toes. But above all, tell me, for Heaven' s 
 sake, is my master here ? 
 
 Isab. No, Pedro, you at least are safe. He, alas, 
 is far away. 
 
 Ped. So one might think ; but yet on the other 
 hand I'd swear he must be here. 
 
 Isab. Pedro ! 
 
 Ped. Oh yes, his sole vocation now is to dodge my 
 steps like some avenging ghost of Capa and Espada. 
 
 Enter Juan Baptista. 
 
 Bapt. {speaking to himself). If they condemn him 
 To death, as, on my evidence alone, 
 They must, he'll not return to plague me more 
 At Salvatierra. But, fair Isabel, 
 How blest am I on whom the star of beauty, 
 Bright rival of the sun, 
 Beams out such rays of love ! 
 
 Isab. Stand oft" ! Away ! 
 
 Not rays of love, whatever heretofore 
 I and my beauty may have beam'd, Baptista,
 
 SCENE ii] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 221 
 
 But now, if rays at all, lightnings of rage 
 
 And indignation from my heart and eyes. 
 
 Approach them at your peril ! What, false traitor. 
 
 You come to court me with my brother's blood 
 
 Upon you, shed too in no manly duel. 
 
 Face to face, hand to hand, in the open field. 
 
 But like a murderer, 
 
 Behind his back stabbing him dead with slander — 
 
 Never ! [Exif. 
 
 Bapt. But, Isabel ! 
 
 Cas. Your day is over. \Exit. 
 
 Bapt. And that I should lose her by the very 
 means I hoped to win her with ! 
 
 Fed. Let not this prevent your memory acknow- 
 ledging one who has suffered banishment, and lives in 
 terror of his life, on your account. 
 
 Bapt. Pedro ! 
 
 Fed. And at your service. 
 
 Bapt. Ah, would you were ! 
 
 Bed. Try me. 
 
 Bapt. But are you still Isabel's servant ? 
 
 Bed. I trust so. 
 
 Bapt. Oh, good Pedro, I would fain explain to 
 her, and wipe out (as I easily can) the offence she has 
 taken against me ; and if you will but be my friend,
 
 222 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii 
 
 and leave the door ajar to-night, that I may tell her 
 the whole storj', I'll pay you well for it. 
 
 Ped. Well, I think there can be no danger in 
 that. Why, if you should happen to call loudly out- 
 side the door to-night, and I let you in, forgetting to 
 ask who it is — surely I shall not be to blame r 
 
 Bapt. 'Tis well ; the sun is already setting ; go 
 you to your post, and I shall be at mine immediately. 
 
 \Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene III. A Room in Gil Perez's House. — Enter 
 Isabel and Casilda. 
 
 Lab. Casilda, now the flaming sun has set. 
 See to the doors ; and you and Inez there 
 Sing to me — 'twill beguile my melancholy. 
 No merry song, however ; something sad 
 As my own fancies. {They s'mg zcithin.) 
 
 Hark ! what noise is that ? 
 One calling at the door at such an hour ! — 
 Again ! — Bid Pedro see — 
 Why, what is it that makes me tremble so ? 
 From head to foot — 
 
 Enter Pedro hurriedly. 
 Ped. O madam !
 
 SCENE III] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 223 
 
 hab. Well ? 
 
 Fed. O madam — 
 
 Opening the door — only to ask — a man 
 All muffled up ran by me — {Jside.) 'Tis all right. 
 
 Enter Gil Perez, cloakt. 
 
 Isab. Who's this ? 
 
 Gil. (^discovering himself). I, Isabel. 
 
 Isab. Oh heavens ! 
 
 Gil. Well, sister, 
 
 What troubles you ? 
 
 Fed. Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord ! {Hides) 
 
 Isab. O Gil, how have you dared to venture here, 
 Your very life at stake ! 
 
 Gil. Small risk to one 
 
 Whom your ill doings have half kill'd already. 
 
 Isab. I do not understand you — 
 
 Gil. You need not : 
 
 I come not to explain, but to avenge ; 
 And, mark my words, what I have come to do, 
 I'll do. 
 
 Isab. Alas ! is it my fault then, brother. 
 That traitors of their gold can make them wings 
 To fly into my house ? 
 
 Gil. Be not'afraid ;
 
 2 24 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act n 
 
 I shall not judge of you or any one 
 Unheard, as others seem to judge of me. 
 What is the matter ? 
 
 Lab. Nay, I only know 
 
 You are accus'd of aiding, how I know not, 
 In Don Diego's death — on evidence, 
 As 'tis believ'd, the Judge (who now is here, 
 Inflam'd by Donna Leonor) declares 
 Sufficient to convict you of your life 
 And property — Alas, alas, my brother ! 
 
 Gil. You shall away with me ; for 'tis not well 
 To leave you here alone and unprotected. 
 But I must see first what this Judge has got 
 To say against me. 
 
 Isab. But how get at it ? 
 
 Gil. Why from the fountain-head. But, by the 
 Lord, 
 If I must fly or die for't, 
 I'll not do so for nothing, I'll begin 
 My vengeance on this rascal. {Pulling out Pedro.) 
 
 Ped. Oh begin 
 
 On some one else and sum up all on me ! 
 
 Gil. How come you here ? 
 
 Ped. Oh, I will tell the truth 
 
 And nothing but the truth.
 
 SCENE iv] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 225 
 
 Gil. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Well 
 
 1 
 
 
 Ped. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Being 
 
 assur'd 
 
 That y, 
 
 ou were 
 
 coming 
 
 hither — 
 
 
 
 Gil. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Well ? 
 
 
 Ped. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 came 
 
 Before. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Gil. 
 
 And \\ 
 
 'hy, 
 
 when — 
 
 
 
 
 Ped. 
 
 
 
 
 
 That 
 
 by doing^so 
 
 You should not see my face, (which you declar'd, 
 Seeing again, you'd kill me,) but my back. 
 Which as you never s^vore at — 
 
 Gil. {striking hini). Villain, die ! 
 
 Ped. {falling as dead). Oh ! I am slain ! 
 
 Gil. Come, Isabel, 'tis I 
 
 Must bear you on my shoulders through the flames 
 That rise all round. \Exeunt Gil and Isabel. 
 
 Ped. {rising). Oh, angel of sham death. 
 How much I owe your out-spread wings to-day, 
 Under whose shadow — Yo escapare. \_Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. Jn open Gallery in the Judge''s House at 
 Salvatieira. — Enter Judge, and attendants, ivith 
 lights, If^c. 
 
 Judge. Here in this gallery where the air is cool 
 Set out my desk and papers. 
 
 C. Q
 
 226 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii 
 
 I must examine all these depositions. 
 
 1st Attendant. 'Tis done, my lord. 
 
 2nd Attendant. My lord, a stranger asks 
 
 Admittance — upon something, as he says, 
 Important to the matter now in hand. 
 
 Judge. Admit him, then. 
 
 Gil. {zvitbout). Manuel, keep the door ; 
 
 And, till my lord and I have had our talk, 
 Let no one enter. 
 
 Man. (zvithoui). Trust me. 
 
 Enter Gil. 
 
 Gil. First permit me 
 
 To kiss your lordship's hand. And secondly, 
 Having important matter to disclose 
 About this business, I would tell it you 
 Alone — 
 
 Judge {to attendants). Retire! \_Excunt attendants. 
 
 Gil. And with your lordship's leave 
 
 Will take a chair. 
 
 Judge. Sit, sir. 
 
 Gil. May I presume 
 
 To ask your lordship how Gallicia 
 Agrees with you ?
 
 SCENE iv] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 227 
 
 'Judge. I thank you, very well. 
 
 Gil. I'm very glad of that. Humph — as I take it, 
 Your lordship is come down into these parts 
 On a great trial ? 
 
 Judge. Yes, the case is this ; 
 
 A certain Don Alonso de Tordoya, 
 And one Gil Perez of this place, are charg'd 
 With slaying Don Diego d'Alvarado. 
 
 Gil. Slaying ? 
 
 Judge. In duel, sir. 
 
 Gil. I marvel much 
 
 They should have dragg'd your lordship from the city 
 And from the court that you so much adorn, 
 Into this beggarly place, to try a cause 
 That happens almost every day in Spain. 
 
 Judge. True, sir, but this is not by any means 
 The whole, or kernel, of the case. These men. 
 Beside, and after, the said homicide. 
 Resisted the king's officers ; this Perez 
 Especially — a notable ruffian 
 Who lives among these hills a lawless life 
 Of violence and murder — struck the Sheriff, 
 And — but I'm scarce entitled to say more 
 To one whose very name I know not. 
 
 Gil. Oh !
 
 228 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii 
 
 My name is quickly told, if that be all. 
 
 "Judge. What is it then ? 
 
 Gil. Gil Perez. 
 
 Judge. Ho ! without ! 
 
 Man. {appearing at the dooi). My lord ! 
 
 Judge. And who are you ? 
 
 Gil. A friend of mine. 
 
 Man. Who will take care that no one else comes in, 
 Till you have done. [Exit. 
 
 Gil Your lordship sees how 'tis — 
 
 Be not alarm'd — pray take your chair again — 
 I've much to say to you. 
 
 Judge {aside). Better submit. 
 
 This desperate man may have a score beside — 
 Well, sir, your business with me ? 
 
 Gil Why, my lord, 
 
 I for these many days have been, so please you. 
 Away from home ; suddenly coming back. 
 My friends here tell me of a mortal suit 
 Your lordship has against me ; when I ask 
 For the particulars, some say one thing. 
 And some another. I, who naturally 
 Am somewhat interested in the truth. 
 Think it the wisest course to come at once 
 Straight to head-quarters.
 
 SCENE iv] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 229 
 
 'Judge. This is strange proceeding. 
 
 Gil. Oh, if your lordship scruple telling me, 
 These papers will not. I'd not for the world 
 Annoy j'our lordship. {Takes the papers.) 
 
 Judge. What arc you about, sir ! 
 
 Gil. Conning my brief 
 
 Judge. But, sir — 
 
 Gil. Now pray, m}- lord, 
 
 Resume your seat ; let me not ask you this 
 So very often. {Reading.) Ah — the bare indictment 
 I know in a rough way, no need read that ; 
 Ikit for the evidence. Ah, here it is. 
 Humph ; the first witness called, Andrew Ximenes : 
 " Andrew Ximenes, being duly sworn, 
 " Deposeth thus : that he was cutting wood, 
 " When the two gentlemen came out to fight ; 
 '• And stood to watch them ; that, after some passes, 
 " Don Diego fell ; and the officers of justice 
 *' Then coming up, the other leap'd on horse, 
 " And fled : but being brought to ground by a shot 
 " That kill'd his horse, then ran, until he reach'd 
 " Gil Perez's house," — here enter I, — " who first 
 " Courteously ask'd the Sheriff to desist 
 " Hunting the gentleman ; but when the Sherift 
 " Persisted, drew on him and on his people,
 
 2 30 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii 
 
 " And fought them back ; but how and when exactly 
 
 "The wound was given, deponent cannot say. 
 
 " And all this he deposeth upon oath, 
 
 " Andrew Ximenes — " And he says the truth ; 
 
 Andrew is a good, honourable fellow. 
 
 Now for the second, Gil Parrado ; humph. 
 
 " Parrado, duly sworn, deposeth thus ; 
 
 " That hearing a commotion, he ran out 
 
 '" And got in time to see " — here enter I — 
 
 " Gil Perez fighting with the officers, 
 
 " Then on a sudden running to the river 
 
 " Plunge in. And that is all he knows of it." 
 
 How short and sweet ! 
 
 " Next and third witness, Juan Baptista," — ay, 
 
 Now for this exemplary Christian — 
 
 "Juan Baptista sworn, deposeth thus : 
 
 " That, as luck fell, he was behind a tree 
 
 " When the two gentlemen came out to fight ; 
 
 " That they fought fairly hand to hand, until " — 
 
 Here enter I — " Gil Perez suddenly 
 
 " Rush'd from a thicket by, and join'd himself 
 
 " With Don Alonso, and the two together 
 
 " Maliciously and treacherously slew 
 
 " Don Diego." Pray, my lord, what is the worth 
 
 Of such a witness, who himself admits
 
 SCENE iv] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 231 
 
 He stood behind a tree watching two men 
 
 Set on a third, and slay him, and yet never 
 
 Ran to his help ? Well — humph — " And after this, 
 
 " Saw Don Alonso jump upon a horse 
 
 "And fly, while Perez drew his sword upon 
 
 " The officers of justice, and slew one, 
 
 " And maim'd another." Give me leave, my lord, 
 
 To take this leaf. {Tears it out.) 
 
 I'll bring it back to you 
 When I have made this rascal Jew confess 
 (If ever Jews confess) what he did see, 
 If any thing ; but fair that if a judge 
 Decide on evidence, that evidence 
 At least be true ; that he should hear moreover 
 Both sides, accus'd as well as his accuser. 
 As to that Sheriff's wounds — the only count 
 To which I own — I never sought the fray ; 
 The fray sought me, as I stood innocently 
 At my own door ; and pray what man of honour — 
 What would your lordship's sober self have done 
 In such a case ? 
 
 Judge. Within ! within there ! ho ! 
 
 Perez himself is here ! the culprit ! Seize him ! 
 
 Man. {appearing. Ay, do, if you can catch him. 
 
 Gil. Manuel,
 
 232 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act ii.,sc. iv 
 
 Let them come up ; I have no more to say. 
 And you and I, who walked in by the door, 
 Can jump out of the window. 
 
 Fokes {zvifh'm). Seize him ! Seize him ! 
 
 Judge. One word, Gil Perez ; if you yield at once, 
 I'll be your friend. 
 
 Gil. I make no friends of lawyers, 
 
 And never trust their promises. 
 
 Judge. If not. 
 
 As sure as Heav'n, I'll bring you to the scaffold, 
 
 Gil. If you can catch me. 
 
 Judge. Cannot I ? 
 
 GIL Well, try. 
 
 Judge. Ho there ! upon him ; and if he resist, 
 Cut him down I 
 
 Man. Now then, Gil ! 
 
 Gil. Now, Manuel ! 
 
 Out with the lights ! or wanting them, we two 
 Will strike them, knaves, in plenty out of you. 
 [Confusion and Melee, in lohich Gil and Manuel escape!)
 
 ACT III., sc. i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN z 3 3 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. On a Mountain by Sn/vatierra. — Entr?- Gil 
 Perez, Manuel, Isabel, and Juana. 
 
 Gil. This mountain then, upon whose wrinkled 
 edge 
 The weary moon reclines, must be our fort ; 
 Where, In some green and shady spot of it, 
 (Hung round with savage, inaccessible rocks,) 
 While Isabel and your Juana rest. 
 You and I, Manuel, will steal into 
 The little village nestled there below, 
 And of such travellers as come this way, 
 Demand (our own all gone) a scanty living. 
 By fair entreaty, not by violence ; 
 Until, pursuit giv'n up, we may retreat 
 Elsewhere, to live upon what little means 
 Injustice leaves us. 
 
 Man. Gil, 'tis nothing new 
 
 For criminals to hide 
 
 Ev'n where they did the crime, where vengeance least 
 Expects to find them, and hunts round in vain. 
 And even should they light upon the place, 
 Surely we two, back'd b\' these friendl)' rocks.
 
 23+ GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act hi 
 
 Can keep at bay the rabble that we foil'd 
 On level ground. 
 
 Isab. I have listen'd to you both, 
 
 And take it ill you reckon on yourselves 
 Alone ; when I, who though a woman, having yet 
 Your blood, Gil Perez, running in my veins, 
 And something of your spirit in my heart, 
 Am at your side. 
 
 Jua. And I, who, like a coward. 
 
 Chime in the last ; yet, if with little power, 
 With right good will indeed. 
 
 Gil. Well spoken both ! 
 
 But I maintain it as a golden law. 
 Women be women ever : keep you quiet, 
 And comforting yourselves as best you may, 
 While Manuel and I, as becomes men. 
 Provide for you in all. 
 
 Isab. Well, we at least, 
 
 If fit for nothing else, can pray for you. 
 
 \_Exeunt Isabel and Juana. 
 
 Gil. Now they are gone, I want to talk with you 
 On a grave matter, Manuel. 'Tis this. 
 Among those depositions at the Judge's, 
 One rascal, and a rascal too whose gold 
 Makes weigh his witness against honesty.
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 235 
 
 Declar'd on oath he saw me, me, Gil Perez, 
 Abetting Don Alonso treacherously 
 To slay Don Diego. 
 
 Man. Who was this ? 
 
 Gil. Why one 
 
 Who has not this alone to answer for, 
 As you will know when 1 name — Juan Baptista. 
 
 Man. A coward, who, as all such villains do, 
 Flies to the tongue for vengeance, not the sword ; 
 Behind one's back too — 
 Why, let us go at once, and in broad day 
 Before all eyes, before the very Judge's 
 He lied to, drag the rascal from his house. 
 And make him eat his words in the very place 
 He spit them forth in. 
 
 Gil. All this we will do. 
 
 But at some better opportunity. 
 And fitter place. I've heard my grandsire say, 
 " If you begin the fray, why then 
 You must abide the how and when ; 
 But who's drawn into it, I trow. 
 May suit himself with when and how." 
 But footsteps ! Hark ! — 
 
 Now to commence our calling, as new members 
 Of the most courteous cut-purse company.
 
 236 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act in 
 
 Enter Leonardo, travelling. 
 
 Leon, {speaking as he enters). Lead on the horses, 
 Mendo, 'tis so pleasant 
 Under the shadow of these wooded rocks, 
 I'll walk some way alone. 
 
 Gil. Your servant, sir. 
 
 Leon. Sir, God be with you. 
 
 Gil. Travelling all alone ? 
 
 And whither, may I ask ? 
 
 Leon. To Lisbon, sir. 
 
 Gil. And whence ? 
 
 Leon. I started at the break of day 
 
 From Salvatierra. 
 
 Gil. Ay ? Then you can tell 
 
 What news is stirring there. 
 
 Leon. Oh nothing, sir. 
 
 Unless perhaps the exploits of a fellow 
 The terror of that country ; one Gil Perez, 
 I think ; who, when justice was at his heels 
 After some crime or other I forget. 
 Wounded the Sheriff, kill'd his officer. 
 And then was impudent enough to walk 
 Into the very Judge's house, and there, 
 Before his very eyes, snatch up and read
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 237 
 
 The depositions drawn up against him. 
 
 Gil. A very curious story, that ! 
 
 Leon. And then. 
 
 Though half the place was up in arms on him. 
 He, and another who is, as I hear, 
 Much such another rascal as himself. 
 Broke through them all and got away scot free ! 
 But they are after him. 
 
 Gil. This is the news ? 
 
 Leon. All that I know of. 
 
 Gil. Well — before you go, 
 
 I'll ask you, sir, who by your speech and bearing 
 Seem a good fellow. If a friend of yours. 
 Came flying for his life, the Philistines 
 Close on his heels, and fell before your feet. 
 At your own door, exhausted, and beseeching 
 Help and protection of you — let me ask 
 What would you do ? 
 
 Leon. What do ? why, give it him. 
 
 Gil. You would ? and would you, in so doing, 
 Deserve the name of rascal for your pains I 
 
 Leon. No, certainly. 
 
 Gil. And when a writ was out 
 
 Against you for so doing, charging you 
 With murder, threatening death and confiscation,
 
 238 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act iii 
 
 Would you be more a rascal for demanding 
 Such needful information of the Judge 
 As he alone could give of evidence 
 Which you suspected, and found filse ? 
 
 Leon. No, truly. 
 
 Gil. One question more. If, damn'd by such 
 false witness, 
 You were found guilty, all your property 
 Confiscated, yourself condemn'd to die, 
 Might not you fly the misdirected sword 
 Of justice, and of those who well could spare 
 Beg a poor tithe of what she robb'd you wholly, 
 And be no rascal still I 
 
 Leon. Oh clearly, clearly. 
 
 Gil. This granted then, look to the inference. 
 I am Gil Perez ; I who struck the Sheriff, 
 And kill'd his man, and read the Judge's papers, 
 And flying hither, shorn of house and home, 
 Ask you for that of which the law robs me ; 
 Which, having plenty, if you will not give, 
 By your own free admission I may take, 
 And be no rascal still. 
 
 Leon. You need not use 
 
 My argument against me ; I respect 
 And pity you, Gil Perez ; take this chain ;
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 239 
 
 If it be not enough, I pledge my word 
 I'll bring you more hereafter. 
 
 Gil. All you say 
 
 Tells of a generous heart. But ere I take 
 Your present, tell me — do you give it me 
 For fear, alone, and in my power, may be, 
 Or of good will ? 
 
 Leon. Good will ! I swear to you, 
 
 Gil Perez, I would even do the same 
 Had I a squadron at my side. 
 
 Gil. As such 
 
 I take it, then. For when my life must pay, 
 As soon or late It must, the penalty 
 Of hungry vengeance, I shall lay it down 
 Contented in my conscience, and report 
 That I but took from those who had to give, 
 And freely gave ; the only retribution 
 My evil star allow'd me. 
 
 Leoti. True enough. 
 
 Is there aught else that I can do for you ? 
 
 Gil. Nothing. 
 
 Leon. Farewell — and may a better fate 
 
 Await you. 
 
 Gil. Farewell — shall I see you safe 
 
 Over the mountain ?
 
 240 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act m 
 
 LeoH. Not a step — adieu \_Exii. 
 
 Man. Sure, never robbery was known to wear 
 So fair a face. 
 
 Gil. Tut, tut, you're not to call it 
 
 Robbery, but preferment, Manuel. 
 But who are these ? 
 
 Enter tzco Farmers. 
 
 I si Farm. I tell you I have bought the stock of vines 
 Upon his farm. 
 
 2nd Farm. What, Gil's ? 
 
 \st Farm. Yes ; sold, you know, 
 
 To pay the costs of prosecution. 
 Judges and Alguazils and such ; and 1 
 Am carrying them the money. 
 
 Man. Fair game this. 
 
 Gil. I know him, a near neighbour. Well, friend 
 Antony, 
 How goes it with you ? 
 
 \5t Farm. What ! Gil Perez ! you ! 
 
 When the whole country's after you ? 
 
 Gil. And if they catch me nobody's the worse 
 Except myself But till they catch and kill me, 
 (When I shall want, you know, no more to live on,) 
 I've not a stiver ; dipt of the estate
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 241 
 
 Whose price you carry in your pocket there. 
 Now, I'd not starve ; but, on the other hand, 
 Would not wrong any one to keep me from't : 
 How shall we settle that r 
 
 1st Farm. Oh easily — 
 
 Take this — and this {offers money) — I had better give 
 
 it up 
 At once, for fear. {Aside!) 
 
 Gil. But do you give me this 
 
 Of free good will ? 
 
 \st Farm. Why as to that, Gil Perez, 
 
 My will is good to serve you ; but, you see, 
 I am not very rich, 
 
 Gil. You mean by that 
 
 You would not give this money could you help it ? 
 
 1st Farm. Why certainly. 
 
 Gil. Then keep it and begone 
 
 In peace. 
 
 I si Farm. Gil Perez ! 
 
 Gil. I'll not have it said 
 
 I robb'd — not shamed to beg in my distress. 
 
 2nd Farm. And I pray, Gil, and he who likes may 
 hear me, 
 God keep you from your enemies. I have here 
 Six pieces that my wife knows nothing of; 
 
 C. R
 
 242 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act hi 
 
 You're welcome. 
 
 Gil. Not a penny ; go your ways, 
 
 Or night will reach you ere you reach your homes. 
 
 \_Exeunt Farmers. 
 
 Man. Gil, while you talk'd with them, I've heard 
 a sound 
 As of pursuit — listen ! — and many too. 
 
 Gil. Let us up higher then ! 
 
 Man. Beware, the trees 
 
 Will whisper of our whereabout, 
 
 Gil. Then here 
 
 Behind the rocks that tell no tales. 
 
 Man. Quick, quick ! {They hide.) 
 
 Enter Donna Leonor, Juan Baptista, "Judge, 
 Jlffiazils, ^c. 
 
 Bapt. Here, madam, till the scorching sun be sunk, 
 Tarry awhile. 
 
 Leonor. My cousin's grievous sickness 
 Calls me with all speed homeward. 
 
 Judge. And as yet 
 
 No vestige of these ruffians, whom to find 
 And bring to justice, madam, in your cause, 
 I'll peril my own life. 
 
 Gil. Hist, Manuel !
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 243 
 
 Man. Ay, but speak lower. 
 
 Gil. When better than now 
 
 Can I avenge Alonso and myself. 
 When judge, accus'd, accuser, and false witness, 
 Are all together ? 
 
 Man. Wait awhile. 
 
 Gil. But— 
 
 Man. See, 
 
 Fresh comers. 
 
 Gil. I shall lose the golden moment. 
 
 Enter some, dragging along Pedro. 
 
 Judge. A prisoner ? 
 
 1st Man. One of Gil Perez's knaves, my lord, 
 whom we have just now caught creeping over to 
 Portugal. The very day Perez swam over there this 
 fellow was missed from Salvatierra, and returned on 
 the very evening of his return. 
 
 Judge. Very suspicious indeed. 
 
 Pedro. Very, my lord, I grant it. Yes, wherever 
 I go, to Portugal, Flanders, Germany, China, Japan, 
 'tis all the same. I am sure to find him there. 
 
 Judge. You know then where he is now ? 
 
 Ped. Oh, doubtless close at hand : he must be, I
 
 244 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act hi 
 
 being here ; he is such a constant master, that if you 
 put me in prison he'll soon surrender only to follow 
 me there. 
 
 Judge. Point out the place, then. 
 
 Ped. Would to Heav'n I could, for were he clapt 
 up safe I'd not follow him, I promise you. Indeed, 
 my lord, I live in terror of my life from him. 
 Flying from him it was I fled from home 
 To Portugal ; where the first man I saw 
 Was he I thought I'd left at Salvatierra : 
 Flying to Andalusia, the first face 
 I saw was his I left in Portugal : 
 Till, rushing homeward in despair, the man 
 I thought I'd left behind in Andalusia, 
 Met me at once, and having knockt me down, 
 Left me for dead. Well, I got up at last, 
 And fled again : but, scarcely got a mile, 
 Your people seize me on suspicion 
 Of knowing where he hides, and so far justly, 
 That carrying me by way of a decoy, 
 I'll lay my life he soon were in the trap. 
 
 Judge. Your folly, or your cunning, sir, shall not 
 mislead us ; tell me where your master is at once, or 
 the wooden horse — 
 
 Ped. Alas, I'm a bad rider.
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 245 
 
 Judge. Take him to the village and keep him 
 close. By his looks I doubt not, spite of this aftected 
 simplicity, he's a desperate ruffian. 
 
 Ped. I seem such a desperate fellow to him ! Dear 
 me, of the four men here let one depart, and leave 
 three, and one of the three leave two, and one of the 
 two one ; and that one leave half himself ; and that 
 half his half ; and that quarter his half, till it comes 
 to nil : it would still be nilly willy with me. 
 
 \Exit guarded by Alguazils. 
 
 Gil. Manuel, 
 
 The Alguazils are gone. 
 
 Man. Now for it then. 
 
 Gil {appearing. God save this noble company. 
 
 Jll. Gil Perez ! 
 
 Gil. Be not alarm'd ; I have but a few words 
 To say to one of you, this Juan Baptista. 
 
 Judge. Holloa ! my guards ! 
 
 Man. Judge, never strain your throat, 
 
 Unless you would be answer'd by such guards 
 As waited on you yesterday. 
 
 Judge. Is this the way that I, and, in my person, 
 That justice is insulted ? 
 
 Gil. Nay, my lord, 
 
 You least of all should tax a criminal
 
 246 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act hi 
 
 Who so punctiliously respects yourself, 
 And the realm's Justice in your belly lodg'd, 
 That not to waste you in a vain pursuit, 
 He waits on you himself. 
 
 Judge. Impudent man ! 
 
 And this before that most illustrious lady 
 Your treachery has render'd brotherless ; 
 And who with daily prayers — 
 
 Gil. And 'tis for this — 
 
 That she may hear my vindication 
 Ev'n from the very lips that made the charge. 
 And cease an unjust persecution. 
 Unworthy of her noble name and blood. 
 That I am here. For, madam, if I prove 
 That Don Alonso in fair duel slew 
 Your brother, and without my treacherous help, 
 Or any man's, would you pursue us still ? 
 
 Lconor. No, sir ; for though the laws of duel are 
 For men alone, I know enough of them 
 To pardon all that was in honour done, 
 Ev'n to my cost. Prove what you say you will, 
 And Don Alonso may take sanctuary 
 In my own house against myself and all. 
 
 Gil. 'Tis nobly said. On this I take my stand : 
 And since 'tis general and accepted law
 
 SCENE i] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 247 
 
 That what a witness first shall swear, and then 
 Forswear, stand for no evidence at all, 
 Stand forth, Juan Baptista ; 
 Here is your deposition ; I will read it 
 Before the very Judge you swore it to, 
 And before this great lady, and do you 
 Substantiate or deny it point by point. 
 
 Judge. Audacity ! 
 
 Gil {read'mg). In the first place you swear. 
 That, "As luck fell, you were behind a tree 
 " When the two gentlemen came out to fight." 
 Say, is this true ? 
 
 Bapt. It is. 
 
 Gil. "And that they fought 
 
 " Hand to hand fairly, until suddenly 
 " Gil Perez, rushing from a thicket, sided 
 " With Don Alonso." Now, bethink you well ; 
 Is this the truth, Baptista ? 
 
 Bapt. Yes. I swear it. 
 
 Gil. Infamous liar ! {Shoots him zvith a pistol.) 
 
 Bapt. {Jailing). Heav'n have mercy on me ! 
 
 Gil. My lord, you must another murder add 
 To my black catalogue. Come, Manuel, 
 We must away while we have time. Farewell. 
 
 [Exeunt Gil and Manuel.
 
 248 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act hi 
 
 Judge. By the most sacred person of my king, 
 I swear to punish this audacity. 
 If it should cost my life. 
 
 Bapt. Oh, listen, lady ; 
 
 While I have breath to speak. I'm justly slain. 
 I tried to swear Gil Perez's life away 
 To gain his sister ; he has told you true : 
 In fair and open duel, hand to hand, 
 Was Don Diego slain. Oh let my death 
 Atone for this, and my last dying words 
 x'\ttest it. {Dies) 
 
 Enter the AIguax.ils with Pedro. 
 
 Alg. We heard a pistol, and returned, my lord, to see. 
 
 Judge. It was Gil Perez ; that is his work. {Point- 
 ing to Baptista.) 
 
 Ped. There, said I not the truth ? 
 
 Judge. He must not escape ; after him ! As to 
 this fellow here, who is plainly in his secrets, let two 
 Alguazils keep guard upon him here, lest he do further 
 mischief; the rest come with me. 
 
 Ped. What crime have I committed ? Did I not 
 tell you, my lord, he would come, and did he not 
 come ? 
 
 Judge. Peace, traitor I Come, madam. [^Exeunt.
 
 SCENE ii] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 249 
 
 Scene II. Another Pass in the same Mountain — -firing 
 and shouting heard ; after ivhlch, enter Isabel and 
 Juan A on a platform of rock above the stage. 
 
 Isab. That arquebuss ! of which only the thunder 
 Has reach'd us of perhaps some deadly bolt 
 On one of those we love ! 
 Why tarry they so long ? What think you, Juana ? 
 
 Jua. Oh what, but share your fears ! 
 
 Isab. Let us descend, 
 
 And learn the truth at once ; better at once 
 To die, than by this torture. 
 
 (As they are about to descend, enter to them suddenly Gil 
 Perez and Manuel.) 
 
 Gil. Wait ! 
 
 Isab. My brother I 
 
 Jua. Manuel I 
 
 Gil. They are coming ; hide wc here ; 
 
 There is no time — 
 
 Enter Judge, Leonor, Alguazils, l£c. 
 Judge. After them ! after them !
 
 250 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act iu 
 
 By Heav'n, this mountain-top shall be the scaffold 
 On which the wretch shall expiate his crimes. 
 Two thousand scudi for the man who brings, 
 Dead or alive, Gil Perez ! 
 
 Gil {appealing above). By the Lord, 
 You rate me cheap, my lord ; I'll set you higher — 
 I say four thousand scudi for the Judge, 
 Alive or stufF'd ! 
 
 Judge. There he is ! Fire ! {J/guaxil fires 
 
 and zvounds Gil.) 
 
 Gil {falling. God help me ! 
 
 Judge. Yield. 
 
 Gil {struggling. I've an arm left yet. 
 
 Jig. He'll fight when dead. 
 
 Judge. Away with him ! {Judge and Jlguazils 
 cany of Gil.) 
 
 Man. {struggling zcith Juan a). Leave hold of me, I say, 
 
 Jua. Oh ! Manuel ! 
 
 Isab. Oh ! my brother ! 
 
 Man. Let me go. 
 
 Or I will dash you headlong with myself {He rushes 
 down, Isabel and Juana after him.)
 
 SCENE in] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 251 
 
 Scene III. Same as Scene I. — Pedro discovered 
 guai'dcd by izvo Algua%ih. 
 
 Fed. Shots and shouting ! They must be at 
 work. Perhaps you gentlemen will wait, while I go 
 and see. 
 
 Jig. Be quiet, or two bullets — 
 
 Fed. Oh, one would be enough, thank you. Well, 
 if I mustn't go, will you two gentlemen ? and leave 
 me to wait for you ? I'm quite indifferent. 
 
 Jig. We leave you not an instant or an inch. 
 
 Fed. Were ever guards half so polite ! Sure, I 
 must be a holiday to be so strictly kept. 
 
 Jig. Hark ! They are coming. 
 
 Etiter Judge and Jlguazils zvith Gil, « cloak throzvn 
 over him. 
 
 Judge. Where is the other prisoner ? 
 Jig. Here, my lord. 
 Judge. March on with us. 
 
 Jig. 2. My lord, this man will faint with loss ot 
 blood and weariness. 
 
 Judge. Halt then, and let him breathe awhile. 
 
 {They uncover Gil, and Pedro sees him.) 
 Fed. I might have guessed it ! Let me be in the
 
 25 2 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act m 
 
 bilboes, on the very scaftbld, he must be with me : he 
 will die on purpose to lie in the same grave with me, 
 I think ! 
 
 Gil. Whose voice is that ? 
 
 Ped. Nobody's. 
 
 Gil. Pedro ? Courage, my poor boy. My day 
 is over. Oh, vanity of mortal strength ! 
 
 Judge. But who are these ? 
 
 Enter Donna Leonor,«7V/^ Isabel, Juana, and Servants. 
 
 Leonor. I, Donna Leonor, who, falling in 
 With these sad ladies, do repent me much, 
 That, mis-directed by a lying tongue, 
 I have pursued this gentleman — I doubt 
 To death — if not, I charge you from this moment 
 Leave him at liberty. 
 
 Isab. Or else — 
 
 Enter suddenly Manuel and Don Alonso, and 
 Followers. 
 
 Alon. Or else, 
 
 Look to it. 
 
 GU. Don Alonso ! whom I thought 
 
 Far off upon the seas ?
 
 SCENE III] GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN 253 
 
 Alon. And should have been, 
 
 But when my foot was on the very plank 
 That rock'd upon the foam along the beach, 
 I, who could never get )'ou from my heart. 
 And knew that you had come to peril hither, 
 Could but return once more to him who sav'd 
 My life, though he had wav'd me from his side. 
 Enough ; I am in time. I tell you, sir, 
 Give up this man at once. (To the Judge.) 
 
 Judge. Not for you all ! 
 
 Jlon. Then at him and his people ! 
 
 (Alonso, Manuel, and their people rush on the Judge, 
 Algua%ils, l£c.y disarm them, and beat them out.) 
 
 Alon. {embracing Gil.) . My friend is free. 
 
 Gil. And what first use shall make 
 Of freedom ? 
 
 Fed. Why, turn Friar ; you can then 
 
 Be free and easy too, and leave me so. 
 Oh, sir, have I not had enough of terror. 
 Exile, and hunger, to deserve your pardon ? 
 Plead for me, Don Alonso. 
 
 Alon. Gil— 
 
 Gil. Nay, nay.
 
 2 54 GIL PEREZ, THE GALLICIAN [act hi, sc. in 
 
 What could you seem about to ask of me 
 But granted ere 'twas said ? Go. I forgive you. 
 With which magnanimous forbearance now 
 Gil Perez, the Gallician, makes his bow. 
 
 " Thus ends," says Calderon, " the first part of the hacanas 
 notables of Luis Perez," whose name I have, for sundry reasons, 
 (and without offence to the hero, I hope,) changed to Gil. He 
 was " a notorious robber," says Mr. Ticknor, a kind of Spanish 
 Rob Roy perhaps ; at all events, one whose historical reality is 
 intimated by greater distinctness of character than is usual in 
 these plays. Of such gentry examples are never wanting in 
 Spain, where so little alters to this day ; witness the career of 
 the famous Jose Maria, quite lately ended ; and who, I read in 
 a book of Travels, was, like Gil, a farmer, for his first calling ; 
 a most merciful robber when he took to his second ; and who 
 performed Gil's feat of confronting, if not a Judge, a Prime 
 Minister in his own den. 
 
 Gil perhaps had better have " played his pranks " (as Fuller 
 says of Robin Hood) in prose ; but he was a lawless fellow, and 
 blank verse lay in his way. Those who think his style alto- 
 gether too heroic for a country robber, will at least find my 
 version more than excused by the original.
 
 THREE JUDGMENTS AT 
 A BLOW
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE 
 
 Pedro IV., 
 
 Don Mendo Torellas, 
 
 Donna Violante, 
 
 Elvira, 
 
 Don Lope de Urrea. 
 Donna Blanca, 
 Don Lope, 
 Beatrice, 
 
 Don Guillen, 
 Vicente, 
 
 Ki7ig of Jiragon. 
 kis Minister. 
 Mendo' s Daughter. 
 her Maid. 
 
 his Wife, 
 their Son. 
 their Servant. 
 
 a Friend of Don Lope^s. 
 Toiing Lope's Servant. 
 
 Robbers, Officers, Royal Suite, &c. 
 
 256
 
 THREE JUDGMENTS AT A BLOW 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. A Mountain Pass near Saragassa. Shot 
 zcithiii. Then enter Don Mendo and Violante 
 pursued by Robbers, among tvhom is Vicente. 
 
 Jl/TEN. Villains, let steel or bullet do their 
 •^ '-^ worst, 
 
 I'll die ere yield. 
 
 Fiol. Heav'n help us ! 
 
 Robber I. Fool, to strive 
 
 Against such odds — upon their own ground too, 
 Red with the blood of hundreds like yourselves. 
 
 Fie. 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 ! 
 
 Hoi. My father ! 
 
 C. 257 s
 
 25 8 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 {Js 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 mov'd 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 ;
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 259 
 
 Your beauty has subdued an angry devil 
 One like yourself first rais'd within my soul. 
 Your road lies whither, sir ? 
 
 Men. To Saragossa. 
 
 Where if I could requite — 
 
 Lo/>e. 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 — 
 
 Lo/>e. 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 ;
 
 26o THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 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 asham'd 
 
 To tell it, you shall hear it — and my story. 
 Retire ! (To the Robbers, zvho 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 disgrac'd him with my evil Avays, 
 And so impoverisht him w'ith 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.
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 261 
 
 Lope. Then listen, sir. My father in his youth. 
 As you perhaps may know, but zchy I know not, 
 Held off" from marriage ; till, bethinking him. 
 Or warn'd b}' 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 sacrific'd 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 lov'd 
 Her boy, my father hated him — yes, hated,
 
 262 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 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 womien — 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 sufter'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 liv'd 
 
 Both in one house, but wholly apart in soul. 
 
 Only alike in being equall)' 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 263 
 
 Lest he should know of it ! why, what a thing 
 
 That such a holy Eice 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 liv'd a lady near, in whom methought 
 
 Those ancient enemies, wit, modesty, 
 
 And beauty, all were reconcil'd ; 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 unreprov'd. 
 
 Then on her heart, which by degrees they wore 
 
 More than I us'd 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
 
 264 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 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 — 
 
 Foices {zv'uhhi). Y\y ! Away ! Awa)' ! 
 
 Enter Vicente. 
 
 Lope. What is the matter now ? 
 
 Vic. Captain !
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 265 
 
 Lope. Well, speak. 
 
 Vic. We must be off; the lady's retinue 
 Who fled have rous'd 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 vc\y word 
 I'll not forget my promise. 
 
 Lope. I accept it. 
 
 Men. Onl}', before we part, give me some token, 
 The messenger I send may travel with 
 Safe through your people's hands. 
 
 Lope {giving^ daggei). 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^ 
 lU-omen'd as you say ! 
 
 Voices {zuithin). Away ! Away ! 
 
 Vic. They're close upon us ! 
 
 Viol. O quick ! begone ! My life hangs on a thread 
 While yours is in this peril.
 
 266 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Fiol. 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. Jn Audience Hall in the Palace ^ Pedro, 
 King of A rr agon. — Enter Don Lope de Urrea, 
 and Don Guillen. 
 
 Guil. Such bosom friends, sir, as from infancy 
 Your son and I have been, I were asham'd. 
 You being in such trouble, not to offer 
 My help and consolation. Tell me aught 
 That I can serve you in. 
 
 Vrr. Believe me, sir. 
 
 My heart most deeply thanks your courtesy.
 
 SCENE ii] AT A BLOW 267 
 
 When came you to the city ? 
 
 Giiil. Yesterday, 
 
 From Naples. 
 
 UiT. Naples ? 
 
 Gu'il. To advance a suit 
 
 I have in Arragon. 
 
 U'/T. I too am here 
 
 For some such purpose ; to beseech the king 
 A boon I doubt that he will never grant. 
 
 Gull. Ev'n now his Highness comes. 
 
 Ente?' King Pedro and T^rahu 
 
 U'/T. 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 patienti)'. 
 
 Kijjg. Speak, Urrea, speak ! 
 
 Urr. Speak if I can, whose sorrow rising still 
 Clouds its own utterance. My liege, my son.
 
 268 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 Don Lope, lov'd a lady here ; seduc'd 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 oft' 
 
 From day to day, until the lady, tired 
 
 Of a delay that argued treachery, 
 
 Engag'd her brother in the quarrel ; who 
 
 With two companions set upon my son 
 
 One night to murder him. The lad, whose mettle 
 
 Would never brook affront, nor car'd 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 excus'd — then fled himself 
 
 Up to the mountains. I must needs confess 
 
 He better had deserv'd 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.
 
 SCENE ii] AT A BLOW 269 
 
 But to return. The woman, twice aggriev'd, 
 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 engag'd 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 absolv'd. 
 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 ;
 
 270 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 Pity the snows of age that misery 
 Now thaws in torrents from my eyes ; yet more, 
 Pity a noble lady — my \vife — his mother — 
 Who sits bow'd down with sorrow and disgrace 
 In her starv'd house. 
 
 King. This is a case, Don Lope, 
 
 For my Chief Justice, not for me. 
 
 Un: Alas ! 
 
 How little hope has he who, looking up 
 To dove-ey'd 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 ? 
 
 Un: 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 announc'd 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. 
 
 Un: And thus to satisfy the exigence
 
 SCENE ii] AT A BLOW 271 
 
 Of public estimation, one is forc'd 
 
 To sacrifice entreaty and estate 
 
 For an ill son. 
 
 Yet had but this petition been inflam'd 
 
 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, reduc'd 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, zvlth 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
 
 2 72 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 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. 
 
 Uir. 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 1 
 
 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 assur'd 
 That I shall do my best to entertain you :
 
 SCENE ii] AT A BLOW 273 
 
 And, secondly, congratulating you 
 
 On )-our new dignity, which you hardly don 
 
 Before I am your suitor. 
 
 Men. Oh, Don Lope, 
 
 How gladly shall I serve j'ou ! 
 
 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 appriz'd 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. Nor for your sake only, 
 But for your son's ; to whom (jou soon shall hear 
 The whole strange history) I owe my life,
 
 2 74 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 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. {JsUe.) O lying tongue, 
 To say so, when the heart beneath would fain 
 We had not met, or might not meet again ! 
 
 Scene III. J Room in Vrrea's House. — EnUr 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 \^iolante 
 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.
 
 SCENE in] AT A BLOW 275 
 
 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,
 
 276 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 Arrested them, and kindly — but how now ? 
 Why weep you, Donna Blanca ? 
 
 Blan. Weeping, yes. 
 
 My sorrows with your own — But to your tale. 
 
 Fiol. 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 grac'd disgrace so handsomely ? 
 
 Fiol. 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 confus'd and terrified 
 To heed to names. Else credit me —
 
 SCENE III] AT A BLOW 277 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Utr. 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 jo)'. 
 
 Don Mendo, my old friend, and our now guest, 
 Grac'd 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.
 
 278 THREE JUDGMENTS [act i 
 
 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. 
 
 Un: 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. 
 
 B/an. Nay, Don Mendo, 
 
 Least need of that. 
 
 Mend. Oh, Blanca, Heaven knows 
 
 How much I have desir'd to talk with you ! 
 
 Blan. And to what purpose, sir .? 
 No longer in your power — perhaps, nor will — 
 To do as well as talk.
 
 SCENE III] AT A BLOW 279 
 
 Mend. If but to say 
 
 How to my heart it goes seeing you still 
 As sad as when I left you years ago. 
 
 Bkn. " As sad ? — as when j-ou left me years 
 ago"- 
 I understand you not — am not a\vare 
 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 }ou 
 wield 
 Your ready woman's wit ! 
 
 Bkn. I know not why 
 
 You should say that. 
 
 Mend. But / know. 
 
 Blan. If't be so. 
 
 Agree with me to say no more of it. 
 
 Mend. But how ? 
 
 Blan. By simple silence.
 
 28o THREE JUDGMENTS [act n 
 
 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. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. y^ Room in Urrea's House. — Enter Urrea 
 and Blanxa on one side, and Lope and Vicente on 
 the other. 
 
 Lope. I'hrice blessed be the day, that brings me 
 back 
 In all humility and love, my father. 
 To kiss your feet once more.
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 281 
 
 Utr. 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 — 
 
 Blau. You see, my son, 
 
 You keep them weeping still — not bitter tears. 
 But tears of joy — Oh, welcome home again ! 
 
 Fie. 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 )'ou alive too : 
 
 Vic. Yes, sir. 
 
 This saddle's pad, {shoicing Lope,) or, if you like, the 
 
 beast 
 That bears the saddle — or, by another rule, — 
 That where the cat jumps also goes her tail.
 
 282 THREE JUDGMENTS [act n 
 
 Lope {to his father). You see, sir, in such godly 
 company 
 I must repent. 
 
 Fk. Why, devil take't — 
 
 Utr. What, swearing ? 
 
 Fk. 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. 
 
 Bian. Rise, rise. How can I less than welcome 
 one 
 Who has so loyally stood by my son, 
 Through evil and through good. 
 
 Fk. A monument 
 
 As one might say, madam, ad pcrpetuam 
 Fideiis Amkttia Mcmor'iam. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. What ! is my master home ? Then, by 
 the saints, 
 Saving your presence, and before your faces, 
 I must embrace him. 
 
 Lope. Thanks, good Beatrice. 
 
 Urr. You see how all rejoice to see you, Lope, 
 But none so more than I ; believe 't. But now
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 283 
 
 'Tis time you wait on Mendo, and acknowledge 
 The kindness he has done us. See, Beatrice, 
 If he be in his room, or busy there. [Exit Beatrice. 
 Meanwhile, my son, I crave one patient hearing 
 To what I have to say. 
 
 rk. Now for a lecture. 
 
 Lope. Silence, sir ! Coming here, we must ex- 
 pect 
 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 forc'd 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
 
 284 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 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 freel}- 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 spar'd. 
 
 Vic. There only wants, " in sajcula sasculorum," 
 To finish off with. 
 
 Lope. Sir, I promise you
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 285 
 
 Amendment, that shall make the past a foil 
 To set the future oft. 
 
 Enter Mendo. 
 
 Men. I come in time 
 
 To vouch fulfilment of so fair a vow. 
 
 Lope. Oh, sir — 
 
 Meu. 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. 
 
 Uir. I too must abroad. 
 
 Lope. Would I could wait on both — but, as it is,
 
 2 86 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 I think my father's self would waive his right, 
 In favour of our common benefactor. 
 
 Ur?: 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. 
 
 Fie} Beatrice ! Beatrice ! 
 
 Beat. Well ? 
 
 Vic. Think you not, now that our principals are 
 fairly out of the way, }'ou owe me a kiss on my 
 arrival ? 
 
 Beat. Ay, hot from the oven. 
 
 Fie. Ah Beatrice ! if you only knew what heart- 
 aches you've cost me. 
 
 Bent. 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 }'ou. Donna 
 Violante ; with her fine Elvira, — I know, sir, when 
 your master was courting his mistress, you — 
 
 Fie. 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 ! 
 
 ^ Vicente's flirtation with the two Criadas, and its upshot, is 
 familiar to English play-goers in the comedy of " The Wonder."
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 287 
 
 Beat. Well — but why ? 
 
 Fk. Not a woman at all, neither maid nor mer- 
 maid — Why, didn't I catch her with all those fine 
 locks of hers clean oft' her head ? 
 
 Beat. Clean oft" her head ! 
 
 Fk. The woman's bald. 
 
 Beat. Bald ! 
 
 Fie. As my hand ! besides, all that fine white 
 chevaux-de-frue that ornaments her gums. 
 
 Beat. Well? 
 
 Fk. All sham. 
 
 Beat. What, my fine madam there false teeth ! 
 
 Fk. 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, \^icente. 
 False teeth and a wig ! \Extt. 
 
 Enter Don Lope. 
 
 Lope. Vicente, have you by any chance seen 
 Violante ? 
 
 Fk. 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.
 
 288 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 Fie. Why, sir, if her maid Elvira happened to be 
 by her side — 
 
 Lope. Fool ! 
 
 Fie. Pray is it impossible in the system of things 
 that the maid should be handsomer than the mis- 
 tress ? 
 
 Lope. Oh could I but see her ! 
 
 Fie. 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 ? 
 
 Fie. 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 !
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 289 
 
 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 Heav'n knows I felt them ! 
 But they are over, Heav'n 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 
 
 c. u
 
 290 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 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 lov'd not without cause. 
 When you have heard the lady that I speak of 
 Is— 
 
 Fie. Donna Violante ! 
 
 Lope. Knave and fool ! 
 
 Fie. 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 ! 
 
 Vie. Well, you have got the weather-gage. Tackle 
 her now. 
 
 Enter Violante and Elvira. 
 Lope. Nay, lady, turn not back. What you, the sun
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 291 
 
 I see by, to abridge my little day 
 
 By enviously returning to the west 
 
 As soon as ris'n, 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 oi you ; nay, who retir'd 
 Only for fear of drawing new disdain 
 Upon old love ; and left me here indeed. 
 To speak in his behalf 
 
 Fio/. Alas, Elvira, 
 
 Was't not Don Guillen ? 
 
 E/^^. Yes. 
 
 f^io/. Don Lope plead
 
 292 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 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 r 
 
 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,
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 293 
 
 His agent in the cause. 
 
 Lope. Nay, nay, but wait. 
 
 Viol. No more — Adieu ! \_Exit. 
 
 Lope. She thought I only us'd 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Eh. Well, Monsieur Cut-throat ? 
 
 Vk. Well, you are not scared at my face now ? 
 
 Eh. I don't know that — your face remains as it was. 
 
 Vic. Come, come, my queen, do me a little favour. 
 
 Eh. Well, what is that ? 
 
 Vic. Just only die for love of me ; I always 
 make a point of never asking impossibilities of any 
 woman. 
 
 Eh. 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 ? 
 
 Eh. I say with Beatrice. Bystanders see as much, 
 sir, as players. 
 
 Vic, I with Beatrice ! Lord ! lord ! if you only
 
 294 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 knew half what I know, Elvira, you'd not be jealous 
 of her. 
 
 Eh. Why, what do you know of her ? 
 
 Vk. 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. 
 
 Eh. Nonsense ! 
 
 Fie. 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 otbei). It is no use ; she 
 is shut up with my mother. Now for Don Guillen. 
 
 Eh. They are back. 
 
 Fie. We'll settle our little matter by and by. 
 
 Eh. 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 \'iolante. 
 
 Guil. So sweet duty 
 
 Needs no excuse.
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 295 
 
 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,
 
 296 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Gull. Love unreturn'd ! 
 
 Or worse, return'd with hate. 
 
 Fie. {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 — ma}- 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.
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 297 
 
 Vic. {to Lope). Good bye, sir. 
 
 Lope. Whither now, 
 
 Vicente ? 
 
 Fie. 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. 
 
 Fie. How glad I am 
 
 To see you take't so patiently ! Now, sir. 
 Would you be rul'd — 
 
 Lope. What then ? 
 
 Fie. Why, simply, sir, 
 
 Forget the lady — but a few days' flame. 
 And then — 
 
 Lope. Impossible ! 
 
 Fie. What's to be done then ? 
 
 Lope. I know not — But she comes.
 
 298 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 Enter Violante. 
 
 Viol. Still here, Don Lope ! 
 
 Lope. Ah, what in nature will its centre leave, 
 Or, forc'd 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 
 Hov,' 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 chang'd parts in the farce. 
 And ris'n 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.
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 299 
 
 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 — \_E.xit. 
 
 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 excus'd. 
 
 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 !
 
 300 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 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. 
 
 Fiol. 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 !
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 301 
 
 Fiol. {giving him a rose). This rose, whose hue 
 Is of the same that should my cheek 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.
 
 302 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 Guil. How I 
 
 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 urg'd her 
 In my behalf, say she relented ? 
 
 Lope. Yes. 
 
 Guil. To whom then ? 
 
 Lope. To myselt. 
 
 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
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 303 
 
 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. \Exlt. 
 
 Lope. Lead the way then, sir. 
 
 Enter hurriedly Donna Blanca and Violante jrom 
 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 !
 
 304 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 Lope. Nay, madam, why accuse me, 
 
 Before you know the cause ? 
 
 Enter Urrea. 
 
 Urr. How now I — disputing I 
 
 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 wt interposed ; 
 Indeed, no more. 
 
 Fie. 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. 
 
 Fie. 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. 
 
 Fie. Always fair words from you at any rate. 
 i^Aside.)
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 305 
 
 Uir. 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. [Exit. 
 
 Blan. Oh let him not go ! 
 
 JJir. Why not ? 'tis a good riddance. \^iolante, 
 You must excuse this most unseemly riot 
 Close to your chamber. My unruly son, 
 When his mad passion's rous'd, 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 ver}' means I would prevent 
 His going forth, have op'd the door to him. 
 
 (A^o/V^ iv'ithin oj szvords, and the voices oj Lope and 
 Guillen fighting^ 
 
 Urr. What noise is that again ? 
 
 
 Enter Elvira. 
 
 
 Eh. 
 
 
 'Tis in the street, 
 
 c. 
 
 
 X
 
 3o6 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. Oh, my young master fighting — run, sir, 
 
 run ! 
 Urr, And 'tis for this I've sacrific'd myself ! 
 
 Ente?' fighting Lope and Guillen ; Gentlemen and 
 others trying to part them. 
 
 Urr. {going betzveen them). Hold, Lope ! Hold, 
 Don Guillen ! 
 
 Voices. Part them ! part them ! 
 
 Guil. Traitor ! 
 
 Lope. Traitor ! — I say that he's the traitor 
 
 Whoever — 
 
 IJrr. 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. 
 
 Vrr. 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,
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 307 
 
 I shall refer the issue of this quarrel 
 To other time and place. 
 
 Lope. A good excuse 
 
 For fear to hide in. 
 
 Guil. Fear ! 
 
 JJrr. Madman ! again ! 
 
 That the respect his rival shows to me 
 Should make my son despise him. By these heav'ns 
 This staff shall teach you better. 
 
 Lope. Strike me not ! 
 
 Beware — beware ! 
 
 Urr. Why, art thou not asham'd — 
 
 Lope. Yes, of respect for you that's fear of me. 
 
 Gull. 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.) 
 
 A voice. What have )-ou done ? 
 
 Another. Help, help ! 
 
 Voices. After him, after him ! — the parricide ! 
 
 (Lope rushes out and the people after hifn.) 
 
 Guil. I know not how to leave the poor old 
 man —
 
 3o8 THREE JUDGMENTS [act ii 
 
 Come, let me help you, sir. 
 
 UiT. Parricide ! 
 
 May outrag'd Heaven that has seen thy crime, 
 Witness my curse, and blast thee ! Every sword 
 That every pious hand against thee draws, 
 Caught up into the glittering elements. 
 Turn thunderbolt, (as every weapon shall 
 Drawn in God's cause,) and smite thee to the centre ! 
 That sacrilegious hand which thou hast rais'd 
 Against this snow-white head — how shall it show 
 Before Heaven's judgment bar ; yea, how can Heav'n 
 Ev'n now behold this deed, nor quench its sun, 
 Veil its pure infinite blue with awful cloud, 
 And with a terrified eclipse of things 
 Confound the air you breathe, the light you see, 
 The ground you walk on ! 
 
 Guil. Pray sir, compose yourself — 
 
 Your cloak — your staff — 
 
 Urr. My staff ! what use is that ? 
 
 When it is steel that must avenge my wrong I 
 Yet give it me — fit instrument 
 Wherewith to chastise a rebellious child — 
 Ay, and he did not use his sword on me, 
 Mark that, nor I on him — give me my staff. 
 Alas, alas ! and I with no strength left
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 309 
 
 To wield it, only as I halt along, 
 Feeling about with it to find a grave, 
 And knocking at deaf earth to let me in.^ 
 
 Guil. Nay, calm yourself, 
 The population of the place is up 
 After the criminal. 
 
 Ujt. And to what purpose ? 
 
 They cannot wipe away my shame by that. 
 Let the whole city turn its myriad eyes 
 Upon me, and behold a man disgrac'd — 
 Disgrac'd by him to whom he gave a being. 
 I say, behold me all — the wretched man 
 By his own flesh and blood insulted, and 
 On his own flesh and blood crying Revenge ! 
 Revenge ! revenge ! revenge ! 
 
 ^ Como me podre vengar 
 
 Si aquel, que me ha de ayudar 
 A sustentarme, me advierte 
 Que armado en la terra dura 
 Solo ha de irme aprovechando 
 De aldaba, con que ir Uamando 
 A mi misma sepultura ? 
 
 Ne deeth, alias ! ne wol nat han my lyf ; 
 Thus walke I, lyk a restelees caityf, 
 And on the ground, which is my modres gate, 
 I knokice with my staf, bothe early and late, 
 And seye, " leve moder, leet me in 1 " 
 
 Chaucer''s Pardoner's Tale.
 
 3IO THREE JUDGMENTS [act n 
 
 Not to the heavens only, nor to Him 
 Who sits in judgment there, do I appeal, 
 But to the powers of earth. Give me my hat, 
 I'll to the king forthwith. 
 
 Fie. Consider, sir ; 
 
 You would not enter in the palace gates 
 So suddenly, and in this plight ? 
 
 U7T. Why not, 
 
 Whose voice should over-leap the firmament. 
 And without any preparation enter 
 The palace-doors of God — 
 
 King Pedro ! king of Arragon ! Christian king ! 
 Whom fools the Cruel call, and Just the wise, 
 I call on you. King Pedro ^ — 
 
 King {entering with Mendo and Train). Who calls 
 the king ? 
 
 Urr. A wretch who, falling at your feet, implores 
 Your royal justice. 
 
 King. I remember you ; 
 
 1 The Biographic Universelle says it was Don Pedro of Castile 
 about whose cognomen there was some difference of opinion ; a 
 defence of him being written in 1648 by Count de Roca, am- 
 bassador from Spain to Venice, entitled, " El Rey Don Pedro, 
 Uamado el Cruel, el Justiciero, y el Necessitado, defendido." It 
 is he, I suppose, figures in the "Medico de su Honra." He 
 flourished at the same time, however, with his namesake of 
 Arragon.
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 3 1 1 
 
 Don Lope de Urrea, whose son I pardon'd. 
 What would you of me ? 
 
 Un: That you would, my king, 
 
 Unpardon him you pardon'd ; draw on him 
 The disappointed sword of justice down. 
 That son — ;;/y son — if he indeed be mine — 
 (Oh, Blanca, pure as the first blush of day. 
 Pardon me such a word !) has, after all 
 My pain and sacrifice in his behalf ; 
 Has, in defiance of the laws of man 
 And God, and of that great commandment, which, 
 Though fourth on the two tables, yet comes first 
 After God's jealous honour is secur'd. 
 Has struck me — struck his father — in a fray 
 Wherein that father tried to save his life. 
 I have no vindication ; zcill have none, 
 But at your hands and by your laws ; unless, 
 If you deny me that, I do appeal 
 Unto the King of kings to do me justice ; 
 Which I will have, that heav'n and earth may know 
 How a bad son begets a ruthless sire ! 
 
 King. Mendo ! 
 
 Men. My liege. 
 
 King. I must again refer 
 
 This cause to you. {To Urrea.) Where is your son ?
 
 312 THREE JUDGMENTS [act iii 
 
 Un: Fled ! fled ! 
 
 King {to Mendo). After him then, use all the 
 powers I own 
 To bring the wretch to justice. See me not 
 Till that be done. 
 
 Men. I'll do my best, my liege. 
 
 Kitig. I have it most at heart. In all the rolls 
 Of history, I know of no like quarrel : 
 And the first judgment on it shall be done 
 By the Fourth Pedro, king of Arragon. 
 
 [^Exeunt severally. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. J 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. {T/?ey disperse^ 
 Oh, what a fate is mine. 
 Having to seek what most I dread to find, 
 Once thought the curse of jealousy alone 1
 
 SCENE i] AT A BLOW 3 1 3 
 
 The iron king will see my face no more 
 
 Unless I bring Don Lope to his feet : 
 
 Whom, on the other hand, the gratitueie 
 
 And love I bear him fain would save from justice. 
 
 Oh, how — 
 
 Etiter some, fighting with Don Lope. 
 
 Lope. I know I cannot save my life. 
 
 But I will sell it dear. 
 
 Men. Hold off ! the king 
 
 Will have him taken, but not slain. And I, 
 If I can save him now, shall find a mean 
 To do it afterwards — 
 Don Lope ! 
 
 Lope. I should know that voice, the face 
 
 I cannot, blind with fury, dust, and blood. 
 Or was't the echo of some inner voice. 
 Some far off thunder of the memory. 
 That moves me more than all these fellows' swords ! 
 Is it Don Mendo ? 
 
 Men. Who demands of you 
 
 Your sword, and that you yield in the king's name. 
 
 Lope. I yield ? 
 
 Men. Ay, sir, what can you do beside ? 
 
 Lope. Slaying be slain. And yet my heart relents
 
 314 THREE JUDGMENTS [act iii 
 
 Before your voice ; and now I see your face 
 My eyes dissolve in tears. Why, how is this ? 
 What charm is on my sword ? 
 
 Men. 'Tis but the effect 
 
 And countenance of justice that inspires 
 Involuntary awe in the offender. 
 
 Lo/>e. Not that. Delinquent as I am, I could, 
 With no more awe of justice than a mad dog. 
 Bite right and left among her officers ; 
 But 'tis yourself alone : to you alone 
 Do I submit myself ; yield up my sword 
 Already running with your people's blood. 
 And at your feet — 
 
 Met!. Rise, Lope. Heaven knows 
 
 How gladly would your judge change place with you 
 The criminal ; fir happier to endure 
 Your peril than my own anxiety. 
 But do not you despair, however stern 
 Tow'rds you I carry me before the world. 
 The king is so enrag'd — 
 
 Lo/>e. What, he has heard ! 
 
 Men. Your father cried for vengeance at his feet. 
 
 Loj)e. Where is my sword ? 
 
 Men. In vain. 'Tis in my 
 
 hand.
 
 SCENE ii] AT A BLOW 3 1 5 
 
 Lope. Where somehow it affrights me — as before 
 When giving you my dagger, it turn'd on me 
 With my own blood. 
 
 Mendo. Ho there ! 
 
 Cover Don Lope's fiice, and carry him 
 To prison after me. {Aside.) Harlc, in your ear, 
 Conduct him swiftly, and with all secrecy, 
 To my own house — in by the private door, 
 Without his knowing whither, 
 And bid my people watch and wait on him. 
 I'll to the king — Alas, what agony, 
 I kno\v not what, grows on me more and more ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IL J Room in the Palace. — Enter King. 
 
 King. Don Mendo comes not back, and must not 
 come. 
 Till he have done his errand. I myself 
 Can have no rest till justice have her due. 
 A son to strike his father in my realm 
 Unaw'd, and then unpunisht ! 
 But by great Heav'n the law shall be aveng'd 
 So long as I shall reign In Arragon. 
 Don Mendo !
 
 3i6 THREE JUDGMENTS [act iii 
 
 Enter Mendo. 
 
 Mendo. Let me kiss your Highness' hand — 
 
 King. Welcome, thou other Atlas of my realm, 
 Who shar'st the weight with me. For I doubt not, 
 Coming thus readily into my presence, 
 You bring Don Lope with you. 
 
 Men. Yes, my liege — 
 
 Fast prisoner in my liouse, that none may see 
 Or talk with him. 
 
 King. Among your services 
 
 You have not done a better. 
 The crime is strange, 'tis fit the sentence on it 
 Be memorably just. 
 
 Men. Most true, my liege, 
 
 Who I am sure will not be warp'd away 
 By the side current of a first report. 
 But on the whole broad stream of evidence 
 Move to conclusion. I do knotv this charge 
 Is not so grave as was at first reported. 
 
 King. But is not thus much clear — that a son smote 
 His father ? 
 
 Men. Yes, my liege. 
 
 King. And can a charge 
 
 Be weightier ?
 
 SCENE ii] AT A BLOW 317 
 
 Men. I confess the naked fact, 
 
 But 'tis the special cause and circumstance 
 That give the special colour to the crime. 
 
 Khig. I shall be glad to have my kingdom freed 
 From the dishonour of so foul a deed 
 By any extenuation. 
 
 Mett. Then I think 
 
 Your Majesty shall find it here. 'Tis thus : 
 Don Lope, on what ground I do not know. 
 Fights with Don Guillen — in the midst o' the fray. 
 Comes old Urrea, at the very point 
 When Guillen was about to give the lie 
 To his opponent — which the old man, enrag'd 
 At such unseemly riot in his house, 
 Gives for him ; calls his son a fouler name 
 Than gentleman can bear, and in the scufiie 
 Receives a blow that in his son's blind rage 
 Was aim'd abroad — in the first heat of passion 
 Throws himself at your feet, and calls for vengeance, 
 Which, as I hear, he now repents him of 
 He's old and testy — age's common fault — 
 And, were not this enough to lame swift justice, 
 There's an old law in Arragon, my liege. 
 That in our courts father and son shall not 
 Be heard in evidence against each other ;
 
 3i8 THREE JUDGMENTS [act m 
 
 In which provision I would fain persuade you 
 Bury this quarrel. 
 
 King. And this seems just to you ? 
 
 Men. It does, my liege. 
 
 King. Then not to me, Don 
 
 Mendo, 
 Who will examine, sentence, and record, 
 Whether in such a scandal to the realm 
 The son be guilty of impiety. 
 Or the sire idle to accuse him of 't. 
 Therefore I charge you have Urrea too 
 From home to-night, and guarded close alone ; 
 It much imports the business. 
 
 Men. I will, my liege. 
 
 [Exeunt severaU'^. 
 
 Scene III. A Corridor in Urrea's Home, 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. 
 
 Eh. 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 !
 
 SCENE III] AT A BLOW 319 
 
 Eh. 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 ? 
 
 Eh. 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. {Zhe enters centre door.) 
 
 Scene IV. An inner Chamber in Urrea's House. — 
 Lope discovered. 
 
 Lope. Whither then have they brought me ? Ah, 
 Violante, 
 Your beauty costs me dear ! And even now 
 I count the little I have yet to live 
 Minute by minute, like one last sweet draught, 
 But for your sake. Nay, 'tis not life I care for, 
 But only Violante. 
 
 Violante {entering unseen). Oh, his face 
 Is bathed in his own blood ; he has been wounded. 
 Don Lope ! 
 
 Lope. Who is it calls on a name 
 
 I thought all tongues had burled in its shame ? 
 
 Viol. One who yet — pities you.
 
 320 THREE JUDGMENTS [act in 
 
 Lope {turning and seeing he?'). Am I then dead, 
 
 And thou some living spirit come to meet me 
 Upon the threshold of another world ; 
 Or some dead image that my living brain 
 Draws from remembrance on the viewless air, 
 And gives the voice I love to r Oh, being here. 
 Whatever thou may'st be, torment me not 
 By vanishing at once. 
 
 Fiol. No spirit, Lope, 
 
 And no delusive image of the brain ; 
 But one who, wretched in your wretchedness, 
 And partner of the crime you suffer for. 
 All risk of shame and danger cast away, 
 Has come — but hark ! — I may have but a moment — 
 The door I came by will be left unlockt 
 To-night, and you must fly. 
 
 Lope. Oh, I have heard 
 
 Of a fair flower of such strange quality, 
 It makes a wound where there was none before. 
 And heals what wound there was. Oh, Violante, 
 You who first made an unscath'd heart to bleed. 
 Now save a desperate life ! 
 
 Fiol. And I have heard 
 
 Of two yet stranger flowers that, severally, 
 Each in its heart a deadly poison holds,
 
 SCENE v] AT A BLOW 321 
 
 Which, if they join, turns to a sovereign balm. 
 And so with us, who in our bosoms bear 
 A passion which destroys us when apart, 
 But when together — 
 
 Eh'ifa {calling within). Madam ! madam ! your 
 father ! 
 
 Viol. Farewell ! 
 
 Lope. But you return ? 
 
 Viol. To set you free. 
 
 Lope. That as it may ; only return to me. 
 
 \Exlt VioLANTE, leaving Lope. 
 
 Scene V. Zame as Scene IIL Elvira ivaltlng. — 
 Entej' y lohhUT^ 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. 
 
 Oh, would I ever drag my purpose through, 
 
 I must be desperate and cautious too. \Exlt. 
 
 Elv. {locking the door). Well, that's all safe, and 
 now myself to hear what news is stirring. 
 
 C. Y
 
 322 THREE JUDGMENTS [act hi 
 
 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 verj' 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 be-
 
 SCENE v] AT A BLOW 323 
 
 cause 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 indif- 
 ferent who wears my cast-off shoes.
 
 324 THREE JUDGMENTS [act hi 
 
 Elv. I beg to say, madam, I wear no shoes except 
 my own, and if I zvere 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 '^ou 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.
 
 
 <>9 
 
 SCENE v] AT A BLOW 325 
 
 Elv. Oh, and so methinks do I. 
 
 Beat. It is this wretch — 
 
 Elv. This knave — 
 
 Beat. This rascal — 
 
 Elv. This vagabond — 
 
 Beat. Has told all these lies. 
 
 Elv. Has done all this mischief. 
 
 (T/'ry set upon and pinch him, y*-.) 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Elv. My hand to it — Agreed ! 
 
 Beat. Adieu ! 
 
 Elv. Adieu ! 
 
 Exeunt Beatrice and Elvira. 
 
 V'tc. The devil that seiz'd the swine sure has 
 seiz'd you. 
 And all your pinches make me tenfold writhe 
 Because you never gave the king his tithe. [Exit.
 
 326 THREE JUDGMENTS [act in 
 
 Scene VI. Donna Blanca's Apartment : it is dark. — 
 Enter the King disguised, and '^'lk^zk following him. 
 
 Blan. Who is this man, 
 That in the gathering dusk enters our house, 
 Enmaskt and muffled thus ? what is't you want ? 
 To croak new evil in my ears ? for none 
 But ravens now come near us — Such a silence 
 Is not the less ill-omen'd. Beatrice ! 
 A light ! my blood runs cold — Answer me, man, 
 What want you with me ? 
 
 Kifig. Let us be alone. 
 
 And I will tell you. 
 
 Blan. Leave us, Beatrice — 
 
 I'll dare the worst — And now reveal yourself. 
 
 King. Not till the door be lockt. 
 
 Blan. Help, help ! 
 
 King. Be still. 
 
 Blan. What would you ? and who are you then ? 
 
 King {discovering kimseiPj. The king. 
 
 Blan. The king ! 
 
 King. Do you not know me ? 
 
 Blan. Yea, my liege 
 
 Now the black cloud has fallen from the sun.
 
 SCENE vi] AT A BLOW 327 
 
 But cannot guess why, at an hour like this, 
 And thus disguis'd — Oh, let me know at once 
 Whether in mercy or new wrath you come 
 To this most wretched house ! 
 
 King. In neither, Blanca ; 
 
 But in the execution of the trust 
 That Heav'n has given to kings. 
 
 Blan. And how, my liege. 
 
 Fall I beneath your royal vigilance r 
 
 King. You soon shall hear : but, Blanca, first take 
 breath. 
 And still your heart to its accustom'd tune. 
 For I must have you all yourself to answer 
 What I must ask of you. Listen to me. 
 Your son, in the full eye of God and man. 
 Has struck his father — who as publicly 
 Has cried to me for vengeance — such a feud 
 Coming at length to such unnatural close. 
 Men 'gin to turn suspicious eyes on you, — 
 You, Blanca, so mixt up in such a cause 
 As in the annals of all human crime 
 Is not recorded. Men begin to ask 
 Can these indeed be truly son and sire ? 
 This is the question, and to sift it home, 
 I am myself come hither to sift you
 
 328 THREE JUDGMENTS [act hi 
 
 By my own mouth. Open your heart to me, 
 Relying on the honour of a king 
 That nothing you reveal to me to-night 
 Shall ever turn against your good repute. 
 We are alone, none to way-lay the words 
 That travel from your lips ; speak out at once ; 
 Or, by the heavens, Blanca, — 
 
 Blan. Oh, m}' liege. 
 
 Not in one breath 
 
 Turn royal mercy into needless threat ; 
 Though it be true my bosom has so long 
 This secret kept close prisoner, and hop'd 
 To have it buried with me in my grave. 
 Yet if I peril my own name and theirs 
 By such a silence, I'll not leave to rumour 
 Another hour's suspicion ; but reveal 
 To you, my liege, yea, and to heav'n and earth. 
 My most disastrous story. 
 
 King. I attend. 
 
 Blan. My father, though of lineage high and clear 
 As the sun's self, was poor ; and knowing well 
 How in this world honour fares ill alone, 
 Betroth'd the beauty of my earliest years 
 (The only dowry that I brought with me) 
 To Lope de Urrea, whose estate
 
 SCENE vi] AT A BLOW 329 
 
 Was to supply the much he miss'd of youth. 
 
 We married — like December wed to Ma}-, 
 
 Or flower of earliest summer set in snow ; 
 
 Yet heaven witness that I honour' d, ay, 
 
 And lov'd him ; though with little cause of love, 
 
 And ever cold returns ; but I went on 
 
 Doing my duty toward him, hoping still 
 
 To have a son to fill the gaping void 
 
 That lay between us — yea, I pray'd for one 
 
 So earnestly, that God, who has ordain'd 
 
 That we should ask at once for all and nothing 
 
 Of Him who best knows what is best for us. 
 
 Denied me what I wrongly coveted. 
 
 Well, let me turn the leaf on which are written 
 
 The troubles of those ill-assorted years. 
 
 And to my tale. I had a younger sister, 
 
 Whom to console me in my wretched home, 
 
 I took to live with me — of whose fair youth 
 
 A gentleman enamour'd — Oh, my liege, 
 
 Ask not his name — yet why should I conceal it. 
 
 Whose honour may not leave a single chink 
 
 For doubt to nestle in ? — Sir, 'twas Don Mendo, 
 
 Your minister ; who, when his idle suit 
 
 Prosper'd not in my sister's ear, found means, 
 
 Feeing one of the household to his purpose.
 
 330 THREE JUDGMENTS [act hi 
 
 To get admittance to her room by night ; 
 
 Where, swearing marriage soon should sanction love, 
 
 He went away the victor of an honour 
 
 That like a villain he had come to steal ; 
 
 Then, but a few weeks after, (so men quit 
 
 All obligation save of their desire,) 
 
 Married another, and growing great at court. 
 
 Went on your father's bidding into France 
 
 Ambassador, and from that hour to this 
 
 Knows not the tragic issue of his crime. 
 
 I, who percelv'd my sister's alter'd looks, 
 
 And how in mind and body she far'd ill. 
 
 With menace and persuasion wrung from her 
 
 The secret I have told you, and of which 
 
 She bore within her bosom such a witness 
 
 As doubly prey'd upon her life. Enough ; 
 
 She was my sister, why reproach her then, 
 
 And to no purpose now the deed was done ? 
 
 Only I wonder'd at mysterious Heav'n, 
 
 Which her misfortune made to double mine. 
 
 Who had been pining for the very boon 
 
 That was her shame and sorrow ; till at last. 
 
 Out of the tangle of this double grief 
 
 I drew a thread to extricate us both. 
 
 By giving forth myself about to bear
 
 SCENE vi] AT A BLOW 331 
 
 The child whose birth my sister should conceal. 
 'Twas done — the day came on — I feign'd the pain 
 She felt, and on my bosom as my own 
 Cherish'd the crying infant she had borne, 
 And died in bearing — for even so it was ; 
 I and another matron (who alone 
 Was partner in the plot) 
 Assigning other illness for her death. 
 This is my stor)', sir — this is the crime. 
 Of which the guilt being wholly mine, be mine 
 The punishment ; I pleading on my knees 
 My love both to my husband and my sister 
 As some excuse. Pedro of Arragon, 
 Whom people call the Just, be just to me : 
 I do not ask for mercy, but for justice. 
 And that, whatever be my punishment, 
 It may be told of me, and put on record, 
 That, howsoever and with what design 
 I might deceive my husband and the world. 
 At least I have not sham'd my birth and honour. 
 Ki7ig (apart). Thus much at least is well ; the 
 blackest part 
 Of this unnatural feud is washt away 
 By this confession, though it swell the list 
 Of knotted doubts that Justice must resolve ;
 
 332 THREE JUDGMENTS [act in 
 
 As thus : — Don Lope has revil'd and struck 
 One whom himself and all the world believe 
 His father — a belief that I am pledg'd 
 Not to disprove. Don Mendo has traduc'd 
 A noble lady to her death ; and Blanca 
 Contriv'd an ill imposture on her lord : 
 Two secret and one public misdemeanour, 
 To which I must adjudge due punishment. 
 Blanca, enough at present, you have done 
 Your duty ; Fare you well. 
 
 Blan. Heav'n keep your Highness ! 
 
 Don Mendo [knocking zmtkhi) . Open the door. 
 
 King. Who calls? 
 
 B/an. I know not, sir. 
 
 King. Open it, then, but on your life reveal not 
 That I am here. (King /?ides, Blanca o/>ens the door.) 
 
 Blan. Who is it calls r 
 
 Enter Mendo. 
 
 Men. I, Blanca. 
 
 Blan. Your errand ? 
 
 Men. Only, Blanca, to beseech you 
 
 Fear not, whatever )ou may hear or see 
 Against your son. His cause is in my hands,
 
 SCENE vi] AT A BLOW 333 
 
 His person in my keeping ; being so, 
 Who shall arraign my dealings with him ? 
 
 King {coming fortio). I. 
 
 Men. My liege, if you — 
 
 King. Enough ; give me the key 
 
 Of Lope's prison. 
 
 Men. This it is, my liege, 
 
 Only— 
 
 King. I know enough. Blanca, retire. 
 Mendo, abide you here. To-night shall show 
 If I be worthy of my name or no, \Exit. 
 
 Men. What is the matter, Blanca ? 
 
 Blan. Your misdeeds. 
 
 And mine, Don Mendo, which just Heaven now 
 Revenges with one blow on both of us. 
 After the King ! nor leave him till he swear 
 To spare my Lope, who, I swear to you, 
 Is not my son, but yours, and my poor Laura's ! 
 
 Men. Merciful Heav'ns ! But I will save his life 
 Come what come may to me. 
 
 Blan. Away, away, then ! 
 
 \_Exeunt severally.
 
 334- THREE JUDGMENTS [act iii 
 
 Scene VII. Same as Scene III. — Enter Violante and 
 Elvira at a side door. 
 
 Elv. Consider, madam. 
 
 Fiol. No ! 
 
 Elv. But think — 
 
 yiol. I tell you it must be done. 
 
 Elv. They will accuse your father. 
 
 Viol. Let them ; I tell you it must be done, and 
 nozv ; I ask'd you not for advice, but to obey me. 
 Unlock the door. 
 
 Elv. Oh how I tremble ! Hark ! 
 
 y'lol. A moment ! They must not find him 
 passing out — the attempt and not the deed con- 
 founding us.^ Listen ! 
 
 Elv. {listening at a side dooi). I can hear nothing 
 distinct, only a confused murmur of voices. 
 
 Viol. Let me — hush ! — Hark ! they are approach- 
 ing ! 
 
 Enter Mendo. 
 
 Men. Anguish, oh ! anguish ! 
 
 Viol. My father ! 
 
 Men. Ay, indeed, 
 
 1 Y se queda su intencion 
 
 Sin su efecto descubierta.
 
 SCENE vii] AT A BLOW 335 
 
 And a most wretched one. 
 
 Viol. What is it, sir ? 
 
 Tell me at once. 
 
 Men. I know not. Oh, 'tis false ! 
 
 I know too well, and you must know it too. 
 My daughter, the poor prisoner who lies there 
 Is my own son, not Blanca's, not Urrea's, 
 But my own son, your brother, Violante ! 
 
 Viol. My brother ! 
 
 Men. Ay, your brother, my own son, 
 
 Whom we must save ! 
 
 Viol. Alas, sir, I was here 
 
 On the same errand, ere I knew — but hark ! 
 All's quiet now. (y/ groan within.) 
 
 Men. Listen ! What groan was that ? 
 
 Viol. My hand shakes so, I cannot — 
 
 Lope {within). Mercy, O God ! 
 
 Men. The key, the key ! — but hark ! they call 
 again 
 At either door ; we must unlock. 
 
 {They unlock the side doors. — Enter through one Blanca 
 and Beatrice, through the other Urrea and Vicente.) 
 
 Urr. Don Mendo, 
 
 The king desires me from jour mouth to learn
 
 336 THREE JUDGMENTS [act in, sc. vii 
 
 His sentence on my son. 
 
 Bk7i. Oh, Vioknte ! 
 
 Men. From me ! from me ! to whom the king 
 as yet 
 Has not deliver'd it. — 
 But what is this ? Oh, God ! 
 
 (T/v centre door opens and Don Lope // discovered, gar- 
 rotted, zvith a paper in his hand, and lights at each 
 side.) 
 
 Urn A sight to turn 
 
 Rancour into remorse. 
 
 Men. In his cold hand 
 
 He holds a scroll, the sentence, it may be. 
 The king referr'd you to. Read it, Urrea ; 
 I cannot. Oh, my son, the chastisement 
 That I alone have merited has come 
 Upon us both, and doubled the remorse 
 That I must feel — and stifle ! 
 
 Urr. (reading). "He that reviles and strikes whom 
 he believes 
 His father, let him die for't ; and let those 
 Who have disgrac'd a noble name, or join'd 
 An ill imposture, see his doom ; and show 
 Three judgments summ'd up in a single blow."
 
 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONvE 
 
 King Philip II. 
 
 Don Lope de Figuerroa. 
 
 Don Alvaro de Ataide. 
 
 Pedro Crespo, a Farmer oj Zalnniea. 
 
 Juan, his Son. 
 
 Isabel, his Daughter. 
 
 Ines, his Niece. 
 
 Don Men do, a poor Hidalgo. 
 Nunc, his Servant. 
 
 Rebolledo, a Soldier. 
 Chispa, /'/; Mistress. 
 
 A Sergeant, A Notary, Soldiers, Labourers, 
 Constables, Royal Suite, &c. 
 
 338
 
 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. Country near Zaiamea. — Enter Rebolledo, 
 Chispa, and Soldiers. 
 
 T^EB. Confound, saj' I, these forced marches 
 from place to place, without halt or bait ; 
 what say you, friends ? 
 
 All. Amen ! 
 
 Reb. To be trailed over the country like a pack 
 of gipsies, after a little scrap of flag upon a pole, eh ? 
 
 I // Soldier. Rebolledo's off ! 
 
 Reb. And that infernal drum which has at last 
 been good enough to stop a moment stunning us. 
 
 znd Sold. Come, come, Rebolledo, don't storm : 
 we shall soon be at Zaiamea. 
 
 Reb. And where will be the good of that if I'm 
 dead before I get there ? And if not, 'twill only be 
 from bad to worse : for if we all reach the place 
 alive, as sure as death up comes Mr. Mayor to per- 
 
 339
 
 340 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 suade the Commissary we had better march on to the 
 next town. At first Mr. Commissary replies very 
 virtuously, " Impossible ! the men are fagged to 
 death." But after a little pocket persuasion, then it's 
 all " Gentlemen, I'm very sorry : but orders have 
 come for us to march forward, and immediately " — 
 and away we have to trot, foot weary, dust be- 
 draggled, and starved as we are. Well, I swear if I 
 do get alive to Zalamea to-day, I'll not leave it on 
 this side o' sun-rise for love, lash, or money. It won't 
 be the first time in my life I've given 'em the slip. 
 
 1st Sold. Nor the first time a poor fellow has had 
 the slip given him for doing so. And more likely 
 than ever now that Don Lope de Figuerroa has taken 
 the command, a fine brave fellow they say, but a 
 devil of a Tartar, who'll have every inch of duty 
 done, or take the change out of his own son, without 
 waiting for trial either.^ 
 
 Reb. Listen to this now, gentlemen ! By Heaven, 
 I'll be beforehand with him. 
 
 znd Sold. Come, come, a soldier shouldn't talk so. 
 
 ^ Don Lope de Figuerroa, who figures also in the Amur 
 despues de la Muerte, was (says Mr. Ticknor) "the commander 
 under whom Cervantes served in Italy, and probably in Por- 
 tugal, when he was in the Tercio de Flandes, — the Flanders 
 Regiment, — one of the best bodies of troops in the armies of
 
 SCENE i] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 3 + 1 
 
 Reb. I tell }ou it isn't for myself I care so much, 
 as for this poor little thing that follows me. 
 
 Chis. Signor Rebolledo, don't you fret about me ; 
 you know I was born with a beard on my heart if 
 not on my chin, if ever girl was ; and your fearing 
 or me is as bad as if I was afeard myself. Wh)', 
 when I came along with you I made up my mind to 
 hardship and danger for honour's sake ; else if I'd 
 wanted to live in clover, I never should have left 
 the Alderman who kept such a table as all Aldermen 
 don't, I promise you. Well, what's the odds ? I 
 chose to leave him and follow the drum, and here I 
 am, and if I don't flinch, why should }'ou ? 
 
 Reb. 'Fore Heaven, you're the crown of woman- 
 kind ! 
 
 Soldiers. So she is, so she is, Viva la Chispa ! 
 
 Reb. And so she is, and one cheer more for her, 
 hurrah ! especially if she'll give us a song to lighten 
 the way. 
 
 Chis. The castanet shall answer for me. 
 
 Reb. I'll join in — and do you, comrades, bear a 
 hand in the chorus. 
 
 Soldiers. Fire away ! 
 
 Philip 11.," and the very one now advancing, with perhaps 
 Cervantes in it, to Zalamea.
 
 342 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 Chispa sings. 
 
 I. 
 
 Titiri tiri, marching is weary, 
 
 Weary, weary, and long is the way : 
 Titiri tiri, hither, my deary. 
 
 What meat have you got for the soldier to-day ? 
 " Meat have I none, my merry men," 
 Titiri tiri, then kill the old hen. 
 
 " Alas and a day ! the old hen is dead ! " 
 Then give us a cake from the oven instead. 
 
 Titiri titiri titiri tiri, 
 Give us a cake from the oven instead. 
 
 11. 
 
 Admiral, admiral, where have you been-a ? 
 
 " I've been fighting where the waves roar." 
 Ensign, ensign, what have you seen-a ? 
 
 " Glory and honour and gunshot galore ; 
 Fighting the Moors in column and line. 
 Poor fellows, they never hurt me or mine — 
 
 Titiri titiri titiri tina " — 
 
 \st Sold. Look, look, comrades — what between 
 singing and grumbling we never noticed yonder 
 church among the trees. 
 
 Reb. Is that Zalamea ? 
 
 Chis. Yes, that it is, I know the steeple. Hurrah ! 
 we'll finish the song when we get into quarters, or have 
 another as good ; for you know I have 'em of all sorts 
 and sizes. 
 
 Reb. Halt a moment, here's the sergeant. 
 
 2nd Sold. And the captain too.
 
 SCENE i] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 3+3 
 
 Eniej' Captain and Sergeant. 
 
 Capt. Good news, gentlemen, no more marching 
 for to-day at least ; we halt at Zalamea till Don 
 Lope joins with the rest of the regiment from Llerena. 
 So who knows but you may have a several days' rest 
 here ? 
 
 Reb. and Solds. Huzzah for our captain ! 
 
 Capt. Your quarters are ready, and the Commis- 
 sary will give every one his billet on marching in. 
 
 Chis. [singing). Now then for 
 
 Titiri tiri, hither, my deary, 
 
 Heat the oven and kill the old hen. 
 
 \_Exit zvith Soldiers. 
 
 Capt. Well, Mr. Sergeant, have you my billet ? 
 
 Se7g. Yes, sir. 
 
 Capt. And where am I to put up ? 
 
 Serg. With the richest man in Zalamea, a firmer, 
 as proud as Lucifer's heir-apparent. 
 
 Capt. Ah, the old story of an upstart. 
 
 Seig. However, sir, you have the best quarters in 
 the place, including his daughter, who is, they say, 
 the prettiest woman in Zalamea. 
 
 Capt. Pooh ! a pretty peasant ! splay hands and 
 feet.
 
 344 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 Serg. Shame ! shame ! 
 
 Caj>L Isn't it true, puppy ? 
 
 Serg. What would a man on march have better 
 than a pretty country lass to toy with ? 
 
 Ca/>f. Well, I never saw one I cared for, even on 
 march. I can't call a woman a woman unless she's 
 clean about the hands and fetlocks, and otherwise well 
 appointed — a lady in short. 
 
 Serg. Well, any one for me who'll let me kiss her. 
 Come, sir, let us be going, for if you won't be at her, 
 I will. 
 
 Ca/>f. Look, look, yonder ! 
 
 Serg. Why it must be Don Quixote himself with 
 his very Rosinante too, that Michel Cervantes writes of. 
 
 Caj>t. And his Sancho at his side. Well, carr^' 
 you my kit on before to quarters, and then come and 
 tell me when all's ready. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. Za/a/fiea, l>eJore Crespo^s House. — E/ifer Don 
 
 MeNDO a!!(f NUNO. 
 
 Me/!. How's the gray horse ? 
 Nun. You may as well call him the Dun ; so 
 
 screw'd he can't move a leg. 
 
 Me/!. Did you have him walk'd gently about ?
 
 SCENE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 345 
 
 Nun. Walk'd about ! when it's corn he wants, 
 poor devil ! 
 
 Me)i. And the dogs ? 
 
 Nun. Ah, now, they might do if you'd give them 
 the horse to eat. 
 
 Men. Enough, enough — it has struck three. My 
 gloves and tooth-pick. 
 
 Nun. That sinecure tooth-pick ! 
 
 Men. I tell you I would brain anybody who in- 
 sinuated to me I had not dined — and on game too. 
 But tell me, Nuno, havn't the soldiers come into 
 Zalamea this afternoon ? 
 
 Nun. Yes, sir. 
 
 Men. What a nuisance for the commonalty who 
 have to quarter them ! 
 
 Nun. But worse for those who havn't. 
 
 Men. What do you mean, sir ? 
 
 Nun. I mean the squires. Ah, sir ; if the soldiers 
 aren't billeted on them, do you know why ? 
 
 Men. Well, why ? 
 
 Nun. For fear of being starved — which would be 
 a bad job for the king's service. 
 
 Men. God rest my father's soul, says I, who left 
 me a pedigree and patent all blazon'd in gold and 
 azure, that exempts me from such impositions.
 
 346 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 Nun. I wish he'd left you the gold in a more 
 available shape, however. 
 
 Men. Though indeed when I come to think of 
 it, I don't know if I owe him any thanks ; consider- 
 ing that unless he had consented to beget me an 
 Hidalgo at once, I wouldn't have been born at all, 
 for him or any one. 
 
 Nun. Humph ! Could you have helped it ? 
 
 Men. Easily. 
 
 Nun. How, sir ? 
 
 Men. You must know that every one that is born 
 is the essence of the food his parents eat — 
 
 Nun. Oh ! Your parents did eat then, sir ? You 
 have not inherited that of them, at all events. 
 
 Men. Which forthwith converts itself into proper 
 flesh and blood — ergo, if my father had been an eater 
 of onions, for instance, he would have begotten me 
 with a strong breath ; on which I should have said 
 to him, " Hold, I must come of no such nastiness as 
 that, I promise you." 
 
 Nun. Ah, now I see the old saying is true. 
 
 Men. What is that ? 
 
 Nun. That hunger sharpens wit. 
 
 Men. Knave, do you insinuate — 
 
 Nun. I only know it is now three o'clock, and we
 
 SCENE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 347 
 
 have neither of us yet had any thing but our own 
 spittle to chew. 
 
 Men. Perhaps so, but there are distinctions of rank. 
 An Hidalgo, sir, has no belly. 
 
 Nun. Oh Lord ! that I were an Hidalgo ! 
 
 Men. Possibly ; servants must learn moderation 
 in all things. But let me hear no more of the 
 matter ; we are under Isabel's window. 
 
 Nun. There again — If you are so devoted an 
 admirer, why on earth, sir, don't you ask her in 
 marriage of her father ? by doing which you would kill 
 two birds with one stone ; get yourself something to 
 eat, and his grandchildren squires. 
 
 Men. Hold your tongue, sir, it is impious. Am 
 I, an Hidalgo with such a pedigree, to demean my- 
 self with a plebeian connexion just for money's sake ? 
 
 Nun. Well, I've always heard say a mean father- 
 in-law is best ; better stumble on a pebble than run 
 your head against a post. But, however, if you don't 
 mean marriage, sir, what do you mean ? 
 
 Men. And pray, sir, can't I dispose of her in a 
 convent in case I get tired of her ? But go directly, 
 and tell me if you can get a sight of her. 
 
 Nun. I'm afraid lest her father should get a sight 
 of me.
 
 348 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 Men. And what if he do, being my man ? Go 
 and do as I bid you. 
 
 Nun. {after going to look). Come, sir, you owe one 
 meal at least now — she's at the window with her 
 cousin. 
 
 Men. Go again, and tell her something about her 
 window being another East, and she a second Sun 
 dawning from it in the afternoon. 
 
 (Isabel md Ines come to the window.) 
 
 Ines. For heaven's sake, cousin, let's stand here 
 and see the soldiers march in. 
 
 Isab. Not I, while that man is in the way, Ines ; 
 you know how I hate the sight of him. 
 
 Ines. With all his devotion to you ! 
 
 Isab. I wish he would spare himself and me the 
 trouble. 
 
 Ines. I think you are wrong to take it as an 
 affront. 
 
 Isab. How would you have me take it ? 
 
 Ines. Why, as a compliment, 
 
 Isab. What, when I hate the man ? 
 
 Men. Ah ! 'pon the honour of an Hidalgo, 
 (which is a sacred oath,) I could have sworn that 
 till this moment the sun had not risen. But why 
 should I wonder ? when indeed a second Aurora —
 
 SCENE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 349 
 
 Isab. Signer Don Mendo, how often have I told 
 you not to waste your time playing these fool's antics 
 before my window day after day ? 
 
 Men. If a pretty woman only knew, la ! how 
 anger improved its beauty ! her complexion needs no 
 other paint than indignation. Go on, go on, lovely 
 one, grow angrier, and lovelier still. 
 
 Isab. You shan't have even that consolation ; 
 come, Ines, [Exit. 
 
 Ines. Beware of the portcullis, sir knight. 
 
 {Shuts dozen the blind in his face.) 
 
 Men. Ines, beauty must be ever victorious, whether 
 advancing or in retreat. 
 
 Enter Crespo. 
 
 Cres. That I can never go in or out of my house 
 without that squireen haunting it ! 
 
 Nun. Pedro Crespo, sir ! 
 
 Men. Oh — ah — let us turn another way ; 'tis an 
 ill-conditioned fellow. 
 
 Js he turns, enter Juan. 
 
 Juan. That I never can come home but this 
 ghost of an Hidalgo is there to spoil my appetite.
 
 350 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 Nun. His son, sir ! 
 
 Men. He's worse. {Ttmting back.) Oh, Pedro 
 Crespo, good day, Crespo, good man, good day. 
 
 [Exit with NuNO. 
 Cres. Good day indeed ; I'll make it bad day one 
 of these days with you, if you don't take care. But 
 how now, Juanito, my boy ? 
 
 Juan. I was looking for you, sir, but could not 
 find you ; where have you been ? 
 
 Cres. To the barn, where high and dr)', 
 The jolly sheaves of corn do lie. 
 Which the sun, arch-chemist old, 
 Turn'd from black earth into gold, 
 And the swinging flail one day 
 On the barn-floor shall assay, 
 Separating the pure ore 
 From the drossy chaff away. 
 This I've been about — And now, 
 Juanito, what hast thou ? 
 Juan. Alas, sir, I can't answer in so good rhyme 
 or reason. I have been playing at fives, and lost 
 every bout. 
 
 Cres. What signifies if you paid ? 
 Juan. But I could not, and have come to you for 
 the money.
 
 SCENE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 351 
 
 Cres. Before I give it you, listen to me. 
 There are things two 
 Thou never must do ; 
 Swear to more than thou knowest, 
 Play for more than thou owest ; 
 And never mind cost. 
 So credit's not lost. 
 Juan. Good advice, sir, no doubt, that I shall lay 
 by for its own sake as w^ell as for yours. Meanwhile, 
 I have also heard say, 
 
 Preach not to a beggar till 
 The beggar's empty hide you fill. 
 Cres. 'Fore Heaven, thou pay'st me in my own 
 coin. But — 
 
 Enter Sergeant. 
 
 Serg. Pray, does one Pedro Crespo live hereabout ? 
 
 Cres. Have you any commands for him if he does ? 
 
 Serg. Yes, to tell him of the arrival of Don 
 Alvaro de Ataide, captain of the troop that has just 
 marcht into Zalamea, and quartered upon him. 
 
 Cres. Say no more ; my house and all I have is 
 ever at the service of the king, and of all who have 
 authority under him. If you leave his things here, I
 
 352 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 will see his room is got ready directly ; and do you 
 tell his Honour that, come when he will, he shall find 
 me and mine at his service. 
 
 Sej'g. Good — he will be here directly. [Exit 
 
 Juan. I wonder, father, that rich as you are, you 
 still submit yourself to these nuisances. 
 
 Cres. Why, boy, how could I help them ? 
 
 Juan. You know ; by buying a patent of 
 Gentility. 
 
 Cres. A patent of Gentility ! upon thy life now 
 dost think there's a soul who doesn't know that I'm 
 no gentleman at all, but just a plain farmer ? What's 
 the use of my buying a patent of Gentility, if I can't 
 buy the gentle blood along with it ! will any one 
 think me a bit more of a gentleman for buying fifty 
 patents ? Not a whit ; I should only prove I was 
 worth so many thousand royals, not that I had gentle 
 blood in my veins, which can't be bought at any price. 
 If a fellow's been bald ever so long, and buys him a 
 fine wig, and claps it on ; will his neighbours think 
 it is his own hair a bit the more ? No, they will say, 
 " So and so has a fine wig ; and, what's more, he must 
 have paid handsomely for it too." But they know 
 his bald pate is safe under it all the while. That's 
 all he gets by it.
 
 SCENE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 353 
 
 Juan. Nay, sir, he gets to look younger and 
 handsomer, and keeps off" sun and cold. 
 
 Cres. Tut ! I'll have none of your wig honour 
 at any price. My grandfather was a farmer, so was 
 my father, so is yours, and so shall you be after him. 
 Go, call your sister. 
 
 Enter Isabel and Ines. 
 
 Oh, here she is. Daughter, our gracious king (whose 
 life God save these thousand years !) is on his way to 
 be crowned at Lisbon ; thither the troops are march- 
 ing from all quarters, and among others that fine 
 veteran Flanders regiment, commanded by the famous 
 Don Lope de Figucrroa, will march into Zalamea, 
 and be quartered here to-day ; some of the soldiers in 
 my house. Is it not as \vell you should be out of the 
 way ? 
 
 Isab. Sir, 'twas upon this very errand I came to 
 you, knowing what nonsense I shall have to hear if I 
 stay below. My cousin and I can go up to the 
 garret, and there keep so close, the very sun shall not 
 know of our whereabout. 
 
 Cres. That's my good girl. Juanito, you wait 
 here to receive them in case they come while I am out 
 looking after their entertainment. 
 
 c. A A
 
 354 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 Isab. Come, Ines. 
 
 Ines. Very ;vell — 
 Though I've heard in a song what folly 'twould be 
 To try keep in a loft what won't keep on the tree. 
 
 {^Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Captain and Sergeant. 
 
 Serg. This is the house, sir. 
 
 Ca/>t. Is my kit come ? 
 
 Serg. Yes, sir, and (aside) I'll be the first to take 
 an inventory of the pretty daughter. [Exit. 
 
 yuan. Welcome, sir, to our house ; we count it a 
 great honour to have such a cavalier as yourself for a 
 guest, I assure you. {Jside.) What a fine fellow ! 
 what an air ! I long to try the uniform, somehow. 
 
 Capt. Thank you, my lad. 
 
 Juan. You must forgive our poor house, which we 
 devoutly wish was a palace for your sake. My father 
 is gone after your supper, sir ; may I go and see that 
 your chamber is got ready for you r 
 
 Capt. Thank you, thank you. 
 
 Juan. Your servant, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Sejgeant. 
 
 Capt. Well, sergeant, where's the Dulcinea you 
 told mc of:
 
 SCENE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 355 
 
 Serg. Deuce take me, sir, if I havn't been looking 
 everywhere in parlour, bed-room, kitchen, and scullery, 
 up-stairs and down-stairs, and can't find her out. 
 
 Capt. Oh, no doubt the old fellow has hid her 
 away for fear of us. 
 
 5^;^. Yes, I ask'd a serving wench, and she con- 
 fess'd her master had lock'd the girl up in the attic, 
 with strict orders not even to look out so long as we 
 were in the place. 
 
 Capt. Ah ! these clodpoles are all so jealous of the 
 service. And what is the upshot ? Why, I, who 
 didn't care a pin to see her before, shall never rest till 
 I get at her now. 
 
 Se7g. But how, without a blow-up ? 
 
 Capt. Let me see ; how shall we manage it ? 
 
 Serg. The more difficult the enterprise, the more 
 glory in success, you know, in love as in \var. 
 
 Capt. I have it ! 
 
 Serg. Well, sir ? 
 
 Capt. You shall pretend — but no, here comes one 
 will serve my turn better. 
 
 Enter Rebolledo and Chispa. 
 
 Reb. {to Chispa). There he is ; now if I can get 
 him into a good humour.
 
 356 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 Chis. Speak up then, like a man. 
 
 Reb. I wish I'd some of your courage ; but don't 
 you leave me while I tackle him. Please your 
 Honour — 
 
 Capt. {to Se7-gecnt). I tell }ou I've m)- eye on Re- 
 boUedo to do him a good turn ; I like his spirit. 
 
 Serg. Ah, he's one of a thousand. 
 
 Reb. {aside). Here's luck ! Please your Honour — 
 
 Capt. Oh, Rebolledo — Well, Rebolledo, what 
 is it r 
 
 Reb. You may know I am a gentleman -(vho has, 
 by ill luck, lost all his estate ; all that ever 1 had, have, 
 shall have, may have, or can have, through all the con- 
 jugation of the verb " to have.^'' And I want your 
 Honour — 
 
 Capt. Well : 
 
 Reb. To desire the ensign to appoint me roulette- 
 master to the regiment, so I may pay my liabilities like 
 a man of honour. 
 
 Capt. Quite right, quite right ; I will see it done. 
 
 Chh. Oh, brave captain ! Oh, if I only live to 
 hear them all call me Madam Roulette ! 
 
 Reb. Shall I go at once and tell him r 
 
 Capt. Wait. I want you iirst to help me in a 
 little plan I have.
 
 5CF.NE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 357 
 
 Reb. Out with it, noble captain. Slow said slow 
 sped, you know. 
 
 Capt. You are a good fellow ; listen. I \vant to 
 get into that attic there, for a particular purpose. 
 
 Reb. And why doesn't }-our Honour go up at 
 once ? 
 
 Capt. I don't like to do it in a strange house with- 
 out an excuse. Now look here ; you and I will pre- 
 tend to quarrel ; I get angr}- and draw my sword, and 
 you run away up stairs, and I after you, to the attic, 
 that's all ; I'll manage the rest. 
 
 Chis. Ah, we get on famoush'. 
 
 Reb. I understand. When are we to begin r 
 
 Capt. Now directly. 
 
 Reb. Very good. (/« a loud voiced This is the 
 reward of my services — a rascal, a pitiful scoundrel, is 
 preferred, when a man of honour — a man who has 
 seen service — 
 
 Chh. Halloa ! Rebolledo up ! All is not so well. 
 
 Reb. Who has led you to victory — 
 
 Capt. This language to me, sir r 
 
 Reb. Yes, to }-ou, who have so grossly insulted 
 and defrauded — 
 
 Capt. Silence ! and think yourself lucky if I take 
 no further notice of your insolence.
 
 358 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act . 
 
 Reb. If I restrain myself, it is only because you are 
 my captain, and as such — but 'fore God, if my cane 
 were in my hand — 
 
 Chis. {advancing). Hold ! Hold ! 
 
 Capt. I'll show you, sir, how to talk to me in this 
 way. {Draws his sword.) 
 
 Reb. It is before your commission, not you, 1 
 retreat. 
 
 Catt. That shan't save you, rascal ! 
 
 {Pursues Rebolledo o///.) 
 
 Chis. Oh, I shan't be Madam Roulette after all. 
 Murder I murder I {Exit, calling. 
 
 Scene III. Isabel's Garret. Isabel and Ines. 
 I sab. What noise is that on the stairs ? 
 Enter Rebolledo. 
 
 Reb. Sanctuary I Sanctuary ! 
 Isab. Who are you, sir ? 
 
 Enter Captain. 
 
 Capt. Where is the rascal ? 
 
 Isah. A moment, sir ! This poor man has flown 
 to our feet for protection ; I appeal to you for it ; and
 
 SCENE in] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 359 
 
 no man, and least of all an officer, will refuse that to 
 any woman. 
 
 Capt, I swear no other arm than that of beauty, 
 and beauty such as yours, could have withheld me. 
 {To Rebolledo.) You may thank the deity that has 
 saved you, rascal. 
 
 Isab. And I thank you, sir. 
 
 Cnpt. And yet ungratefully sla}' me with your ejes 
 in return for sparing him with my sword. 
 
 Isab. Oh, sir, do not mar the grace of a good deed 
 by poor compliment, and so make me less mindful of 
 the real thanks I owe you. 
 
 Capt. Wit and modesty kiss each other, as well 
 they may, in that lovely face. {Kfieels.) 
 
 Isab. Heavens ! my father ! 
 
 Enter Crespo and Juan zvith szL'ords. 
 
 Cres. How is this, sir ? I am alarmed by cries of 
 murder in my house — am told jou have pursued a 
 poor man up to my daughter's room ; and, when I 
 get here expecting to find you killing a man, I find 
 you courting a woman. 
 
 Capt. We aie all born subjects to some dominion 
 — soldiers especiall}' to beauty. My sword, though
 
 36o THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 justly rais'd against this man, as justly fell at this lady's 
 bidding. 
 
 Cres. No lady, sir, if you please ; but a plain 
 peasant girl — my daughter. 
 
 Juan (aside). All a trick to get at her. My blood 
 boils. {Aloud to Captain) I think, sir, you might 
 have seen enough of my father's desire to serve j-ou to 
 prevent your requiting him by such an affront as this. 
 
 Cres. And, pray, who bid thee meddle, boy ? 
 Affront ! what affront ? The soldier affronted his 
 captain ; and if the captain has spared him for th)' 
 sister's sake, pray what hast thou to say against it ? 
 
 Capt. I think, young man, you had best consider 
 before you impute ill intention to an officer. 
 
 Juan. I know what I know. 
 
 Cres. What ! you will go on, will you ? 
 
 Capt. It is out of regard for you I do not chastise 
 him. 
 
 Cres. Wait a bit ; if that were wanting, 'twould 
 be from his father, not from you. 
 
 Juan. And, what's more, I wouldn't endure it 
 from any one but my father. 
 
 Capt. You would not ? 
 
 Juan. No ! death rather than such dishonour ! 
 
 Capt. What, pray, is a clodpole's idea of honour ?
 
 SCENE in] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 361 
 
 Juan. The same as a captain's — no clodpole no 
 captain, I can tell you. 
 
 Capt. 'Fore Heaven, I must punish this insolence. 
 
 {About to strike him.) 
 Cres. You must do it through me, then. 
 Reb. Eyes right ! — Don Lope ! 
 Cupf. Don Lope ! 
 
 Enter Don Lope. 
 
 Lope. How now ? A riot the very first thing I find 
 on joining the regiment ? WJiat is it all about ? 
 
 Capt. {aside). Awkward enough ! 
 
 Cres. {aside). By the lord, the bo\' would have 
 held his own with the best of 'em. 
 
 Lope. Well ! No one answer me ? 'Fore God, 
 I'll pitch the whole house, men, women, and children, 
 out of windows, if you don't tell me at once. Here 
 have I had to trail up your accursed stairs, and then no 
 one will tell me what for. 
 
 Cres. Nothing, nothing at all, sir. 
 
 Lope. Nothing ? that would be the worst excuse 
 of all, but swords aren't drawn for nothing ; come, 
 the truth .? 
 
 Capt. Well, the simple fact is this, Don Lope ; 1
 
 362 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act i 
 
 am quartered upon this house ; and one of my sol- 
 diers — 
 
 Lope. Well, sir, go on. 
 
 Capt. Insulted me so grossly I was obliged to draw 
 my sword on him. He ran up here where it seems 
 these two girls live ; and I, not knowing there was 
 any harm, after him ; at which these men, their father 
 or brother, or some such thing, take affront. This is 
 the whole business. 
 
 Lope. I am just come in time then to settle it. 
 First, who is the soldier that began it with an act of 
 insubordination ? 
 
 Reb. What, am I to pay the piper ? 
 
 Isab. {^pointing to Reb.). This, sir, was the man who 
 ran up first. 
 
 Lope. This ? handcuff him ! 
 
 Reb. Me ! my lord ? 
 
 Capt. {aside to Reb.). Don't blab, I'll bear you 
 harmless. 
 
 Reb. Oh, I dare say, after being marcht off with 
 my hands behind me like a coward. Noble com- 
 mander, 'twas the captain's own doing ; he made me 
 pretend a quarrel, that he might get up here to see the 
 women. 
 
 Cres. I had some cause for quarrel, you see,
 
 SCENE III] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 363 
 
 Lope. Not enough to peril the peace of the town 
 for. Halloa there ! beat all to quarters on pain of 
 death. And, to prevent further ill blood here, do 
 you {to the Captain) quarter yourself elsewhere till we 
 march. I'll stop here. 
 
 Capt. I shall of course obey you, sir. 
 
 Cies. {to Isabel). Get you in. {Exeunt Isab. and 
 Ines.) I really ought to thank you heartily for coming 
 just as you did, sir ; else, I'd done for myself 
 
 Lope. How so ? 
 
 Cres. I should have killed this popinjay. 
 
 Lope. What, sir, a captain in his Majesty's service ? 
 
 Cies. Ay, a general, if he insulted me. 
 
 Lope. I tell you, whoever lays his little finger on 
 the humblest private in the regiment, I'll hang him. 
 
 Cres. And I tell you, whoever points his little 
 finger at my honour, I'll cut him down before hanging. 
 
 Lope. Know you not, you are bound by your al- 
 legiance to submit ? 
 
 Cres. To all cost of propert)', yes ; but of honour, 
 no, no, no ! My goods and chattels, ay, and my life 
 — are the king's ; but my honour is my own soul's, 
 and that is — God Almighty's ! 
 
 Lope. 'Fore God, there's some truth in what you 
 say.
 
 364 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act 11 
 
 Cres. 'Fore God, there ought to be, for I've been 
 some years saying it. 
 
 [,ope. Well, well. I've come a long way, and 
 this leg of mine (which I wish the devil who gave it 
 would carry away \vith him !) cries for rest. 
 
 Cres. And who prevents its taking some ? the same 
 devil I suppose, who gave you your leg, gave me a bed 
 (which I don't want him to talce away again, however) 
 on which your leg may lie if it like. 
 
 Lope. But did the devil, when he was about it, 
 make j-our bed as well as give it ? 
 
 Cres. To be sure he did. 
 
 Lope. Then I'll unmake it — Heaven knows I'm 
 weary enough. 
 
 Cres. Heaven rest you then. 
 
 Lope {aside). Devil or saint alike he echoes me. 
 
 Cres. {aside). I and Don Lope never shall agree. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. In Znlamea. — Enter Do}^ Me>sdo and Nv~ko. 
 
 Men. Who told you all this ? 
 
 Nun. Ginesa, her wench. 
 
 Men. That, whether that riot in the house were
 
 SCENE i] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 365 
 
 by accident or design, the captain lias ended by being 
 really in love with Isabel r 
 
 Nun. So as he has as little of comfort in his 
 quarters as we of eatable in ours — even under her 
 window, sending her messages and tokens by a nasty 
 little soldier of his. 
 
 Men. Enough, enough of your poisoned news. 
 
 Nun. Especially on an empty stomach. 
 
 Men. Be serious, Nuffo. And how does Isabel 
 answer him ? 
 
 Nun. As she does jou. Bless \ou, she's meat for 
 your masters. 
 
 Men. Rascal ! This to me I {Strikes kirn.) 
 
 Nun. There ! two of my teeth you've knockt out, 
 I believe : to be sure they weren't of much use in 
 your service. 
 
 Men. By Heaven, I'll do so to that captain, if — 
 
 Nun. Take care, he's coming, sir. 
 
 Men. (aside to Nuno). This duel shall be nozv — 
 though night be advancing on — before discretion come 
 to counsel milder means. Come, and help me arm. 
 
 Nun. Lord bless me, sir, what arms have )'ou got 
 except the coat over the door r 
 
 Men. In my armoury I doubt not are some pieces 
 of my ancestors that will fit their descendant. 
 
 {Exeunt.
 
 366 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act ii 
 
 Ente?' Captain, Sergeant, and Rebolledo. 
 
 Capt. I tell you my love is not a fancy ; but a 
 passion, a tempest, a volcano. 
 
 Serg. What a pity it is you ever set eyes on the girl I 
 
 Capt. What answer did the servant give you ? 
 
 Serg. Nay, sir, I have told you. 
 
 Capt. That a country wench should stand upon 
 her virtue as if she were a lady ! 
 
 Serg. This sort of girls, captain, don't understand 
 gentlemen's ways. If a strapping lout in their own 
 line of life courted them in their own way, they'd 
 hear and answer quick enough. Besides, you really 
 expect too much, that a decent woman should listen 
 after one day's courtship to a lover who is perhaps to 
 leave her to-morrow. 
 
 Capt. And to-day's sun-setting ! 
 
 Serg. Your own love too, but from one glance — 
 Capt. Is not one spark enough for gunpowder ? 
 Serg. You too, who would have it no country girl 
 could be worth a day's courtship ! 
 
 Capt. Alas, 'twas that was my ruin — running un- 
 awares upon a rock. I thought only to see a splay- 
 footed gawky, and found a goddess. Ah, Rebolledo, 
 could you but get me one more sight of her !
 
 SCENE i] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA i()i 
 
 Reb. Well, captain, you have done me one good 
 turn, and though you had like to run me into danger, 
 I don't mind venturing again for you. 
 
 Capt. But how ? how ? 
 
 Reb. Well, now, look here. We've a man in the 
 regiment with a fair voice, and my little Chispa — no 
 one like her for a flash song. Let's serenade at the 
 girl's window ; she must, in courtesy or curiosity, 
 look out ; and then — 
 
 Capt. But Don Lope is there, and we mustn't 
 wake him. 
 
 Reb. Don Lope ? When does he ever get asleep 
 with that leg of his, poor fellow ? Besides, you can 
 mix along with us in disguise, so as at least you won't 
 come into question. 
 
 Capt. Well, there is but this chance, if it be but 
 a faint one ; for if we should march to-morrow ! — 
 come, let us set about it ; it being, as you say, be- 
 tween ourselves that I have any thing to do with it. 
 [Exeunt Captain and Sergeant. 
 
 Enter Chispa. 
 
 Chis. He's got it, at any rate. 
 
 Reb. What's the matter now, Chispa r 
 
 Chis. Oh, I mark'd his face for him.
 
 368 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act ii 
 
 Reb. What, a row ? 
 
 Ch'u. A fellow there who began to ask questions 
 as to my fair play at roulette — when I was all as fair 
 as day too — I answered him with this. {Skotcing a 
 hiife.) Well, he's gone to the barber's to get it 
 dressed. 
 
 Reb. You still stand kicking when I want to get 
 to the fair. I wanted you with your castanets, not 
 your knife. 
 
 Chis. Pooh I one's as handy as the other. What's 
 up now • 
 
 Reb. Come with me to quarters ; I'll lell you as 
 we go along. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. j4 trellis of Fines in Crespo's garden. — 
 Enter Crespo and Don Lope. 
 
 Cres. Lay the table here. {To Lope.) You'll 
 relish your supper here in the cool, sir. These hot 
 August days at least bring their cool nights by way of 
 excuse. 
 
 Lope. A mighty pleasant parlour this I 
 Cres. Oh, a little strip my daughter amuses her- 
 self with ; sit down, sir. In place of the fine voices 
 and instruments you are us'd to, you must put up
 
 SCENE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZAI-AMEA ^6() 
 
 with only the breeze playing on the vine leaves in 
 concert with the little fountain yonder. Even the 
 birds (our only musicians) are gone to bed, and 
 wouldn't sing any the more if I were to wake them. 
 Come sit down, sir, and try to ease that poor leg of 
 j'ours. 
 
 Lope. I wish to heaven I could. 
 
 Cres. Amen ! 
 
 Lope. Well, I can at least bear it. Sit down, Crespo. 
 
 C7-es. Thank you, sir. {Hesitating.) 
 
 Lope. Sit down, sit down, pray. 
 
 Cres. Since you bid me then, you must excuse 
 my ill manners [Sits.) 
 
 Lope. Humph — Do you know, I am thinking, 
 Crespo, that yesterday's riot rather overset your good 
 ones ? 
 
 C?es. Ay r 
 
 Lope. Why how else is it that you, whom I can 
 scarce get to sit down at all to-day, yesterday plump'd 
 yourself down at once, and in the big chair too ? 
 
 Cres. Simpl}' because )'esterday you did)i't ask me. 
 To-day you are courteous, and I am sh)-. 
 
 Lope. Yesterday you were all thistle and hedge- 
 hog ; to-day as soft as silk. 
 
 Cres. It is only because )'ou yourself were so. 1 
 
 C. JiB
 
 370 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act u 
 
 always answer in the key I'm spoken to ; yesterday 
 you were all out of tune, and so was I. It is my 
 principle to swear with the swearer, and pray with 
 the saint ; all things to all men. So much so as I 
 declare to you your bad leg kept me awake all night. 
 And, by the b)', I u'ish, now we are about it, you 
 would tell me which of your legs it is that ails you : 
 for, not knowing, I was obliged to make sure bj- 
 swearing at both of mine : and one at a time is 
 quite enough. 
 
 Lope. Well, Pedro, you will perhaps think I have 
 some reason for my tetchiness, when I tell you that 
 for thirty years during which I hav^e served in the 
 Flemish wars through summer's sun, and winter's 
 frost, and enemy's bullets, I have never known what 
 it is to be an hour without pain. 
 
 Cres. God give you patience to bear it ! 
 
 Lope. Pish ! can't I give it myself ? 
 
 Cres. Well, let him leave you alone then ! 
 
 Lope. Devil take patience ! 
 
 Cres. Ah, let him ! he wants it ; only it's too 
 good a job for him. 
 
 Enter Juan '.v'lth Table, \5c. 
 Juan. Supper, sir.
 
 SCENE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 371 
 
 Lope. But what are my people about, not to see 
 to all this : 
 
 Cres. Pardon my having been so bold to tell 
 them I and my family would wait upon you, so, as I 
 hope, you shall want for nothing. 
 
 Lope. On one condition then, that as you have no 
 fear of your company now, your daughter may join 
 us at supper. 
 
 Cres. Juan, bid your sister come directly. 
 
 \ExU Juan. 
 
 Lope. My poor health ma)' quiet all suspicion on 
 that score, I think. 
 
 Cres. Sir, if you ^vere as lusty as 1 v\ ish you, 1 
 should have no fear. I bid my tiaughter keep above 
 while the regiment was here because of the nonsense 
 soldiers usually talk to girls. If all were gentlemen 
 like you, I should be the first to make her wait on 
 them. 
 
 Lope {aside). The cautious old fellow ! 
 
 Enter Juan, Isabel, and Inks. 
 
 Isab. {to Crespo). Your pleasure, sir ? 
 Cres. It is Don Lope's, who honours )'ou b)- bid- 
 ding you to sup with him.
 
 372 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act u 
 
 Lope {aside). What a fair creature ! Nay, 'tis I 
 that honour myself by the invitation. 
 
 Isab. Let me wait upon you. 
 
 Lope. Indeed no, unless waiting upon me mean 
 supping with me. 
 
 C;w. Sit down, sit down, girl, as Don Lope 
 desires you. 
 
 \T/:cy sit at table. Guitar heard within. 
 
 Lope. Music too ! 
 
 Cres. None of ours. It must be some of your 
 soldiers, Don Lope. 
 
 Lope. Ah, Crespo, the troubles and dangers of 
 war must have a little to sweeten them betimes. 
 The uniform sits verj- tight, and must be let out 
 every now and then. 
 
 "Juan. Yet 'tis a fine life, sir. 
 
 Lope. Do you think you would like to follow it r 
 
 "Juan. If I might at your Excellency's side. 
 
 Song (tvithin). 
 
 Ah for the red spring rose, 
 Down in the garden growing. 
 
 Fading as fast as it blows. 
 Who shall arrest its going ? 
 
 Peep from thy window and tell, 
 
 Fairest of flowers, Is.ibel.
 
 SCENE n] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 373 
 
 Lope {aside). Pebbles thrown up at the window 
 too ! But I'll say nothing, for all sakes. {Aloud.) 
 What foolery !■ 
 
 Cres. Boys ! Boys ! {Aside.) To call her very 
 name too ! If it weren't for Don Lope — 
 
 Juan {going). I'll teach them — 
 
 Cres. Halloa, lad, whither away ? 
 
 Juan. To see for a dish — 
 
 Cfes. They'll see after that. Sit still where thou 
 art. 
 
 Song {zcithin). 
 
 Wither it would, but the bee 
 
 Over the blossom hovers. 
 And the sweet life ere it flee 
 
 With as sweet art recovers, 
 Sweetest at night in his cell. 
 Fairest of flowers, Isabel, 
 
 I sab. {aside). How have I deserved this ? 
 Lope {knocking over his chair). This is not to be 
 borne ! 
 
 Cres. {upsetting the table). No more it is ! 
 
 Lope. I meant my leg. 
 
 Cres. And I mine. 
 
 Lope. I can eat no more, and will to bed. 
 
 Cres. Very good : so will I.
 
 37+ THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act ii 
 
 Lope. Good night, good night, to you all. 
 
 All. Good night, sir. 
 
 Lope {aside). I'll see to them. • [Exit. 
 
 Cf-es. {aside). I'll shut the girls up, and then look 
 after 'em. {Aloud.) Come, to bed. {To Juan.) 
 Halloa, lad, again ! This is the way to thy room, 
 is it not ? [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene III. Outside Crespo's House. — The Captain, 
 Sergeant, Rebolledo, Chispa, isc, zvith guitars. — 
 At one corner, Mendo in old armour, ':dfh Nuno, 
 observing them. — // // dark. 
 
 Men. {aside to Nuno). You sec this r 
 
 A'a;;. And hear it. 
 
 Men. I am bloodily minded to charge into them 
 at once, and disperse them into chaos ; but I u'ill see 
 if she is guilty of answering them by a sign. 
 
 Capt. No glance from the window yet ! 
 
 Reb. Who'd stir for a sentimental love song ? 
 Come, Chispa, you can give us one that would make 
 her look out of the grave. 
 
 Chis. Here am I on my pedestal. Now for it. 
 {She sings.)
 
 SCENE III] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 375 
 
 There once was a certain Sampayo 
 
 Of Andalusia the fair ; 
 A Major he was in the service, 
 
 And a very fine coat did he wear. 
 And one night, as to-night it might happen, 
 
 That as he was going his round, 
 With the Carlo half drunk in a tavern — 
 
 Reb. Asonantc to " happen,^'' you know. 
 Ch'u. Don't put me out, Rebolledo — {Sings.) 
 
 With the Carlo half drunk in a tavern 
 His lovely Chillona he found. 
 
 With the Carlo half drunk in a tavern 
 His lovely Chillona he found. 
 
 Second Stanza. 
 
 Now this Carlo, as chronicles tell us. 
 
 Although rather giv'n to strong drinks. 
 Was one of those terrible fellows 
 
 Is down on a man ere he winks. 
 And so while the IVIajor all weeping 
 
 Upbraided his lady unkind. 
 The Carlo behind him came creeping 
 
 And laid on the Major behind. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Carlo, &c. 
 
 (During Clones, Dox Lope ami Crlspo /:azr entered at 
 different sides zvith szcords, and begin to ia\ about them.)
 
 376 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act n 
 
 Cres. What something in this way,"| 
 perhaps ! ^Together. 
 
 Lope. After this fashion, may-he ! J 
 
 [The Soldiers are driven off.) 
 
 Lope. Well, we're quit of them, except one. But 
 I'll soon settle him. 
 
 Cres. One still hanging about. Off with you I 
 
 Lope. Oft'withj'o//, rascal I {They Jigkt.) By Heaven, 
 he fights well ! 
 
 C}es. By Heaven, a handy chap at his tool. 
 
 Enter Juan zvitb szcord and torch. 
 
 Juan. Where is Don Lope ? 
 
 Lope. Crespo I 
 
 Cres. Don Lope 1 
 
 Lope. To be sure, didn't you say you were going 
 to bed r 
 
 Cres. And didn't you r 
 
 Lope. This was my quarrel, not yours. 
 
 Cres. Very well, and I come out to help you in it. 
 
 Re-enter Captain and Soldiers with swords. 
 
 \st Sold. We'll soon settle them. 
 
 Capt. Don Lope ! 
 
 Lope. Yes, Don Lope. What is all this, sir :
 
 SCENE 111] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 377 
 
 Capt. The soldiers were singing and pk} ing in 
 the street, sir, doing no offence to any one, but were 
 set upon by some of the town's people, and I came to 
 stop the riot. 
 
 Lope. You have done well, Don Alvaro, I know 
 your prudence ; however, as there is a grudge on 
 both sides, I shall not visit the town's people this time 
 with further severity ; but for the sake of all parties, 
 order the regiment to march from Zalamea to-morrow 
 — nay, to-day, for it is now dawn. See to it, sir : 
 and let me hear of no such disgraceful riots hereafter. 
 
 Capt. I shall obey your orders, sir. 
 
 \Exit zviih soldiers, l3c. 
 
 Cres. {aside). Don Lope is a fine fellow I we shall 
 cog together after all. 
 
 Lope {to Crespo and Juan). You two keep with 
 me, and don't be found alone. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Re-enter Men do, and Nuno zcounded. 
 
 Men. 'Tis only a scratch. 
 
 Nun. A scratch ? Well, I could well have spared 
 that. 
 
 Men. Ah, what is it compared to the wound in 
 my heart I 
 
 Nun. I would gladly exchange for all that.
 
 3 78 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act n 
 
 Men. Well, he did lay upon your head handsomely, 
 didn't he : 
 
 Nun. Ah, and on my tail, too ; while you, under 
 that great shield of yours, — (Drum.) 
 
 Men. Hark ! what's that r 
 
 Nun. The soldiers' reveille. I heard say they 
 Avere to leave Zalamea to-day. 
 
 Men. I am glad of it, since they'll carry that 
 detestable captain off with them at all events. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. Outside Xakmea. — Enter Captain, Sergeant, 
 Rebolledo, and Chispa. 
 
 Capt. March you on. Sergeant, with the troop. 
 I shall lie here till sun-down, and then steal back to 
 Zalamea for one last chance. 
 
 5^/^. If you are resolved on this, sir, you had 
 better do it well attended, for these bumpkins are 
 dangerous, once affronted. 
 
 Reb. Where, however, (and you ought to tip me 
 for my news,) you have one worst enemy the less. 
 
 Capt. Who's that ? 
 
 Reb. Isabel's brother. Don Lope and the lad 
 took a fancy to each other and have persuaded the old 
 father to let him go for a soldier ; and I have only
 
 SCENE iv] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 379 
 
 just met him as proud as a peacock, with all the sinew 
 of the swain and the spirit of the soldier already about 
 him, 
 
 Capt. All \N'orks well ; there is now only the old 
 father at home, who can easily be disposed of It 
 only needs that he who brought me this good news 
 help me to use it. 
 
 Reb. Me do you mean, sir r So I \vill, to the 
 best of my power. 
 
 Capt. Good ; }ou shall go with me. 
 
 Serg. But if Don Lope should happen on you ? 
 
 Capt. He is himself obliged to set off to Guadalupe 
 this evening, as the king is already on the road. This 
 I heard from himself when I went to take his orders. 
 Come with me. Sergeant, and settle about the troops 
 marching, and then for my own campaign. 
 
 [Exeunt Captain and Sergeant. 
 
 Chls. And what am I to do, Rebolledo, mean- 
 while ? I shan't be safe alone with that fellow whose 
 face I sent to be stitcht by the barber. 
 
 Reb. Ah, how to manage about that r You 
 wouldn't dare go with us ? 
 
 Chis. Not in petticoats : but in the clothes of 
 that run-away stable bo}' : I can step into them free 
 o\ expense.
 
 38o THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act ii 
 
 Reb. That's a brave girl. 
 Chis. {singing. 
 
 And now who shall say 
 The love of a soldier's wife lasts but a day ? 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. Crespo's Garden Porch. Don Lope, 
 Crespo, Juan. 
 
 Lope. I have much to thank you for, Crespo, but 
 for nothing so much as for giving me your son for a 
 soldier. I do thank you for that with all my heart. 
 
 Cres. I am proud he should be your servant. 
 
 Lope. The king's ! the king's ! — ;;/y friend. I 
 took a fancy to him from the first for his spirit and 
 affection to the service. 
 
 'Juan. And I will follow you to the world's end, 
 sir. 
 
 Cres. Though you must make allowance for his 
 awkwardness at first, sir, remembering he has only had 
 ploughmen for teachers, and plough and pitch-forks 
 for books. 
 
 Lope. He needs no apology. And now the sun's 
 heat abates towards his setting, I will be oft". 
 
 Juan. 1 will see for the litter. \Ex'it.
 
 SCENE v] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 381 
 
 Enter Isabel and Inks. 
 
 hah. You must not go, sir, withoul our adieu. 
 
 Lope. I would not have done so ; nor without 
 asking pardon for much that is past, and even for 
 what I am now about to do. But remember, fair 
 Isabel, 'tis not the price of the gift, but the good will 
 of the giver makes its value. This brooch, though of 
 diamond, becomes poor in your hands, and yet I 
 would fain have you wear it in memory of Don Lope. 
 
 Isab. I take it ill you should wish to repay us for 
 an entertainment — 
 
 Lope. No, no, no repayment ; that were im- 
 possible if I wished it. A free keepsake of regard. 
 
 hab. As such I receive it then, sir. Ah, may I 
 make bold to commit mj' brother to your kindness ? 
 
 Lope. Indeed, indeed, you may rely on me. 
 
 Enter Juan. 
 
 'Juan. The litter is ready. 
 
 Lope. Adieu, then, all. 
 
 All. Adieu, adieu, sir. 
 
 Lope. Ha, Peter ! who, judging from our first 
 meeting, could have prophesied we should part such 
 good friends ?
 
 382 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act ii 
 
 Cres. I could, sir, had I but known — 
 
 Lope {going). Well ? 
 
 Cres. That you were at once as good as crazy. 
 {Exit Lope.) And now, Juan, before going, let me 
 give thee a word of advice in presence of thy sister 
 and cousin ; thou and thj' horse will easily overtake 
 Don Lope, advice and all. By God's grace, bo}-, 
 thou com'st of honourable if of humble stock ; bear 
 both in mind, so as neither to be daunted from trying 
 to rise, nor puffed up so as to be sure to fall. How 
 many have done away the memory of a defect by carry- 
 ing themselves modestl}- ; while others again have 
 gotten a blemish only by being too proud of being 
 born without one. There is a just humility that will 
 maintain thine own dignity, and yet make thee in- 
 sensible to many a rub that galls the proud spirit. 
 Be courteous in thy manner, and liberal of thy purse ; 
 for 'tis the hand to the bonnet and in the pocket 
 that makes friends in this world ; of which to gain 
 one good, all the gold the sun breeds in India, or the 
 universal sea sucks down, were a cheap purchase. 
 Speak no evil of women ; I tell thee the meanest of 
 them deserves our respect ; for of women do we not 
 all come ? Quarrel with no one but with good 
 cause ; by the Lord, over and over again, when I see
 
 SCENE v] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 383 
 
 masters and schools of arms among us, I say to myself, 
 " This is not the thing we want at all, How to fight, 
 but Why to fight? that is the lesson we want to learn." 
 And I verily believe if but one master of the Why to 
 fight advertised among us he would carry off all the 
 scholars. Well — enough — You have not (as you 
 once said to me) my advice this time on an empty 
 stomach — a fair outfit of clothes and money — a good 
 horse — and a good sword — these, together with Don 
 Lope's countenance, and my blessing — I trust in God 
 to live to see thee home again with honour and 
 advancement on thy back. My son, God bless thee ! 
 There — And now go — for I am beginning to play the 
 woman. 
 
 Juan. Your words will li\'e in my heart, sir, so 
 long as it lives. (He kisses his father's hand!) Sister ! 
 {He embraces her.) 
 
 Lab. Would I could hold you back in my arms ! 
 
 Juan. Adieu, cousin ! 
 
 Ines. I can't speak. 
 
 C7-es. Be off, else I shall never let thee go — and 
 my word is given ! 
 
 Juan. God bless you all ! \_E.xit. 
 
 Isab. Oh, you never should have let him go, sir. 
 
 Cres. {aside). I shall do better now. {Aloud.)
 
 384 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act ii, sc. v. 
 
 Pooh, why, what the deuce could I have done with 
 him at home here all his life — a lout — a scape-grace 
 perhaps. Let him go serve his king. 
 
 Isab. Leaving us by night too ! 
 
 Cres. Better than by day, child, at this season — 
 Pooh ! — {Jsldc.) I must hold up before them. 
 
 Isab. Come, sir, let us in. 
 
 hies. No, no, cousin, e'en let us have a little fresh 
 air now the soldiers are gone. 
 
 C?'es. True — and here I may watch my Juan along 
 the white, white road. Let us sit. {They sh.) 
 
 hah. Is not this the da)', sir, when the Town 
 Council elects its officers ? 
 
 Cres. Ay, indeed, in August — so it is. And indeed 
 this very day. 
 
 {As they talk together the Captain, Sergeant, Rebolledo, 
 and Chispa steal in.) 
 
 Capt. {zvhispering). 'Tis she I you know our plan ; 
 I seize her, and you look to the others. 
 Isab. What noise is that : 
 Ines. Who are these : 
 
 {The Captain seizes and carries off Isabel — the Sergeant 
 and Rebolledo seize Crespo.)
 
 ACT III, sc. i] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 385 
 
 Isab. izL'ithin). M)- father ! My father ! 
 Cres. Villains ! A sword ! A sword ! 
 Reb. Kill him at once. 
 Serg. No, no. 
 
 Reb. We must carry him oft' with us then, or his 
 cries will rouse the town. \Exeunt, carrying Crespo. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene I. A Wood near Zalatnea. It is dark. — Enter 
 Isabel. 
 
 Isab. Oh never, never might the light of day arise 
 and show me to myself in my shame ! Oh, fleeting 
 morning star, mightest thou never yield to the dawn 
 that even now presses on thy azure skirts ! And thou, 
 great Orb of all, do thou stay down in the cold ocean 
 foam ; let night for once advance her trembling 
 empire into thine ! For once assert thy voluntary 
 power to hear and pity human misery and prayer, 
 nor hasten up to proclaim the vilest deed that Heaven, 
 in revenge on man, has written on his guilty annals ! 
 Alas ! even as I speak, thou liftest thy bright, inexor- 
 able face above the hills ! Oh ! horror ! What shall 
 
 c. cc
 
 386 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act hi 
 
 I do ? whither turn my tottering feet ? Back to my 
 own home ? and to my aged father, whose only joy 
 it was to see his own spotless honour spotlessly 
 reflected in mine, which now — And yet if I return 
 not, I leave calumny to make my innocence accom- 
 plice in my own shame ! Oh that I had stayed to 
 be slain by Juan over my slaughter'd honour ! But 
 I dared not meet his eyes even to die by his hand. 
 Alas ! — Hark ! What is that noise ? 
 
 Crespo {within). Oh in pity slay me at once ! 
 
 Isab. One calling for death like myself? 
 
 Cres. Whoever thou art — 
 
 hub. That voice ! \Exit. 
 
 Scene II. Another place in the Wood. Crespo tied to 
 a tree. — Enter to him Isabel. 
 
 hab. My father ! 
 
 Cres. Isabel ! Unbind these cords, my child. 
 
 Isab. I dare not: — I dare not yet, lest you kill be- 
 fore you hear my story — and you must hear that. 
 
 Cres. No more, no more ! Misery needs no re- 
 membrancer. 
 
 Isab. It must be. 
 
 Cres. Alas ! Alas !
 
 SCENE ii] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 387 
 
 Isab. Listen for the last time. You know how, 
 sitting last night under the shelter of those white hairs 
 in which my maiden youth had grown, those wretches, 
 whose only law is force, stole upon us. He who had 
 feign'd that quarrel in our house, seizing and tearing 
 me from your bosom as a lamb from the fold, carried 
 me off ; my own cries stifled, yours dying away behind 
 me, and yet ringing in my ears like the sound of a 
 trumpet that has ceas'd ! — till here, where out of 
 reach of pursuit, — all dark — the very moon lost from 
 heaven — the wretch began with passionate lies to ex- 
 cuse his violence by his love — his love ! — I implored, 
 wept, threatened, all in vain — the villain — But my 
 tongue will not utter what I must weep in silence and 
 ashes for ever ! Yet let these quivering hands and 
 heaving bosom, yea, the very tongue that cannot speak, 
 speak loudliest ! Amid my shrieks, entreaties, impre- 
 cations, the night began to wear away and dawn to 
 creep into the forest. I heard a rustling in the leaves ; 
 it was my brother — who in the twilight understood 
 all without a word — drew the sword you had but just 
 given him — they fought — and I, blind with terror, 
 shame, and anguish, fled till — till at last I fell before 
 your feet, my father, to tell you my story before I die ! 
 And now I undo the cords that keep your hands from
 
 388 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act hi 
 
 my wretched life. So — it is done ! and I Icneel be- 
 ore you — your daughter — your disgrace and my own. 
 Avenge us both ; and revive your dead honour in the 
 blood of her you gave life to ! 
 
 C'res. Rise, Isabel ; rise, my child. God has 
 chosen thus to temper the cup that prosperity might 
 else have made too sweet. It is thus he writes in- 
 struction in our hearts : let us bow down in all 
 humility to receive it. Come, we will home, my 
 Isabel, lean on me. {Aside.) 'Fore Heaven, an' I 
 catch that captain ! {Aloud.) Come, my girl ! 
 Courage ! so. 
 
 Foice {mthin). Crespo ! Peter Crespo ! 
 
 Cres. Hark ! 
 
 Voice. Peter ! Peter Crespo ! 
 
 Cres. Who calls ? 
 
 Enter ISotary. 
 
 NoL Peter Crespo ! Oh, here you are at last ! 
 
 Cres. Well ? 
 
 Nof. Oh, I've had a rare chase. Come — a largess 
 for my news. The Corporation have elected you 
 Mayor I 
 
 Cres. Me !
 
 SCENE III] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 389 
 
 Not. Indeed. And already you are wanted in 
 your office. The king is expected almost directly 
 through the town ; and, beside that, the captain who 
 disturbed us all so yesterday has been brought back 
 wounded — mortally, it is thought — but no one knows 
 by whom, 
 
 Cres. {to himself). And so when I was meditating 
 revenge, God himself puts the rod of justice into my 
 hands ! How shall I dare myself outrage the law 
 when I am made its keeper ? {Jioud.) Well, sir, I 
 am very grateful to my fellow-townsmen for their 
 confidence. 
 
 Not. They are even now assembled at the town- 
 hall, to commit the wand to your hands ; and indeed, 
 as I said, want you instantly. 
 
 Cres. Come then. 
 
 I sab. Oh, my father ! 
 
 Ci'es. Ay, who can now see that justice is done 
 you. Courage ! Come, [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. A Room in Zaiamea. — Enter the Captain 
 wounded, and Sergeant. 
 
 Capt. It was but a scratch after all. Why on 
 earth bring me back to this confounded place ? 
 
 Serg. Who could have known it was but a scratch
 
 390 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act hi 
 
 till 'twas cured ? Would you have liked to be left to 
 bleed to death in the wood ? 
 
 Capt. Well, it is cured however : and now to get 
 clear away before the affair gets wind. Are the others 
 here ? 
 
 ^erg. Yes, sir. 
 
 Cdpt. Let us be off then before these fellows know ; 
 else we shall have to fight for it. 
 
 Enter Rebolledo. 
 
 Reh. Oh, sir, the magistrates are coming ! 
 
 Capt. Well, what's that to me ? 
 
 Reh. I only say they are at the door. 
 
 Ccpt. All the better. It will be their duty to 
 prevent any riot the people might make if they knevv' 
 of our being here. 
 
 Reb. They know, and are humming about it 
 through the town. 
 
 Capt. I thought so. The magistrates must inter- 
 fere, and then refer the cause to a court martial, 
 where, though the affair is awkward, I shall manage 
 to come off. 
 
 Crcs. {within). Shut the door? ; any soldier trying 
 to pass, cut him down !
 
 SCENE III] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 391 
 
 Enter Crespo, with the zvnnd of office if! his hand. 
 Constables, Nota7-y, i^c. 
 
 Cnpt. Who is it dares give such an order ? 
 
 Ci'es. And why not ? 
 
 Capt. Crespo ! Well, sir. The stick you are so 
 proud of has no jurisdiction over a soldier. 
 
 Cres. For the love of Heaven don't discompose 
 yourself, captain ; I am only come to have a few words 
 with you, and, if you please, alone. 
 
 Capt. Well then, {to soldiers, i^c.) retire awhile. 
 
 Cres. (to his people). And you — but hark ye ; re- 
 member my orders. [Exeunt Notafy, Constables, ^c. 
 
 Cres. And now, sir, that I have used my author- 
 ity to make you listen, I will lay it by, and talk to 
 you as man to man. {He lays dozvn the zvand.) We 
 are alone, Don Alvaro, and can each of us vent what 
 is swelling in his bosom ; in mine at least, till it is 
 like to burst ! 
 
 Capt. Well, sir ? 
 
 Cres. Till last night (let me say it without of- 
 fence) I knew not, except perhaps my humble birth, 
 a single thing fortune had left me to desire. Of such 
 estate as no other farmer in the district ; honoured 
 and esteemed (as now appears) by my fellow-towns-
 
 392 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act hi 
 
 men, who neither envied me my wealth, nor taunted 
 me as an upstart ; and this even in a little commun- 
 ity, whose usual, if not worst, fault it is to canvass each 
 other's weaknesses. I had a daughter too — virtuously 
 and modestly brought up, thanks to her whom heaven 
 now holds ! Whether fair, let what has passed — 
 But I will leave what I may to silence — would to God 
 I could leave all, and I should not now be coming on 
 this errand to you ! But It may not be : — you must 
 help time to redress a wound so great, as, in spite of 
 myself, makes cry a heart not used to overflow. I 
 must have redress. And how ? The injury is done 
 — by you : I might easily revenge myself for so public 
 and shameful an outrage, but I would have retribu- 
 tion, not revenge. And so, looking about, and con- 
 sidering the matter on all sides, I see but one way 
 which perhaps will not be amiss for either of us. It 
 is this. You shall forthwith take all my substance, 
 without reserve of a single farthing for myself or my 
 son, only what you choose to allow us ; you shall 
 even brand us on back or forehead, and sell us like 
 slaves or mules by way of adding to the fortune I offer 
 you — all this, and what you will beside, if only you 
 will with it take my daughter to wife, and restore the 
 honour you have robbed. You will not surely eclipse
 
 SCENE III] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 393 
 
 your own in so doing ; your children will still be 
 your children if my grandchildren ; and 'tis an old 
 saying in Castile, you know, that, " 'Tis the horse re- 
 deems the saddle." This is what I have to propose. 
 Behold, {he kneels^ upon my knees I ask it — upon my 
 knees, and weeping such tears as only a father's anguish 
 melts from his frozen locks ! And what is my de- 
 mand ? But that you should restore what you have 
 robbed : so fatal for us to lose, so easy for you to 
 restore ; which I could myself now wrest from you by 
 the hand of the law, but which I rather implore of 
 you as a mercy on my knees ! 
 
 Capt. You have done at last ? Tiresome old man ! 
 You may think yourself lucky I do not add your 
 death, and that of your son, to what you call your dis- 
 honour. 'Tis your daughter saves you both ; let that 
 be enough for all. As to the wrong you talk of, if 
 you would avenge it by force, I have little to fear. 
 As to your magistrate's stick there, it does not reach 
 my profession at all. 
 
 Cres. Once more I implore you — 
 
 Capt. Have done — have done ! 
 
 Cres. Will not these tears — 
 
 Capt. Who cares for the tears of a woman, a child, 
 or an old man ?
 
 394 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act hi 
 
 Cres. No pity ? 
 
 Capt. I tell you I spare your life, and your son's : 
 pity enough. 
 
 Cres. Upon my knees, asking back my o^vn at 
 your hands that robbed me ? 
 
 Cdpt. Nonsense ! 
 
 Cres. Who could extort it if I chose r 
 
 Capt. I tell you you could not. 
 
 Cres. There is no remedy then ? 
 
 Capt. Except silence, which I recommend you as 
 the best. 
 
 Cres. You are resolved ? 
 
 Capt, I am. 
 
 Cres. (rising, and resuming his zvand). Then, by God, 
 you shall pay for it ! Ho there ! 
 
 Enter Constables, i^c. 
 
 Capt. What are these fellows about ? 
 
 Cres. Take this captain to prison. 
 
 Capt. To prison ! you can't do it. 
 
 C;w. We'll see. 
 
 Capt. Am I a bona fide officer or not ? 
 
 C/r/. And am I a straw magistrate or not 
 Away with him ! 
 
 Capt. The king shall hear of this.
 
 { 
 
 SCENE III] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 395 
 
 Cres. He shall — doubt it not — perhaps to-day ; 
 and shall judge between us. By the by, you had best 
 deliver up your sword before you go. 
 
 Capt. My sword ! 
 
 Cres. Under arrest, you know. 
 
 Capt. Well — take it with due respect then. 
 
 Cres. Oh yes, and j'ou too. Hark ye, {to Constable, 
 \3c.) carry the captain with due respect to Bride- 
 well ; and there with due respect clap on him a chain 
 and hand-cuffs ; and not only him, but all that were 
 with him, (all with due respect,) respectfully taking 
 care they communicate not together. For I mean 
 with all due respect to examine them on the busi- 
 ness, and if I get sufficient evidence, with the most 
 infinite respect of all, I'll wring you by the neck till 
 you're dead, by God ! 
 
 Capt. Set a beggar on horseback ! 
 
 \^hey carry him off. 
 
 Enter Notary and others with Rebolledo, and Chispa 
 /';/ boy^s dress. 
 
 Not. This fellow and the page are all we could get 
 hold of The other got off. 
 
 Cres. Ah, this is the rascal who sung. I'll make 
 him sing on t'other side of his mouth.
 
 396 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act hi 
 
 Reb. Why, is singing a crime, sir ? 
 
 Cres. So little that I've an instrument shall make 
 you do it as you never did before. Will you confess ? 
 
 Reb. What am I to confess ? 
 
 Cies. What pass'd last night ? 
 
 Reb. Your daughter can tell you that better than I. 
 
 Cres. Villain, you shall die for it ! {^Exit. 
 
 Chis. Deny all, ReboUedo, and you shall be the 
 hero of a ballad I'll sing. 
 
 Not. And you too were of the singing party ? 
 
 Chis. Ah, ah, and if I was, you can't put me to 
 the question. 
 
 Not. And why not, pray ? 
 
 Chis. The law forbids you. 
 
 Not. Oh, indeed, the law ? How so, pray ? 
 
 Chis. Because I'm in the way ladies like to be who 
 love Rebolledo. [Exeufit, carried off, \^c. 
 
 Scene IV. A Room in Crespo's House. — Enter Juan 
 pursuing Isabel tvith a dagger. 
 
 Isab. Help, help, help ! \Exit. 
 
 'Juan. You must not live ! 
 
 Enter Crespo, who arrests him. 
 Cres. Hold ! What is this ?
 
 SCENE iv] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 397 
 
 "Juan. My father ! To avenge our shame — 
 
 Cres. Which is to be avenged b}- other means, and 
 not by you. How come you here ? 
 
 Juan. Sent back by Don Lope last night, to see 
 after some missing soldiers, on approaching the town 
 I heard some cries — 
 
 Cres. And drew your sword on your officer, whom 
 you wounded, and are now under arrest from me for 
 doing it. 
 
 Juan. Father ! 
 
 Cres. And Mayor of Zalamea. Within there I 
 
 Enter Constables. 
 
 Take him to prison. 
 
 Juan. Your own son, sir ? 
 
 Cres. Ay, sir, my own father, if he transgressed 
 the law I am made guardian of Off with him ! 
 (Ti^^j carry off Juan.) So I shall keep him out of 
 harm's way at least. And now for a little rest. {He 
 lays by his wand.) 
 
 Lope {calling within). Stop ! Stop ! 
 
 Cres. Who's that calling without ? Don Lope ! 
 
 Enter Lope. 
 Lope. Ay, Peter, and on a very confounded busi-
 
 398 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act m 
 
 ness too. But at least I would not put up any where 
 but at your friendly house. 
 
 C?-es. You are too good. But, Indeed, what 
 makes )ou back, sir, so suddenly ? 
 
 Lo/>e. A most disgraceful affair ; the greatest 
 insult to the service ! One of my soldiers overtook 
 me on the road, flying at full speed, and told me — 
 Oh, the rascal ! 
 Cres. Well, sir ? 
 
 Lo/>e. That some little pettifogging Mayor of the 
 place had got hold of a captain in my regiment, and 
 put him in prison ! In prison ! 'Fore Heaven, I 
 never really felt this confounded leg of mine till to- 
 day, that it prevented me jumping on horseback at 
 once to punish this trumpery Jack-in-office as he 
 deserves. But here I am, and, by the Lord, I'll 
 thrash him within an inch of his life ! 
 Cfes. You will ? 
 Loj>e. Will I ! 
 
 Cres. But will he stand your thrashing ? 
 Loj>e. Stand it or not, he shall have it. 
 Cres. Besides, might your captain happen to 
 deserve what he met with ? 
 
 Loj>e. And, if he did, / am his judge, not a trum- 
 per)' mayor.
 
 SCENE iv] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 399 
 
 Cres. This mayor is an odd sort of customer to 
 deal with, I assure you. 
 
 Lope. Some obstinate clodpole, I suppose. 
 
 Cies. So obstinate, that if he's made up his mind 
 to hang your captain, he'll do it. 
 
 Lope. Will he ? I'll see to that. And if you 
 wish to see too, only tell me where I can find him. 
 
 Cres. Oh, close here. 
 
 Lope. You know him ? 
 
 Cres. Very well, I believe. 
 
 Lope. And who is it ? 
 
 Cres. Peter Crespo. {Takes Ins zcaiid.) 
 
 Lope. By God, I suspected it. 
 
 Cres. By God, you were right. 
 
 Lope. Well, Crespo, what's said is said. 
 
 Cj'es. And, Don Lope, what's done is done. 
 
 Lope. I tell you, I want my captain. 
 
 Cres. And I tell j'ou, I've got him. 
 
 Lope. Do you know he is the king's officer ? 
 
 C]-es. Do you know he ravished my daughter ? 
 
 Lope. That you are out-stripping your authority 
 in meddling with him ? 
 
 Cres. Not more than he his in meddling with me. 
 
 Lope. Do you know my authority supersedes yours ? 
 
 Cres. Do you know I tried first to get him to do
 
 400 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act hi 
 
 me justice with no authority at all, but the ofter of 
 all my estate ? 
 
 Lope. I tell you, 77/ settle the business for you. 
 
 Cres. And I tell you I never leave to another 
 what I can do for myself. 
 
 Lope. I tell you once more and for all, I must 
 have my man. 
 
 Cres. And I tell you once more and for all, you 
 shall — when you have cleared him of the depositions. 
 
 Lope. The depositions ! What are they ? 
 
 Cres. Oh, only a few sheets of parchment tagged to- 
 gether with the evidence of his own soldiers against him. 
 
 Lope. Pooh ! I'll go myself, and take him from 
 the prison. 
 
 Cres. Do, if you like an arquebuss ball through 
 your body. 
 
 Lope. I am accustomed to that. But I'll make 
 ure. Within there ! 
 
 Enter Orderly. 
 
 Have the regiment to the market-place directly 
 under arms, I'll see if I'm to have my prisoner or 
 not. \Exit. 
 
 Cres. And I — Hark ye ! 
 
 \_Exit, whispering to a Constable.
 
 SCENE v] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 401 
 
 Scene V. Before the Prison in Zalamea. — A Street in 
 the centre. — Enter on one side Don Lope zvith 
 Troops ; at the other, before the Prison, Labourers, 
 Constables, iffc, armed ; and afiei-ward, Crespo. 
 
 Lope. Soldiers, there is the prison where your 
 captain lies. If he be not given up instantly at my 
 last asking, set fire to the prison ; and, if further 
 resistance be made, to the whole town. 
 
 Cres. Friends and fellow-townsmen, there is the 
 prison where lies a rascal capitally convicted — 
 
 Lope. They grow stronger and stronger. Forward, 
 men, forward ! {As the Soldiers are about to advance, 
 trumpets and shouts of'''- God save the King,^^ within.) 
 
 Lope. The king ! 
 
 All. The king ! 
 
 Enter King Philip II. through centre Street, zvith Trains 
 ijfc. Shouting, Trumpets, l3c. 
 
 King. What is all this ? 
 
 Lope. 'Tis well your Majesty came so suddenly, 
 or you would have had one of your whole towns by 
 way of bonfire on your progress. 
 
 King. What has happened ?-
 
 402 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act hi 
 
 Lope. The mayor of this place has had the im- 
 pudence to seize a captain in your Majesty's service, 
 clap him in prison, and refuses to surrender him to 
 me, his commander. 
 
 King. Where is this mayor ? 
 
 Cres. Here, so please your Majesty. 
 
 K'lng. Well, Mr. Mayor, what have you to offer 
 in defence ? 
 
 Cres. These papers, my Liege : in which this 
 same captain is clearly proved guilty, on the evidence 
 of his own soldiers, of carrying off and violating a 
 maiden in a desolate place, and refusing her the 
 satisfaction of marriage though peaceably entreated to 
 it by her father with the endowment of all his sub- 
 stance. 
 
 Lope. This same mayor, my Liege, is the girl's 
 father. 
 
 Cres. What has that to do with it ? If another 
 man had come to me under like circumstances, should 
 I not have done him like justice ? To be sure. 
 And therefore, why not do for my own daughter 
 what I should do for another's ? Besides, I have just 
 done justice against my own son for striking his cap- 
 tain ; why should I be suspected of straining it in 
 my daughter's favour ? But here is the process ; let
 
 SCENE v] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 403 
 
 his Majesty see for himself if the case be made out. 
 The witnesses are at hand too ; and if they or any 
 one can prove I have suborned any evidence, or any 
 way acted with partiality to myself, or malice to the 
 captain, let them come forward, and let my life pay 
 for it instead of his. 
 
 King {after reading the papers). I see not but the 
 charge is substantiated ; and 'tis indeed a heavy one. 
 Is there any one here to deny these depositions ? 
 {Silence.) But, be the crime proved, you have no 
 authority to judge or punish it. You must let the 
 prisoner go. 
 
 Cres. You must send for him then, please your 
 Majesty. In little towns like this, where public 
 officers are few, the deliberative is forced sometimes 
 to be the executive also. 
 
 King. What do you mean ? 
 
 Cres. Your Majesty will see. {The prison gates 
 open, and the Captain is seen within, garrotted in a chair.) 
 
 King. And you have dared, sir ! — 
 
 Cres. Your Majesty said the sentence was just ; 
 and what is well said cannot be ill done. 
 
 King. Could you not have left it for my imperial 
 Court to execute ? 
 
 Cres. All your Majesty's justice is only one great
 
 404 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA [act m 
 
 body with many hands ; if a thing be to be done, 
 what matter by which ? Or what matter erring in 
 the inch, if one be right in the ell ? • 
 
 King. At least you might have beheaded him, as 
 an officer and a gentleman. 
 
 Cres. Please your Majesty, we have so few Hidal- 
 gos hereabout, that our executioner is out of practice 
 at beheading. And this, after all, depends on the 
 dead gentleman's taste ; if he don't complain, I don't 
 think any one else need for him. 
 
 King. Don Lope, the thing is done ; and, if un- 
 usually, not unjustly — Come, order all your soldiers 
 away with me toward Portugal ; where I must be 
 with all despatch. For you — {to Crespo,) what is 
 your name ? 
 
 Cres. Peter Crespo, please your Majesty. 
 
 King. Peter Crespo, then, I appoint you perpetual 
 Mayor of Zalamea. And so farewell. 
 
 [^Exit with Train. 
 
 Cres. {kneeling). God save your Highness ! 
 
 Lope. Friend Peter, his Highness came just in 
 time. 
 
 Cres. For your captain, do you mean ? 
 
 Lope. Come now — confess, wouldn't it have been 
 better to have given up the prisoner, \vho, at my
 
 SCENE v] THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 405 
 
 instance, would have married your daughter, saved 
 her reputation, and made her wife of an Hidalgo ? 
 
 Cres. Thank you, Don Lope, she has chosen to 
 enter a convent and be the bride of one who is no 
 respecter of Hidalgos. 
 
 Lope. Well, well, you will at least give me up the 
 other prisoners, I suppose ? 
 
 Cres. Bring them out. (Juan, Rebolledo, Chispa, 
 brought out.) 
 
 Lope. Your son too ! 
 
 Cres. Yes, 'twas he wounded his captain, and I 
 must punish him. 
 
 Lope. Come, come, you have done enough — at 
 least give him up to his commander. 
 
 Cres. Eh ? well, perhaps so ; I'll leave his punish- 
 ment to you. 
 
 With which now this true story ends — 
 Pardon its many errors, friends. 
 
 Mr. Ticknor thinks Calderon took the hint of this play from 
 Lope de Vega's " Wise Man at Home " ; and he quotes (though 
 ■without noticing this coincidence) a reply of Lope's hero to 
 some one advising him to assume upon his wealth, that is much 
 of a piece with Crespo's answer to Juan on a like score in the 
 first act of this piece. Only that in Lope the answer is an
 
 4o6 THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA 
 
 answer : which, as Juan says, in Calderon it is not ; so likely 
 to happen with a borrowed answer. 
 
 This is Mr. Ticknor's version from the older play : 
 
 He that was born to live in humble state 
 
 Makes but an awkward knight, do what you will. 
 
 My father means to die as he has liv'd, 
 
 The same plain collier that he always was ; 
 
 And I too must an honest ploughman die. 
 
 'Tis but a single step or up or down ; 
 
 For men there must be that will plough or dig, 
 
 And when the vase has once been fiU'd, be sure 
 
 'Twill always savour of what first it held, 
 
 I must observe of the beginning of Act III., that in this 
 translation Isabel's speech is intentionally reduced to prose, not 
 only in measure of words, but in some degree of idea also. It 
 would have been far easier to make at least verse of almost the 
 most elevated and purely beautiful piece of Calderon's poetry I 
 knovir ; a speech (the beginning of it) worthy of the Greek 
 Antigone, which, after two Acts of homely talk, Calderon has 
 put into his Labradoras mouth. This, admitting for all culmi- 
 nation of passion, and Spanish passion, must excuse my temper- 
 ing it to the key in which (measure only kept) Calderon himself 
 sets out.
 
 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Don Alonso. 
 
 Donna Clara, 1 / • r. , 
 TN T- [his Daughters. 
 
 Donna Eugenia,] 
 
 Don Torribio, his Nephew. 
 
 Mari Nuno, 
 
 Brigida, I his Servants. 
 
 Otanez, J 
 
 Don Felix, 
 
 Don Juan, I Gallants. 
 
 Don Pedro, j 
 
 Hernando, Don Felixes Servant. 
 
 408
 
 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. A Room in Don Alonso's House at Madrid. 
 — Enter Alonso and Otanez meeting. 
 
 OTJN. My own dear master ! 
 Jlon. Welcome, good Otanez, 
 
 My old and trusty servant ! 
 
 Otan. Have I liv'd 
 
 To see what I so long have long'd to see. 
 My dear old master home again ! 
 
 Jlon. You could not 
 
 Long for 't, Otanez, more than I myself. 
 What wonder, when my daughters, who, you know. 
 Are the two halves that make up my whole heart. 
 Silently call'd me home, and silently 
 (For maiden duty still gagg'd filial love) 
 Out of the country shade where both have grown, 
 Urg'd me to draw the blossom of their youth 
 
 403
 
 41 o BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 Where it might ripen in its proper day. 
 
 Otan. Indeed, indeed, sir. Oh that my dear lady 
 Were but alive to see this happy hour ! 
 
 J Ion. Nay, good Otanez, mar it not recalling 
 What, ever sleeping in the memory, 
 Needs but a word to waken into tears. 
 God have her in his Iceeping ! He best knows 
 How I have sufFer'd since the king, my master. 
 Dispatching me with charge to Mexico, 
 I parted from her ne'er to see her more ; 
 And now come back to find her gone for ever ! 
 You know 'twas not the long and roaring seas 
 Frighted her for herself, but these two girls — 
 For them she stay'd — and full of years and honour 
 Died, when God will'd ! and I have hasten'd home 
 Well as I may, to take into my hands 
 The charge death slipp'd from hers. 
 
 Otan. Your own good self ! 
 
 Though were there ever father, who could well 
 Have left that charge to others, it was you 
 Your daughters so religiously brought up 
 In convent with their aunt at Alcala. 
 Well, you are come, and God be prais'd for it ! 
 And, at your bidding, here are they, and I, 
 And good old Mari Nuno — all come up
 
 SCENE i] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 411 
 
 To meet you at Madrid. I could not wait 
 The coach's slower pace, but must spur on 
 To kiss my old master's hand. 
 
 Alon. Myself had gone 
 
 To meet them ; but despatches of the king's 
 Prevented me. They're well ? 
 
 Voices {zvithin). Make way there — way ! 
 
 Otan. And lovely as the dawn. And hark ! are 
 here 
 To answer for themselves. 
 
 Enter Clara, Eugenia, Mari Nuno, as from travel. 
 
 Clara {kneeling). Sir, and my father — by my daily 
 prayers 
 Heav'n, won at last in suffering me to kiss 
 These honour'd hands, leaves me no more to ask. 
 Than at these honour'd feet to die. 
 With its eternal blessing afterward. 
 
 Eug. And I, my father, grateful as I am 
 To Heav'n, for coming to your feet once more. 
 Have yet this more to ask — to live with you 
 For many, many happy years to come ! 
 
 Alon. Oh, not in vain did nature fix the heart 
 In the mid bosom, like a sun to move 
 Each circling arm with equal love around !
 
 412 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 Come to them — one to each — and take from me 
 
 Your lives anew. God bless you ! 
 
 Come, we are here together in Madrid, 
 
 And in the sphere where you were born to move. 
 
 This is the house that is to be your own 
 
 Until some happy lover call you his ; 
 
 Till which I must be father, lover, husband, 
 
 In one. Brigida ! 
 
 E7iter Brigida. 
 
 Bfig. Sir ? 
 
 jihn. My daughters' rooms 
 
 Are ready ? 
 
 Brig. Ay, sir, as the sky itself 
 For the sun's coming. 
 
 Alon. Go and see them then. 
 
 And tell me how you like what I have bought. 
 And fitted up for your reception. 
 
 Clara. I thank you, sir, and bless this happy da}-. 
 Though leaving my lov'd convent far away. 
 
 Eug. {aside). And I twice bless it, that no longer hid 
 In a dull cell, I come to see Madrid. 
 
 \_Exeuni Clara a7id Eugenia. 
 
 Mart 'Nufio. Now the young ladies, sir, have had 
 their turn.
 
 SCENE i] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER +13 
 
 Shall not I kiss your hand ? 
 
 Alon. Oh, welcome too, 
 
 Good Mari Nuiio ; who have been so long 
 A mother to them both. And, by the bye, 
 Good Mari Nuno, now we are alone, 
 I'd hear from you, who know them both so well, 
 Their several characters and dispositions. 
 And not, as 'twere, come blindfold to the charge 
 That Heav'n has laid upon me. 
 
 Mart. You say well, sir. 
 
 Well, I might say at once, and truly too. 
 That nothing need be said in further praise 
 But that they are your daughters. But to pass. 
 Lest you should think I flatter. 
 From general to individual. 
 And to begin with the eldest. Donna Clara ; 
 Eldest in years and in discretion too. 
 Indeed the very pearl of prudence, sir, 
 And maidenly reserve ; her eyes still fixt 
 On earth in modesty, or heav'n in prayer ; 
 As gentle as a lamb, almost as silent ; 
 And never known to say an angry word : 
 And such her love of holy quietude, 
 Unless at your desire, would never leave 
 Her cloister and her missal. She's, in short,
 
 414 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 An angel upon earth, whom to be near 
 And wait on, one would sell oneself a slave. 
 So much for her. Donna Eugenia, 
 Though unexceptionable in heart and head, 
 As, God forgive me, any child of yours 
 Must be, is different, — not for me to say 
 Better or worse, — but very different : 
 Of a quick spirit, loving no control ; 
 Indeed, as forward as the other shy ; 
 Quick to retort, and sharply ; so to speak, 
 Might sometimes try the patience of a saint ; 
 Longing to leave a convent for the world. 
 To see and to be seen ; makes verses too ; 
 Would not object, I think, to have them made 
 (Or love, may be) to her — you understand ; 
 Not that I mean to say — 
 
 Ahn. Enough, enough. 
 
 Thanks for your caution as your commendation : 
 How could I fortify against weak points 
 Unless I knew of them ? And, to this end, 
 Although Eugenia be the younger sister, 
 I'll see her married first ; husband and children 
 The best specific for superfluous youth : 
 And to say truth, good Mari, the very day 
 Of my arrival hither, I despatch'd
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 415 
 
 A letter to my elder brother's son, 
 
 Who still maintains our dwindled patrimony 
 
 Up in the mountains, which I would reclaim, 
 
 Or keep it rather in its lawful line, 
 
 By an alliance with a child of mine. 
 
 All falls out luckily. Eugenia 
 
 Wedded to him shall make herself secure, 
 
 And the two stems of Cuadradillos so 
 
 Unite and once more flourish, at a blow. \_Excnnf. 
 
 Scene II. J Room in Don Felix's House ; Don Felix, 
 ^W Hernando dressing him. 
 
 Hem. Such fine ladies, sir, come to be our neigh- 
 bours. 
 
 Fel. So they ought to be, such a noise as they 
 made in coming. 
 
 Hern. One of them already betroth'd, however. 
 
 Fel. So let her, and married too, if she would 
 only let me sleep quiet. But what kind of folks are 
 they ? 
 
 He}-n. Oh, tip-top. Daughters of the rich old 
 Indian who has bought the house and gardens opposite, 
 and who will give them all his wealth when they
 
 41 6 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 marry, which they say he has brought them to 
 Madrid expressly to do. 
 
 Fel. But are they handsome ? 
 
 Hem. I thought so, sir, as I saw them alighting. 
 
 Fel. Rich and handsome, then ? 
 
 Hem. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fel. Two good points in a woman, at all events, 
 of which I might profit, such opportunities as I 
 have. 
 
 Heiit. Have a care, sir, for the old servant who 
 told me this, told me also that the papa is a stout fiery 
 old fellow, who'd stick the Great Turk himself if he 
 caught him trifling with his daughters. 
 
 Fel. That again is not so well ; for though I'm 
 not the great Turk, I've no mind to share that part 
 of his fortune. But of the two girls, what said your 
 old servant ? who, as such, I suppose told you all that 
 was amiss in them at least. 
 
 Hem. Well, you shall judge. One, the oldest, is 
 very discreet. 
 
 Fel. Ah, I told you so. 
 
 Hem. The other lively. 
 
 Fel. Come, that sounds better. One can tackle 
 her hand to hand, but the grave one one can only 
 take a long shot at with the eyes.
 
 SCENE n] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 417 
 
 Hern. Whichever it be, I should like to see you 
 yourself hit one of these days, sir. 
 
 Fel. Me ? The woman is not yet cast who will 
 do that. If I meddle with these it is only because 
 they lie so handy. 
 
 He7ti. And handsome as well as handy ! 
 
 Fel. Pooh ! I wouldn't climb a wall to pluck the 
 finest fruit in the world. But hark ! some one's at 
 the door. See who 'tis. 
 
 Elite?- Don Juan in travelling dress. 
 
 Juan. I, Felix, who seeing your door open, could 
 not but walk in without further ado. 
 
 Fel. You know that it and my heart are ever open 
 to you. Welcome, welcome, Don Juan ! all the more 
 welcome for being unexpected : for though I had 
 heard we might one day have you back, I did not think 
 to see you yet. 
 
 Juan. Why, the truth is I got my pardon sooner 
 than I expected. 
 
 Fel. Though not than I prayed for. But tell me 
 all about it. 
 
 Juan. You know I was obliged to fly to Italy after 
 that unlucky duel. Well, there the great duke of 
 Terranova, who (as good luck would have it) was then 
 
 C. EE
 
 41 8 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 going ambassador to Hungary, took a fancy to me, 
 and carried me with him ; and, pleased with what 
 service I did him, interested himself in my fortunes, 
 and one good day, when I was least expecting it, with 
 his own hand put my pardon into mine. 
 
 Fel. A pardon that never should have needed ask- 
 ing, all of an unlucky quarrel at cards. 
 
 'Juan. So you and the world suppose, Felix : but 
 in truth there was something more behind. 
 
 Fel Ah ? 
 
 Juan. Why the truth is, I was courting a fair lady, 
 and with fair hope of success, though she would not 
 confess it, urging that her father being away at the 
 time, her mother would not consent in his absence. 
 Suddenly I found I had a rival, and took occasion of 
 a casual dispute at cards to wipe out the score of 
 jealousy ; which I did with a vengeance to both of us, 
 he being killed on the spot, and I, forc'd to fly the 
 country, must, I doubt, ere this, have died out of my 
 lady's memory, where only I cared to live. 
 
 Tel. Ay, you know well enough that in Madrid 
 Oblivion lies in the very lap of Remembrance, whether 
 of love or loathing. I thank my stars I never pinn'd 
 my faith on woman yet. 
 
 Juan. Still the same sceptic ?
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 419 
 
 Fel. A)', they are fine things, but my own heart's 
 ease is finer still ; and if one party must be deceived, 
 I hold it right in self-defence it should not be I. But 
 come ; that you may not infect me with your fiith, 
 nor I )'ou \vith my heresy, tell me about your 
 journey. 
 
 Juan. How could it be otherwise than a pleasant 
 one, such pageants as I had to entertain me by the way ? 
 
 Fel. Oh, you mean our royal master's nuptials ? 
 
 Juan. Ay ! 
 
 Fel. I must hear all about them, Juan ; even now, 
 upon the spot. 
 
 Juan. Well then, you know at least, without my 
 telling you, how great a debt Germany has owed us — 
 
 Enter Don Pedro hastily. 
 
 Fed. My dear Don Felix ! 
 
 Fel. Don Pedro ! By my faith, my door must be 
 the door of heaven, I think ; for all the good keep 
 coming in by't. But how comes your University 
 term so soon over r 
 
 Fed. Alas, it's not over, but — 
 
 Fel. Well ? 
 
 Fed. I'll tell you. 
 
 Juan. If I be in your way —
 
 420 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 Ped. No, no, sir, if you are Felix's friend you 
 command my confidence. My story is easily told. 
 A lady I am courting in Alcala is suddenly come up 
 to Madrid, and I am come after her. And to escape 
 my father's wrath at playing truant, I must beg sanc- 
 tuary in your house awhile. 
 
 Fel. And this once will owe me thanks for your 
 entertainment, since I have Don Juan's company to 
 offer you. 
 
 Juan. Nay, 'tis I have to thank you for Don 
 Pedro's. 
 
 Fel. Only remember, both of you, that however 
 you may amuse one another, you are not to entertain 
 me with your several hearts and darts. Hernando, 
 get us something to eat ; and till it comes you shall 
 set off rationally at least, Juan, with the account of the 
 royal nuptials you were beginning just as Don Pedro 
 came in. 
 
 Juan. On condition you afterwards recount to me 
 your rejoicings in Madrid meanwhile. 
 
 Fel. Agreed. 
 
 Ped. I come in happy time to hear you both. 
 
 Juan. You know, as I was saying, what a debt 
 Germany has ow'd us since our fair Maria 
 Her title of the Royal Child of Spain
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 421 
 
 Set in the crown of Hungary — a debt 
 
 They only could repay us as they do, 
 
 Returning us one of the self-same stock, 
 
 So like herself in beauty and desert. 
 
 We seem but taking what we gave away. 
 
 If into Austria's royal hand we gave 
 
 Our royal rose, she now returns us one 
 
 Sprung of the self-same stem, as fiir, as sweet 
 
 In maiden graces ; and if double-dyed 
 
 In the imperial purple, yet so fresh, 
 
 She scarce has drunk the dawns of fourteen Aprils. 
 
 The marriage contract sign'd, the marriage self 
 
 Delay'd, too long for loyal Spain's desire, 
 
 That like the bridegroom for her coming burn'd, 
 
 (But happiness were hardly happiness 
 
 Limp'd it not late,) till her defective years 
 
 Reach'd their due blossom — Ah, happy defect, 
 
 That every uncondition'd hour amends ! 
 
 At last arose the day — the day of days — 
 
 When from her royal eyrie in the North, 
 
 The imperial eaglet flew. Young Ferdinand, 
 
 King of Bohemia and Hungary 
 
 Elect, who not in vain Rome's holy hand 
 
 Awaits to bind the laurel round his brow, 
 
 As proxy for our king espous'd her first,
 
 42 2 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 And then, all lover-like, as far as Trent 
 
 Escorted her, with such an equipage 
 
 As when the lords and princes of three realms 
 
 Out-do each other in magnificence 
 
 Of gold and jewel, ransackt from the depths 
 
 Of earth and sea, to glitter in the eye 
 
 Of Him who sees and lights up all from heav'n. 
 
 So, like a splendid star that trails her light 
 
 Far after her, she cross'd fair Italy, 
 
 When Doria, Genoa's great Admiral, 
 
 Always so well-afFected to our crown, 
 
 Took charge of her sea-conduct ; which awhile, 
 
 Till winds and seas were fiir, she waited for 
 
 In Milan ; till, resolv'd on embarkation. 
 
 The sea, that could not daunt her with his rage, 
 
 Soon as her foot was on his yellow shore, 
 
 Call'd up his Tritons and his Nereids 
 
 Who love and make a calm, to smooth his fice 
 
 And still his heaving breast ; on whose blue flood 
 
 The golden galley in defiance burn'd. 
 
 Her crew in wedding pearl and silver drest ; 
 
 Her silken sail and cordage, fluttering 
 
 With myriad flags and streamers of all dye, 
 
 Sway'd like a hanging garden over-head, 
 
 Amid whose blossoms stood the royal bride.
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 423 
 
 A fairer Venus than did ever float 
 
 Over the seas to her dominions 
 
 Arm'd with the arrows of diviner love. 
 
 Then to the sound of trump and clarion 
 
 The royal galley, and with her forty more 
 
 That follow'd in her wake as on their queen, 
 
 Weigh'd, shook out sail, and dipp'd all oars at once. 
 
 Making the flood clap hands in acclamation ; 
 
 And so with all their streamers, as 'twere spring 
 
 Floating away to other hemispheres. 
 
 Put out to sea ; and touching not the isles 
 
 That gem the midway deep — not from distrust 
 
 Of friendly France in whose crown they are set. 
 
 And who (as mighty states contend in peace 
 
 With courtesies as with hard blows in war) 
 
 Swell'd the triumphal tide with pageantries 
 
 I may not stop to tell — but borne upon. 
 
 And (as I think) bearing, fair wind and wave. 
 
 The moving city on its moving base 
 
 With sail and oar enter'd the Spanish Main, 
 
 Which, flashing emerald and diamond, 
 
 Leap'd round the golden prow that clove between. 
 
 And kiss'd the happy shore that first declin'd 
 
 To meet its mistress. Happy Denia, 
 
 That in her golden sand holds pearly-like
 
 424 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 The first impression of that royal foot ! 
 
 I will not tell — let Felix, who was here, 
 
 And has new breath — how, landed happily, 
 
 Our loyal Spain — yea, with what double welcome — 
 
 Receiv'd the niece and consort of our king. 
 
 Whom, one and both, and both in one, may Heav'n 
 
 Bless with fair issue, and all happiness. 
 
 For years and years to come ! 
 
 Enter Hernando. 
 
 Hem. Sir, sir ! 
 Fel. Well ? 
 
 Hem. Your two new neighbours — just come to 
 the window. 
 
 Fel. Gentlemen, we must waive my story then, 
 for as the proverb goes, " My Lady Jirst." {He looks 
 out.) By Heaven, they are divine ! 
 
 Juan. Let me see. {Aside.) By Heaven, 'tis she ! 
 Ped. Come, it is my turn now. {Aside.) Eugenia ! 
 I must keep it to myself 
 
 Fel. I scarce know which is handsomest. 
 Juan. Humph ! both pretty girls enough, 
 Ped. Yes, very well. 
 
 Fel. Listen, gentlemen ; whether handsome, or 
 pretty, or very well, or all three, you must not stare
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 425 
 
 at them from my window so vehemently ; being the 
 daughters of a friend of mine, and only just come to 
 Madrid. 
 
 Juan, {aside). That the first thing I should see on 
 returning to Madrid, is she for whose love I left it ! 
 
 Fed. {aside.) That the first thing I see here is what 
 I came for the very purpose of seeing ! 
 Hernando {entenng). Table is serv'd, sir. 
 Fel. To table, then. I know not how it is with 
 you, gentlemen, but for myself, my appetite is stronger 
 than my love. 
 
 Juan, {aside to Felix). You jest as usual ; but I 
 assure you it is one of those very ladies on whom my 
 fortune turns ! \_Exit. 
 
 Fel. Adieu to one then. 
 
 Fed. All this is fun to you, Felix ; but believe me, 
 one of those ladies is she I have followed from Alcala. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Fel. Adieu to both then — unless indeed you are 
 both of you in love with the same. But, thank God, 
 I that am in love with neither, 
 Need not plague myself for either. 
 The least expense of rhyme or care 
 That man can upon women spare. 
 But they are very handsome nevertheless. [Exit.
 
 426 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 Scene III. An Apartment in Don Alonso's House. 
 — Enter Clara and Eugenia. 
 
 Clai'a. Is't not a pretty house, Eugenia, 
 And all about it ? 
 
 Eiig. I dare say you think so. 
 
 Clara. But do not you then ? 
 
 Eug. No — to me it 
 
 seems 
 A sort of out-court and repository. 
 Fit but for old Hidalgos and Duennas, 
 Too stale and wither'd for the blooming world, 
 To wear away in. 
 
 Clara. I like its quietude ; 
 
 This pretty garden too. 
 
 Eug. A pretty thing 
 
 To come for to Madrid — a pretty garden ! 
 I tell you were it fuller of all flowers 
 Than is a Dutchman's in his tulip-time, 
 I want the lively street whose flowers are shops. 
 Carriages, soldiers, ladies, cavaliers. 
 Plenty of dust in summer, dirt in winter, 
 And where a woman sitting at her blind 
 Sees all that passes. Then this furniture ! 
 
 Clara. Well — surely velvet curtains, sofas, chairs.
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 427 
 
 Rich Indian carpets, beds of Damascene, 
 Chandeliers, gilded mirrors, pictures too — 
 What would you have, Eugenia ? 
 
 Eug. All very \\t\\, 
 
 But, after all, no marvellous result 
 Of ten years spent in golden India. 
 Why, one has heard how fine a thing it is 
 To be my Lord Mayor's daughter ; what must be, 
 Methought, to own a dowry from Peru ! 
 And when you talk about the furniture. 
 Pictures, chairs, carpets, mirrors, and all that — 
 The best of all is wanting. 
 
 Clara. What is that ? 
 
 Eug. Why, a coach, woman ! Heav'n and earth, 
 a coach ! 
 What use is all the money-bonds and gold 
 He has been boasting of in all his letters. 
 Unless, now come at last, he plays the part 
 We've heard so long rehearsing ? 
 
 Clam. Not to spare 
 
 Your father even, Eugenia ! For shame ! 
 'TIs time to tie your roving tongue indeed. 
 Consider, too, we are not in the country. 
 Where tongue and eyes, Eugenia, may run wild 
 Without offence to uncensorious woods ;
 
 42 8 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 But in a city, with its myriad eyes 
 
 Inquisitively turn'd to watch, and tongues 
 
 As free and more malicious than yours 
 
 To tell — where honour's monument is wax, 
 
 And shame's of brass. I know, Eugenia, 
 
 High spirits are not in themselves a crime ; 
 
 But if to men they seem so ? — that's the question. 
 
 For it is almost better to do ill 
 
 With a good outward grace than well without ; 
 
 Especially a woman ; most of all 
 
 One not yet married ; whose reputation 
 
 One breath of scandal, like a flake of snow, 
 
 May melt away ; one of those tenderest flowers 
 
 Whose leaves ev'n the warm breath of flattery 
 
 Withers as fast as env}''s bitterest wind. 
 
 That surely follows short-liv'd summer praise. 
 
 Ev'n those who praise your beauty, grace, or wit, 
 
 Will be the first, if you presume on them. 
 
 To pull the idol down themselves set up, 
 
 Beginning with malicious whispers first, 
 
 Until they join the storm themselves have rais'd. 
 
 And most if one be giv'n oneself to laugh 
 
 And to make laugh : the world will doubly yearn 
 
 To turn one's idle giggle into tears. 
 
 I say this all by way of warning, sister.
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 429 
 
 Now we are launcht upon this dangerous sea. 
 Consider of it. 
 
 Eug. " Which that all may do 
 
 May Heav'n — " Come, Clara, if the sermon's done, 
 Pray finish it officially at once, 
 And let us out of church. These homilies 
 In favour of defunct proprieties, 
 Remind one of old ruff and armour worn 
 By Don Punctilio and Lady Etiquette 
 A hundred years ago, and past with them 
 And all their tedious ancestors for ever. 
 I am alive, young, handsome, witty, rich, 
 And come to town and mean to have my fling, 
 Not caring what malicious people say, 
 If nothing true to say against my honour. 
 And so with all sail set, and streamers flying, 
 (A coach shall be my ship, and I will have it !) 
 I mean to glide along the glittering streets 
 And down the Prado, as I go along 
 Capturing what eyes and hearts I find by the way, 
 Heedless of every little breath of scandal 
 That such as you turn back afi^righted by. 
 I'll know the saints' days better than the saints 
 Themselves ; the holidays and festivals 
 Better than over-done apprentices.
 
 430 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 If a true lover comes whom I can like 
 As he loves me, I shall not turn away : 
 As for the rest who flutter round in love, 
 Not with myself, but with my father's wealth, 
 Or with themselves, or any thing but me. 
 You shall see, Clara, how I'll play with them, 
 Till, having kept them on my string awhile 
 For my own sport, I'll e'en turn them adrift 
 And let them go, the laugh all on my side. 
 And therefore when you see — 
 
 Clara. How shall I dare 
 
 To see what even now I quake to hear ! 
 
 Enter Alonso. 
 
 Alon. Clara ! Eugenia ! 
 
 Both. Sir ? 
 
 Alon. Good news, good news, my girls ! What 
 think you ? My nephew, Don Torribio Cuadra- 
 dillos, my elder brother's elder son, head of our 
 family and inheritor of the estate, is coming to visit 
 me ; will be here indeed almost directly. What 
 think you now ? 
 
 Eug. {aside). One might have thought, from such 
 a flourish of trumpets, the king was coming at least.
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 431 
 
 Alon. Mari Nuno ! 
 
 Marl {entering). Sir ? 
 
 Alon. Let a chamber be got ready for my nephew, 
 Don Torribio, directly. Brigida ! 
 
 Bng. {entering. Sir ? 
 
 Alon. See that linen be taken up into Don 
 Torribio's room. Otaiiez, have dinner ready for my 
 nephew, Don Torribio, directly he arrives. And you 
 two, {to his daughters^ I expect you will pay him all 
 attention ; as head of the family, consider. Ay, and 
 if he should take a fancy to one of you — I know not 
 he will — but if he should, I say, whichever it be, she 
 will take precedence of her sister for ever. {Aside.) 
 This I throw out as a bait for Eugenia. 
 
 Eug. It must be Clara, then, sir, for she is oldest, 
 you know. 
 
 Clara. Not in discretion and all wife-like qualities, 
 Eugenia. 
 
 Eug. Clara ! 
 
 Alon. Hark ! in the court ! 
 
 Don Torribio {speaking loud zvithin). Hoy ! good 
 man there ! Can you tell me if my uncle lives here- 
 about ? 
 
 Alon. 'Tis my nephew, surely ! 
 
 Ton: {zvithin). Why, fellow, I mean of course Don
 
 432 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 Alonso — who has two daughters, by the token I'm to 
 marry one of 'em. 
 
 Alon. 'Tis he ! I will go and receive him. \Exit. 
 
 Tor?: {within.) Very well, then. Hold my stirrup, 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Eug. What a figure ! 
 
 Enter Alonso and Torribio. 
 
 Alon. My nephew, Don Torribio, giving thanks 
 to Heaven for your safe arrival at my house, I hasten 
 to welcome you as its head. 
 
 Torr. Ay, uncle, and a head taller, I promise you, 
 than almost anybody in the parish. 
 
 Alon. Let me introduce your cousins to you, who 
 are so anxious for your acquaintance. 
 
 Torr. Ah, that's proper of 'em, isn't it ? 
 
 Both. Welcome, sir. 
 
 Jlon. And how are you, nephew ? 
 
 Torr. Very tired, I promise you : for the way 
 is long and my horse a rough goer, so as I've lost 
 leather. 
 
 Alon. Sit down, and rest till they bring dinner. 
 
 Torr. Sitting an't the way to mend it. But, 
 however — {Sits.) Nay, though I be head of the
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 433 
 
 house, I an't proud — you can all of you sit down too. 
 
 Clara {aside). Amiable humility ! 
 
 Eug. {aside). No wonder the house is crazy if this 
 be its head ! 
 
 Ton. Well, now I come to look at you, cousins, 
 I may say you are both of you handsoiiie girls, indeed ; 
 which'll put me to some trouble. 
 
 Clara. How so, cousin ? 
 
 Torr. Why, didn't you ever hear that if you put 
 an ass between two bundles of hay, he'll die without 
 knowing which to begin on, eh ? 
 
 Alon. His father's pleasant humour ! 
 
 Clara. A courteous comparison ! 
 
 Eug. {aside). Which holds as far as the ass at least. 
 
 Torr. Well, there's a remedy. I say, uncle, mustn't 
 cousins get a dispensation before they marry ? 
 
 Jlon. Yes, nephew. 
 
 Tojr. Well, then, when you're about it, j'ou can 
 get two dispensations, and I can marry both my 
 cousins. Aha ! Well, but, uncle, how are you ? I 
 had forgot to ask you that. 
 
 Alon. Quite well, in seeing you in my house at 
 last, and to reap, I trust, the fruits of all my travel. 
 
 Torr. Ah, you may say that. Oh, cousins, if you 
 could only see my pedigree and patent, in a crimson 
 
 c. F F
 
 434 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act i 
 
 velvet case ; and all my forefathers painted in a row 
 — I have it in my saddle bags, and if you'll wait a 
 minute — 
 
 Enter Mari Nuno. 
 
 Marl. Dinner's ready. 
 
 Torr. {looking at Mari). Lord a' mere}-, uncle, 
 what's this ? something you brought from India, 
 belike ; does it speak ? 
 
 Ahn. Nay, nephew, 'tis our Duenna. 
 
 Torr. A what ? 
 
 Ahn. A Duenna. 
 
 Torr. A tame one ? 
 
 Ahn. Come, come, she tells us dinner's ready. 
 
 Torr. Yes, if you believe her ; but I've heard say, 
 Duennas alwaj-s lie. However, I'll go and see for 
 myself. \Exit. 
 
 Clara. What a cousin ! 
 
 Eug. What a lover ! 
 
 Marl. Foh ! I wonder how the watch came to 
 let the plague into the city ! \Exit. 
 
 Ahn. You are silent, both of you ? 
 
 Both. Not I, sir. 
 
 Ahn. I understand you ; Don Torribio
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 435 
 
 Pleases you not — Well, he's a little rough ; 
 
 But wait a little ; see what a town life 
 
 Will do for him ; all come up so at first, 
 
 The finest diamonds, you know, the roughest — 
 
 Oh, I rejoice my ancestor's estate 
 
 Shall to my grandchildren revert again ! 
 
 For this I tell you — one, I care not which. 
 
 But one of you, shall marry Don Torribio : 
 
 And let not her your cousin does not choose. 
 
 For one more courtly think herself reserv'd ; 
 
 By Heaven she shall marry, if e'er marry. 
 
 One to the full as rough and country-like. 
 
 What, I to see my wealth, so hardly won, 
 
 Squander'd away by some fine town gallant. 
 
 In silks and satins ! see my son-in-law 
 
 Spend an estate upon a hat and feather ! 
 
 I tell you I'll not have it. One of you 
 
 Must marry Don Torribio. [ExU. 
 
 Clara. I'll die first. 
 
 Eug. And I'll live an old maid — which much is 
 worst ?
 
 436 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. A Room in Don Felix's House. — Felix and 
 Hernando ; to whom Enter Juan. 
 
 Fel. Well, Juan, and how slept you ? 
 
 "Juan. As one must 
 
 In your house, Felix ; had not such a thought 
 No house can quiet woke me long ere dawn. 
 
 Fel. Indeed ! How so ? 
 
 'Juan. Felix, the strangest thing — 
 
 But now we are alone I'll tell you all. 
 Last night — the very moment that I saw 
 That angel at the window, as at Heaven's gate — 
 The fire that I myself had thought half dead 
 Under the ashes of so long an absence, 
 Sprung up anew into full blaze. Alas ! 
 But one brief moment did she dawn on us. 
 Then set, to rise no more all the evening. 
 Watch as I would. But day is come again, 
 And as I think, Felix, the holyday 
 When our new Queen shall make her solemn entry 
 Into Madrid ; and she, my other Queen, 
 Will needs be up — be up and out betimes ;
 
 SCENE i] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 437 
 
 So I forestall the sun in looking for her, 
 
 And now will to the door beneath her window 
 
 Better to watch her rising. 
 
 But, as you love me, not a word of this 
 
 Breathe to Don Pedro. [ExU. 
 
 Fel. And does he think 
 
 Because his memory of her is quick. 
 Hers is of him ? Aha ! 
 
 Hem, Nay, if he like it, 
 
 " Oh, let him be deceiv'd ! " 
 
 Fel. 'Twas wisely said 
 
 By him who self-deception us'd to call 
 The cheapest and the dearest thing of all. 
 Ha ! here's the other swain ! and now to see 
 How he has prosper'd. I begin to think 
 My house is turn'd into a Lazar-house 
 Of crazy lovers. 
 
 Enter Pedro. 
 
 Good day, Don Pedro. 
 
 Fed. As it needs must be 
 
 To one who hails it in your house, and opposite 
 My lady's ! Oh, you cannot think, my Felix, 
 With what a blessed conscience of all this 
 I woke this morning ! I can scarcely believe 't.
 
 438 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 Why, in your house, I shall have chance on chance. 
 Nay, certainty of seeing her — to-da^ 
 Most certainly. But I'll go post myself 
 Before the door ; she will be out betimes 
 To mass. 
 
 Fel. Well, you will find Don Juan there. 
 
 Fed. Eh ? Well, so much the better, I can do 't 
 With less suspicion, nay, with none at all 
 If you will go with us. Only, Don Felix, 
 Breathe not a word to him about my love. 
 
 As ke is going, re-enter Juan. 
 
 Fel. Juan again ? 
 
 'Juan. I only came to ask 
 
 What church we go to ? {Aside to Felix.) Let us 
 keep at home. 
 
 Fel. Don Pedro, what say you ? 
 
 Fed. Oh, where you please. 
 
 {Aside) Stir not ! 
 
 Fel. {aside). How easy to oblige two friends 
 
 Who ask the same, albeit with divers ends ! 
 {Aloud) What, are your worships both in love, perhaps. 
 As Spanish cavaliers are bound to be. 
 And think I've nothing else to do, forsooth.
 
 SCENE i] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 439 
 
 Than follow each upon his wildgoose chase ? 
 
 Forgetting I may take 't into my head 
 
 To fall in love myself — perhaps with one, 
 
 Or both, of those fiir ladies chance has brought 
 
 Before my windows. Now I think upon 't, 
 
 I am, or mean to be, in love with one ; 
 
 And, to decide with which, I'll e'en wait here 
 
 Till they both sally forth to church themselves. 
 
 So, gentlemen, would you my company, 
 
 I must not go with you, you stay with me. 
 
 Ped. Willingly. 
 
 Jmn. Oh, most willingly ! {Aside to Felix.) 
 How well 
 You manag'd it. 
 
 Ped. {aside to Felix). 'Tis just as I could wish. 
 
 Tel. {aside). And just as I, if thereby I shall learn 
 Whether they love the same ; and, if the same, 
 Whether the one — But come, come ! 'tis too late 
 For wary me to wear love's cap and bells. 
 
 J uan. Since we must do your bidding on this score, 
 We'll e'en make you do ours upon another. 
 And make you tell us, as you promis'd both. 
 And owe to me — what, when our Queen was landed. 
 You fine folks of Madrid did in her honour. 
 
 Ped. Ay, if you needs will fetter our free time.
 
 440 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 Help us at least to pass it by the story 
 You had begun. 
 
 Fel. Well then, to pick it up 
 
 Where Juan left it for us, on the shore, 
 There, when our Queen was landed, as I hear. 
 The Countess Medellin, her Chamberlain, 
 Of the Cordona family, receiv'd her. 
 And the Lord Admiral on the King's part, 
 With pomp that needed no excuse of haste. 
 And such a retinue (for who claims not 
 To be the kinsman, friend, or follower. 
 Of such a name ?) as I believe Castile 
 Was almost drain'd to follow in his wake. 
 Oh, noble house ! in whom the chivalry 
 Of courage, blameless worth, and loyalty, 
 Is nature's patent of inheritance 
 From generation to generation ! 
 And so through ringing Spain, town after town, 
 And every town a triumph, on they pass'd. 
 Madrid meanwhile — 
 
 Juan. Stop, stop ! They're coming out ! 
 
 Ped. Where ! Let me see. 
 
 Juan. The servant only. 
 
 Fel. Nay, 
 
 They'll follow soon.
 
 SCENE i] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 441 
 
 'Juan. Till when, on with your story. 
 
 Fel. Madrid then, sharing in the general joy 
 Of her king's marriage, and with one whose mother 
 Herself had nurst — though, as you said, half sick 
 Of hope deferr'd, had, at the loyal call, 
 That never fills in Spain, drawn to her heart 
 The life-blood of the realm's nobility 
 To do her honour ; not only when she came, 
 But, in anticipation of her coming. 
 With such prelusive pomps, as if you turn 
 Far up time's stream as history can go, 
 In hymeneals less august than these. 
 You shall find practis'd — torched troop and masque. 
 With solemn and preliminary dance, 
 Epithalamium and sacrifice, 
 Invoking Hymen's blessing. So Madrid, 
 Breathing new Christian life in Pagan pomp. 
 With such epithalamium as all Spain 
 Rais'd up to Heav'n, into sweet thunder tun'd 
 Beyond all science by a people's love, 
 Began her pageant. First, the nightly masque, 
 So fair as I have never seen the like, 
 Nor shall again ; nor which, unless you draw 
 On your imagination for the type 
 Of what I tell, can I depict to you ;
 
 442 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 When, to the sound of trumpet and recorder, 
 The chiming poles of Spain and Germany- 
 Beginning, drew the purple mountain down, 
 Glittering with veins of ore and silver trees, 
 All flower'd with plumes, and taper-starr'd above. 
 With monster and volcano breathing fire. 
 While to and fro torch-bearing maskers ran 
 Like meteors ; all so illuminating night, 
 That the succeeding sun hid pale in cloud, 
 And wept with envy, till he dawn'd at length 
 Upon the famous Amphitheatre, 
 Which, in its masonry out-doing all 
 That Rome of a like kind in ruin shows. 
 This day out-did itself. 
 In number, rank, and glory of spectators. 
 Magnificence of retinue, multitude, 
 Size, beauty, and courage, of the noble beasts 
 Who came to dye its yellow dust with blood ; 
 As each horn'd hero of the cloven hoof. 
 Broad-chested, and thick-neckt, and wrinkle-brow'd, 
 Rush'd roaring in, and tore the ground with 's foot, 
 As saying, " Lo ! this grave is yours or mine ! " 
 While that yet nobler beast, noblest of all. 
 Who knights the very knighthood that he carries, 
 Proud in submission to a nobler will,
 
 SCENE i] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 443 
 
 Spurn'd all his threats, and, touch'd by the light spur, 
 
 His rider glittering like a god aloft, 
 
 Turn'd onset into death. Fight follow'd fight, 
 
 Till darkness came at last, sending Madrid 
 
 Already surfeited with joy, to dream 
 
 Of greater, not unanxious that the crown 
 
 And centre of the centre of the world 
 
 Should not fall short of less renowned cities 
 
 In splendour of so great a celebration ; 
 
 While too the hundreds of a hundred nations. 
 
 In wonder or in envy cramm'd her streets ; 
 
 Until her darling come at last, whose spouse 
 
 Shall lay his own two empires at her feet. 
 
 And crown her thrice ; as Niece, and Spouse, and Queen. 
 
 Juan. A charming story, finisht just in time. 
 For look ! (7'/^^_y look out.) 
 
 Fel. That is the father, Don Alonso. 
 
 Juan. Indeed ! 
 
 Ped. {aside). That's he then ! But that strange 
 
 man with him. 
 Who's he ? 
 
 Hern. Oh, I can tell }'Ou that ; 
 His nephew, an Asturian gentleman, 
 Betroth'd to one of the daughters. 
 
 Juan {aside). Not to mine !
 
 444 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 Ped. [aside). Not my Eugenia, or by Heav'n — 
 But we shall scarcely see them, Felix, here, 
 Wrapt in their mantles too. 
 
 Fel. And I would pay 
 
 My compliment to Don Alonso. 
 
 Juan. Come, 
 
 Let us go down with you into the street. 
 {Aside.') Oh love, that in her memory survive 
 One thought of me, not dead if scarce alive ! 
 
 Ped. {aside). Oh, may her bosom whisper her 'tis 
 still 
 Her eyes that draw me after where they will ! 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. Street hetzveen the Houses of Alonso and 
 Felix : Alonso and Torribio zvaiting. 
 
 Alon. If you really aft'ect Eugenia, nephew, — 
 {aside) as I wished, — I will communicate with her 
 after church, and if all be well (as I cannot doubt) 
 get a dispensation forthwith. But they are coming. 
 
 Enter from Alonso's door Clara, Eugenia in mantles, 
 the latter with a handkerchief in her hand ; Mari 
 NuNo, Brigida, and Otanez behind ; and at the 
 same time Felix, Juan, and Pedro opposite.
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 445 
 
 Clara. Cover your face, Eugenia. People in the 
 street. 
 
 Eiig. Well, I'm not ashamed of it. {Aside.) Don 
 Pedro ! and Don Juan ! 
 
 Fel. [whispers). Which is it, Don Juan ? 
 
 Juan. She with the handkerchief in her hand. 
 I'll go wait for her at the church. \_Exit. 
 
 Fed. {to Juan). That is she with the white kerchief 
 in her hand. I'll follow them. 
 
 Fel. {aside). The same, then ! 
 
 Clara. Eugenia, lend me your handkerchief, it is 
 hot. {Takes the handkerchief and uncovers her face 
 towards Felix.) And let us go, and do not you look 
 behind you. 
 
 Fel. And she I most admired. 
 
 \Exeunt Clara, Eugenia, l^c, Pedro after them. 
 
 Torr. Uncle, what are these fellows hanging about 
 our doors for ? 
 
 Alon. Nay, 'tis the public street, you know. 
 
 Torr. What, my cousins' street ? 
 
 Alon. To be sure. 
 
 Torr. I'll not suffer any one I don't like to hang 
 about it, however, and least of all these perfumery 
 puppies. 
 
 Alon. But if they happen to live here, nephew ?
 
 446 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 Ton: Don't let 'em live here, then. 
 
 J Ion. But if they own houses ? 
 
 Ton: They mustn't own houses, then. 
 
 Fel. Don Alonso, permit me to kiss your hand on 
 your arrival among us. I ought indeed first to have 
 waited upon you in your own house ; but this happy 
 chance makes me anticipate etiquette. 
 
 Tojr. Coxcomb ! 
 
 J Ion. Thank you, sir ; had I known you intended 
 me such a favour, I should have anticipated your an- 
 ticipation by waiting upon you. Give me leave to 
 present to you my nephew, Don Torribio de Cuadra- 
 dillos, who will also be proud of your acquaintance. 
 
 Ton: No such thing, I shan't at all. 
 
 Jlon. Nephew, nephew ! 
 
 Fel. I trust you are well, sir ? 
 
 Ton: Oh, so, so, thank ye, for the matter of that, 
 neither well nor ill, but mixt-like. (Alonso salutes 
 Felix and exit with Torribio.) 
 
 Fel. Now then, I know both face, and dress, and 
 name, 
 And that my rival friends both love the same ; 
 The same too that myself of the fair pair 
 Thought yester-eve the fairest of the fair : 
 Was 't not enough for my two friends that they
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 447 
 
 Turn enemies — must I too join the fray ? 
 Oh, how at once to reconcile all three, 
 Those two with one another, and with me ! 
 
 Rc-e7iter Juan hastily. 
 
 Juan. On seeing me, my friend, her colour chang'd : 
 She loves me still, Don Felix ! I am sure 
 She loves me ! Is not the face — we know it is. 
 The tell-tale index of the heart within ? 
 Oh happiness ! at once within your house. 
 And next my lady's ! What is now to do 
 Rut catch the ball good fortune throws at us ! 
 You know her father, you will visit him 
 Of course, and then — and then — what easier ? 
 Draw me in with you, or after you — or perhaps 
 A letter first — ay, and then afterward — 
 But why so dumb ? 
 
 Fel. I scarce know how to answer. 
 
 Juan, you know I am too much your friend 
 To do you any spite ? 
 
 Juan. How could I dream it ? 
 
 Eijter Pedro hastily. 
 
 Fed. Oh, Felix, if my love — 
 
 Fel. {aside). The other now !
 
 448 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 He must be stopt. A moment, gentlemen, 
 Before you speak, and let me tell you first 
 A case of conscience you must solve for me. 
 You both have mighty matters, I doubt not, 
 To tell me, such as warm young gentlemen 
 Are never at a loss for in Madrid ; 
 But I may have my difficulties too. 
 (^j4side.) The same will serve for both. 
 
 Ped. Well, let us hear. 
 
 Fel. Suppose some friend of yours, dear as you will. 
 Loving your neighbour's daughter — (such a case 
 Will do as well as any) — ask'd of you 
 To smuggle him, his letters, or himself, 
 Into that neighbour's house, there secretly 
 To ply a stolen love ; what would yon do ? 
 
 Ped. Do it of course ! 
 
 Juan. Why not ? 
 
 Fel. Well, I would not. 
 
 Ped. But why ? 
 
 Fel. Because, however it turn'd out, 
 
 I must do ill ; if one friend's love succeeded 
 I had play'd traitor to the other still ; 
 If unsuccessful, not that cost alone, 
 But also, without counter-profiting, 
 Him whom I sacrific'd so much to serve.
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 4+9 
 
 Ped. If that be your determination, 
 I have no more to say. \_Exit. 
 
 Juan. Nor I : farewell ; 
 
 I must find other means. \_ExU. 
 
 Fel. Of all the plagues, 
 
 For one with no love profit of his own 
 Thus to be pester'd with two lovers' pains ! 
 And yet, what, after all, between the two — 
 Between the three, perhaps, am I to do ? 
 Fore Heav'n, I think 'twill be the only way 
 To get her to untie who drew the knot ; 
 No woman ever at a loss 
 To mend or mar a matter as she wills. 
 Yet 'tis an awkward thing to ask a lady, 
 ** Pray, madam, which of these two sighing swains 
 " Do you like best ? or both ? or neither, madam ? " 
 Were not a letter best ? But then who take it ? 
 Since to commit her letter, would so far 
 Commit her honour to another's hands ? 
 By Heav'n, I think I've nothing left to do, 
 But ev'n to write it, and to take it too ; 
 A ticklish business — but may fair intent 
 And prudent conduct lead to good event \^Exit.
 
 4SO BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 Scene III. An Apartment in Don Alonso's House. — 
 Enter Clara, Eugenia, Mari Nuno, l£c. 
 
 Clara. Here, take my mantle, Mari. Oh, I wish 
 we had a chaplain of our own in the house, not to 
 go abroad through the crowded streets ! 
 
 Eug. And I, that church were a league of crowded 
 street off, and we obliged to go to it daily. 
 
 Mart. I agree with Senora Clara. 
 
 Brigida. And I with Senora Eugenia. 
 
 Mari. And why, pray ? 
 
 Brig. Oh, madam, I know who it is deals most in 
 sheep's eyes. 
 
 Enter Don Alonso. 
 
 A Ion. {talking to himself as he enters'). How lucky 
 he should have pitcht on the very one I wanted ! 
 {Aloud.) Oh, Eugenia, I would speak with you. 
 Nay, retire not, Clara, for I want you to pardon me 
 or the very thing Eugenia is to thank me for. 
 
 Clara. A riddle, sir. I pardon you ? 
 
 Alon. Listen, both of you. Your cousin Don 
 Torribio has declared his love for Eugenia : and 
 though I could have wish'd to marry you, Clara, first, 
 and to the head of our house too, yet my regret at
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 451 
 
 your missing it is almost cancell'd by the joy of your 
 sister's acceptance. 
 
 Clara. And so with me, believe me, sir. I am 
 well content to be slighted so long as she is happy : 
 which may she be with my cousin these thousand 
 years to come. {Aside.) Oh, providential rejection ! 
 
 \^Exit. 
 
 Torribio {peeping in). Ah ! what a wry face she 
 ma Ices ! 
 
 A Ion. And you, Eugenia, what say you ? 
 
 Eug. {aside). Alas ! surprise on surprise ! {Aloud.) 
 Nay, sir, you know, I hope, that I am ever ready to 
 obey you. 
 
 Alon. I look'd for nothing else of you. 
 
 Ton: Nor I. 
 
 Alon. Your cousin is waiting your answer in his 
 chamber. I will tell him the good news, and bring 
 him to you. [Exit. 
 
 Eug. Only let him come ! Alas ! 
 
 Torr. {entering). How lightly steps a favour'd lover 
 forth ! Give you joy, cousin. 
 
 Eug. The wretch ! 
 
 Torr. Being selected by the head of your house. 
 
 Eug. Sir, one word, I wouldn't marry you if it 
 should cost me my life.
 
 452 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [axt ii 
 
 Torr. Ah, you are witty, cousin, I know. 
 
 Eug. Not to you, sir. And now especially, I 
 mean to tell you sober truth, and abide by it, so you 
 had better listen. I tell you once again, and once for 
 all, I wouldn't marry you to save my life ! 
 
 Torr. Cousin ! After what I heard you tell your 
 father ? 
 
 Eug. What I said then was out of duty to him ; 
 and what I now say is out of detestation of you. 
 
 Torr. I'll go and tell him this, I declare I will. 
 
 Eug. Do, and I'll deny it. But I mean it all the 
 same, and swear it. 
 
 Torr. Woman, am I not your cousin ? 
 
 Eug. Yes. 
 
 Torr. And head of the family ? 
 
 Eug. I dare say. 
 
 Torr. An Hildago I 
 
 Eug. Yes. 
 
 ToiT. Young ? 
 
 Eug. Yes. 
 
 Torr. Gallant ? 
 
 Eug. Very. 
 
 Torr. And dispos'd to you ? 
 
 Eug. Very possibly. 
 
 Torr. What do you mean then I
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 453 
 
 Eug. Whatever you choose, so long as you believe 
 I mean what I say. I'll never marry you. You 
 might be all you say, and fifty other things beside, but 
 I'll never marry any man without a capacity. 
 
 Torr. Capacity ! without a Capacity ! I who have 
 the family estate, and my ancestors painted in a row 
 on the patent in my saddle-bags ! I who — 
 
 Ente7' Alonso. 
 
 Jlon. Well, nephew, here you are at last ; I've 
 been hunting every where to tell you the good news. 
 
 Torr. And what may that be, pray ? 
 
 j^Ion. That your cousin Eugenia cordially accepts 
 your offer, and — 
 
 T01T. Oh, indeed, does she so ? I tell you she's 
 a very odd way of doing it then. Oh, uncle, she has 
 said that to me I wouldn't say to my gelding. 
 
 Jlon. To you ? 
 
 Torr. Ay, to me — here — on this very spot — just 
 now. 
 
 Jlon. But what ? 
 
 Torr. What ? why, that I had no Capacity ! 
 But I'll soon settle that ; I either have a Capacity or 
 not — if I have, she lies ; if not, I desire you to buy 
 me one directly, whatever it may cost.
 
 454 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 Ahn. What infatuation ! 
 
 Torr. What, it costs so much, does it ? I don't 
 care, I'll not have it thrown in my teeth by her or 
 any woman ; and if you won't, I'll go and buy a 
 Capacity, and bring it back with me, let it cost — ay, 
 and weigh — what it will. \Exit. 
 
 Ahn. Nephew, nephew ! Stop him there ! 
 
 Enter Clara and Eugenia. 
 
 Clara. What is the matter, sir ? 
 
 Ahn. Oh, graceless girl, what have you been say- 
 ing to your cousin ? 
 
 Eug. I, sir \ Nothing. 
 
 Ahn. Oh ! if you deceive me ! But I must first 
 stop his running after a Capacity ! \Ex'it. 
 
 Eug. What can I have done ? 
 
 Clara. Nay, attempt not dissimulation with me, 
 who know how you would risk even your advance- 
 ment for a sarcasm. 
 
 Eug. It was all for your sake, if I did, Clara. 
 
 Clara. For my sake ! oh, indeed, you think I can 
 have no lovers but what you reject ? Poor little fool ! 
 I could have enough if I chose to lay out for them as 
 some do ; but many will pluck at an apple who will 
 retire from a fortress.
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 455 
 
 Eug. Hark ! they are coming back ; I dare not 
 face them both as yet. [Exif. 
 
 Enter Don Felix. 
 
 Fel. Permit me, madam — 
 
 Clara. Who is this ? 
 
 Fel. One, 
 
 madam, 
 Who dares to ask one word with you. 
 
 Clara. With me ? 
 
 Fel. Indeed with you. 
 
 Clara. You cannot, sir, mean me. 
 
 Fel. Once more, and once for all, with you in- 
 deed ; 
 Let me presume to say so, knowing well 
 I say so in respect, not in presumption. 
 
 Eug. {peeping). Why, whom has my staid sister 
 got with her ? 
 
 Clara. With me ! My very silence and surprise 
 Bid you retire at once. 
 
 Fel. Which I will do 
 
 When you will let this silence speak to you 
 With less offence perhaps than could my tongue. 
 
 {Offering her a letter.)
 
 456 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 Eug. Oh, if he would but try if fort or apple ! 
 
 Clara. A letter too ! — for me ! 
 
 Fel. And, madam, one 
 
 It most imports your honour you should read. 
 For, that being once in question, I make light 
 That my friends' lives, Don Juan and Don Pedro, 
 Are in the balance too. 
 
 Eug. Don Juan ! Don Pedro ! 
 
 Clara. What, sir, is this to me, who neither know 
 Don Juan, nor Don Pedro, nor yourself? 
 
 Fel. Having then done my duty to my friends. 
 And (once again I say 't) to yourself, madam, 
 Albeit in vain — I'll not offend you more 
 By my vain presence. {Going.) 
 
 Clara. Nay, a moment — wait. 
 
 I must clear up this mystery. Indeed, 
 I would not be discourteous or ungrateful : 
 But ere I thank you for your courtesy. 
 Know you to whom you do it ? 
 
 Fel. To Donna Eugenia. 
 
 Clara. Well, sir ? 
 
 Eug. Oh, the hypocrite ! 
 
 Fel. You are 
 
 the lady ? 
 
 Clara. Enough — give me the letter, and adieu.
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 457 
 
 Eug. I can forbear no longer. {Coming out.) 
 Sister, stop ! 
 Oh ! what to do ! — the letter — 
 
 Clam. Well ? 
 
 Eug. I tell you 
 
 My father and my cousin are coming up, 
 And if they see — 
 
 Clara. Well, if they see ? what then ! 
 
 I wish them both to see and hear it all. 
 {Calling.) Sir ! Father ! Cousin ! Otanez ! 
 
 Alon. {within). Clara's 
 
 voice ? 
 
 Fel. What to do now ? 
 
 Eug. Alas, to tell the truth. 
 
 When I but wish'd to lie ! 
 
 Clara {calling). This way, sir, here ! 
 
 Eug. Will you expose us both ? In here ! in here ! 
 [She hides Felix behind arras. 
 
 Enter Alonso, Torribio, Mari Nuno, Otanez, if^c. 
 
 Alon. What is the matter ? 
 
 Clara. There is some one in the house, sir. A 
 man — I saw him stealing along the corridor, towards 
 the garret. 
 
 Brigida. It must be a robber.
 
 458 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act ii 
 
 Alon. A robber ? 
 
 Man. What more likely in a rich Indian's house ? 
 Alon. I'll search the house. 
 
 Ton: I'll lead the forlorn hope, though that 
 garret were Maastricht itself. Now, cousin, you shall 
 see if I've a Capacity or not. 
 
 \_Exeunt Alonso and the men. 
 Clara. Do you two watch in the passage. 
 {Exeunt Mari Nuno and Brigida.) And now, sir, 
 the door is open, give me the letter and begone. 
 Fel. Adieu, madam, neglect not its advice. 
 Eiig. Alas, alas, she has it ! 
 
 Fel. She's all too fair ! come, honour, come, and 
 shame 
 False love from poaching upon friendship's game ! 
 
 {Exit. 
 Re-enter Alonso, 'k^c. 
 
 Alon. We can see nothing of him, daughter, 
 
 Clara. Nay, sir, he probably made off when the 
 alarm was given. Take no more trouble. 
 
 Alon. Nay, we'll search the whole house. 
 
 To/T. What do you say to my Capacity now, 
 
 cousin ? \_Exeunt Alonso, Torribio, l^c. 
 
 Clara. You see, Eugenia, in what your enterprises
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 459 
 
 end. At the first crack, you faint and surrender. I 
 have done all this to show you the difference between 
 talking and doing. And now go ; I have got the 
 letter, and want to read it. 
 
 Eug. And so do I ! but — 
 
 Clara. Go ! I am mistress now. (Exit Eugenia.) 
 May they not have written to me under cover of her 
 name ? let me see. (Reads.) " Let not him offend 
 honour by the very means he takes to secure it ; at 
 least let his good intention excuse his ill seeming. 
 Don Juan, more than ever enamoured of you, hangs 
 about your doors ; Don Pedro follows every step you 
 take ; they are both in my house ; it is impossible 
 but the secret must soon escape both, who must then 
 refer their rivalry to the sword, and all to the scandal 
 of your name. You can, by simply disowning both, 
 secure their lives, your own reputation, and my peace 
 of mind as their friend and host. Adieu ! " 
 Oh what perplexing thoughts this little letter 
 Buzzes about my brain, both what it says, 
 And leaves unsaid ! — oh, can it be for me ? 
 And is the quiet nun really belov'd 
 Under the cover of an idle flirt ? 
 Or is it but for her — the vain, pert thing, 
 Who thinks her eye slays all it looks upon ?
 
 460 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act n 
 
 If it be so, and she, not I, is lov'd, 
 I yet may be reveng'd — 
 
 Eug. {entering. On whom ? 
 
 Clara. Eugenia ! 
 
 This letter that has fallen to my hands, 
 But meant for you — 
 
 Eug. Oh, I know all about it. 
 
 Claia. Know all about it ! know then that two 
 men 
 Are even now following your steps like dogs 
 To tear your reputation between them. 
 And then each other for that worthless sake, 
 And yet — 
 
 Eug. A moment, you shall see at once 
 
 How easily I shall secure myself. 
 And them, and supersede your kind intentions. 
 Signor Don Pedro ! {Calls at the tvindozv.) 
 
 Clara. What are you about ? 
 
 Eug. Listen and you will hear. 
 
 Clara. You dare not do it ! 
 
 Eug. My father's safely lockt up in his room, 
 (Thanks to the gout your false alarm has brought,) 
 My cousin gone to buy capacities. 
 And now's my time. {Calling at the window.) 
 
 Don Pedro ! Signor Don Pedro !
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 461 
 
 Ped. {coming below to the zvindow). 
 He well may wait to have his name thrice call'd 
 When such a goddess — 
 
 Eug. Listen, sir, to me. 
 
 It is because, I say, because this room, 
 Away from father's and duenna's ears. 
 Allows some harmless speech, it also bars 
 All nearer access than the ears and eyes 
 Of father or duenna both could do. 
 But, seeing harm of harmless trifling come, 
 I now entreat, implore, command you, sir. 
 To leave this window and my threshold clear. 
 Now and for ever ! 
 
 Ped. Hear me — 
 
 Eug. Pardon me, 
 
 I cannot, 
 
 Ped. But this once — 
 
 Eug. If you persist 
 
 I must be rude. 
 
 Ped. Oh, how do worse than — 
 
 Eug. {shutting the blinds dozvn). Thus ! 
 
 Claj-a. And to your other gallant ? 
 
 Eug. Why not think 
 
 If he were here, I'd do the same to him ? 
 Oh, Clara, be assur'd my levities
 
 462 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act hi 
 
 Are but the dust on youth's butterfly wing, 
 Though prudes and sinners too take fright at them ; 
 Lilce that benighted traveller, you know, 
 Who, frighted by a shallow brook that jump'd 
 And bubbled at his right, swerv'd to the left 
 And tumbled into one that lay quite still. 
 But deep enough to drown him for his pains. [Exit. 
 Clara. What, did she hear what to myself I said ? 
 Or saw my colour change from white to red ? 
 Or only guess'd me waiting for the prey 
 Her idle chatter ought to fright away ? 
 If chance have done more than all prudence could, 
 Prudence at least may make occasion good. 
 And if these lovers by mistake should woo, 
 Why (by mistake) should I not listen too ? 
 And teach the teacher, to her proper cost, 
 Those waters are least deep that prattle most. 
 
 ACT III. 
 Scene I. Room in Alonso's House. Clara and Mari 
 
 NUNO. 
 
 Clara. It is so, indeed. 
 
 Mari. You know you can always rely on my old
 
 SCENE i] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 463 
 
 love to you. But indeed I cannot but wonder at your 
 sister's forwardness. 
 
 Clam. Yes ; to think of two cavaliers after her at 
 once ! I look upon it as my duty to set all to right ; 
 to do this I must once more speak to him who warned 
 me of it ; and I want you to give him this letter — in 
 ha' name, remember — this will bring him here to- 
 night, and I shall undeceive him for ever. But hark ! 
 some one — 
 
 ToRRiBio is about to enter. 
 
 Mart. 'Tis that wretch. Stay, sir, no man comes 
 in here. 
 
 loir. Away, troublesome duenna. 
 
 Man. It's not decent, I tell you. 
 
 Toir. An't my cousin decent ; and an't I ? 
 
 Clara. What is the matter ? 
 
 lorr. This old woman won't let me come in. 
 
 Clara. She is right, unless my father be with you. 
 
 Torr. Oh, I understand — 
 
 Those that are out 
 Still will pout. 
 
 Ciara. Well, since she who is in, and may grin, 
 is not here, you have no business neither. For me.
 
 464 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act hi 
 
 what grudge I have against you, be assur'd I can and 
 will repay. Mari, remember. [Exii. 
 
 Marl. Hark ! some one at the door. [Exit. 
 
 Ton: By heav'n and earth, I do begin suspect ! 
 I say again I do begin suspect ! — 
 And valour rises with suspicion — 
 I shall ere long be very terrible. 
 Ancestors ! Head of house ! Capacity ! 
 For passing through the house — let me not say it, 
 Till I have told my tongue it lies to say it — 
 In passing through the passage, what saw I 
 Within Eugenia's room, behind her bed ! 
 I saw — (Re-enter Mari Nuno zviti a letter.) 
 
 Mari. A letter, madam, — Where is she ? 
 
 Ton: Woman, she was, but is not. A letter too ? 
 Give it me. 
 
 Mari. You too ! 
 
 Ton: Give it me, or dread 
 
 My dreadful vengeance on your wither'd head. 
 
 Mari. Leave hold of it. — 
 
 Torr. I'll not ! The more you pull, 
 
 The more — 
 
 Mari. Then take that on your empty skull ! 
 
 (Deals him a blow, and calls.) 
 Help ! Help !
 
 SCENE i] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 465 
 
 Ton: You crying, when two teeth are out — 
 
 Mari. "As swelling prologues of" — Help! 
 murder ! murder ! 
 
 Entei' Eugenia, Clara, Alonso, Brigida, if^c. 
 
 Alon. What is the matter now ? 
 
 Marl. Don Torribio, sir, because I wouldn't let 
 him have my young lady's letter, has laid violent 
 hands on me. 
 
 Torr. I ? 
 
 All. Don Torribio ! 
 
 Torr. I tell you — 
 
 Alon. Indeed, nephew, your choleric jealousy 
 carries you too far. A respectable female in my house ! 
 
 ToiT. I tell you that it is me who — 
 
 Ahn. I know — enough — make not the matter 
 worse by worse excuses. Give me the letter has been 
 the cause of such unseemly conduct. 
 
 Eug. {aside). If it should be from one of them ! 
 
 Clara {aside to Eugenia). Nothing I hope from 
 your gallants. 
 
 Alon. {reads'). " My dear nieces, this being the 
 day of the Queen's public entry, I have engag'd a 
 balcony, and will send my coach for you directly to 
 come and see it with me." This, you see, nephew, 
 
 C. H H
 
 466 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act hi 
 
 is all your suspicions amount to ! My cousin, Donna 
 Violante, inviting my daughters to witness this august 
 ceremony ! If you still suspect ; here, take it, and 
 read it for yourself 
 
 TojT. {ajter looking at the letter). I tell you what, 
 uncle, if they wait till I've read it, they'll not see the 
 sight at all. 
 
 A Ion. Why so ? 
 
 Torr. Because I can't read. 
 
 Jlon. That this should be ! 
 
 To?-}-. But that's no matter neither. They can 
 teach me before they go. 
 
 Jlon. What, when it's to-day ? almost directly ? 
 
 Ton: Can't it be put off? 
 
 Jlon. 'Tis useless saying more. Daughters, such 
 a ceremony happens, perhaps, but once in a life ; you 
 must see it. On with your mantles, whether Don 
 Torribio approve or not. I am lame, you see, and must 
 keep at home ; to hear about it all from you on your 
 return. 
 
 Clara. At your pleasure, sir. 
 
 Eug. Shall I stay with you, sir, while Clara — 
 
 Alon. No, no. Both of you go. 
 
 Clara {aside to Mari, while putting on her tnatitle). 
 Remember the letter !
 
 SCENE n] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 467 
 
 Mafi. Trust to me. 
 
 Bug. {aside). I wonder if they will be there ! 
 
 [Exeunt all but Torribio. 
 
 loir. Whether the Queen enter to-day, 
 To-morrow, or keep quite away, 
 Let those go see who have a mind ; 
 I am resolved to stay behind : 
 And now all gone, and coast quite clear, 
 Clear up the secret I suspect and fear. \Exit. 
 
 Scene II. A Room in Felix's House. — Felix and 
 Hernando. 
 
 Hem. Not going to see the Entry, sir ? 
 
 Fel. What use going to a festival if one has no 
 spirits for it ? 
 
 HetTi. Humph, what makes you out of spirits ? 
 
 Fel. Why should you ask ? 
 
 Hern. Nay, then, you have already answer'd me. 
 You are in love. 
 
 Fel. I scarce know whether you are right or wrong, 
 Hernando. I have indeed seen a lady whose very 
 beauty forbids all hope of my attaining it. 
 
 Hern. How so, sir ? 
 
 Fel. She who has enslav'd Don Juan and Don Pedro
 
 468 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act in 
 
 has fetter'd me at last ! I should care little for their 
 rivalry, had not each made me keeper of his love, so 
 that — Hark ! 
 
 Man Nuno {within). Don Felix ! 
 
 Fel Who is that ? 
 
 Hem. Some one calling you. 
 
 Man {w'lthhi). Senor Don Felix ! 
 
 Fel. Well ? 
 
 Man {within). From Donna Eugenia ! 
 
 \A letter is thrown in at the window. 
 
 Fel. From Eugenia ! {Reads.) " Grateful to you 
 for your advice, I have already begun to follow it ; 
 but, in order to that, I must see you once again, this 
 evening ! Adieu ! " Here is a dilemma ! For if — 
 
 Hein. Don Juan ! 
 
 Enter Juan. 
 
 Juan {aside). What was that ? 
 
 Fel. Don Juan back. 
 
 When such a festival — 
 
 Juan. And you ? Oh, Felix, 
 
 I know not how to speak or hold my tongue ! 
 
 Fel. A riddle ! How is that ? 
 
 Juan. Why, if I speak 
 
 I needs must anger you ; if not, myself
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 469 
 
 Fel. I do not understand it yet. 
 
 Juan. Nor I ; 
 
 Yet if you give me leave (as leave they give 
 To children and to fools to say their mind) 
 I'll say mine. 
 
 Fel. Surely say it. 
 
 Juan. Tell me then — 
 
 That letter I saw flying in at the window 
 As I came up, what was it ? 
 
 Fel. That of all 
 
 That you could ask, Juan, I cannot answer — 
 Must not — relying on our old regard 
 For fair construction. 
 
 Juan. I believe it, Felix : 
 
 Yet seeing that you first excus'd yourself 
 From helping on my suit, upon the score 
 Of other obligation ; and that now, 
 Ev'n now, but a few wretched minutes back, 
 Eugenia herself, in the public street, 
 Forbad me from her carriage angrily 
 From following her more — What can I think 
 But that she loves another ? when besides, 
 Coming back suddenly, I hear her name 
 Whisper' d — oh what so loud as an ill whisper ! — 
 By you, and see a letter too thrown in.
 
 470 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act hi 
 
 Which on my coming up confus'd you hide, 
 And will not say from whom — I say, Don Felix, 
 What can I think ? 
 
 Fel. {aside). And I, what can I do ? 
 
 Who, even if I may excuse myself, 
 Must needs embroil Don Pedro ! 
 
 Juan. Answer me. 
 
 Fel. Have I not answered you sufficiently, 
 In saying that my old and well-tried love 
 Should well excuse my silence ? 
 
 Juan. I confess 
 
 Your love, old, and well tried as you profess ; 
 And on that very score ask of you, Felix, 
 What you would do if one as true and tried 
 In a like case seal'd up his lips to you ? 
 
 Fel. Leave them unlockt in fullest confidence. 
 
 Juan. Alas ! how much, much easier to give 
 Than follow ev'n the counsel one implores ! 
 Felix, in pity I entreat of you. 
 Show me that letter ! 
 
 Fel. Gladly should you see it 
 
 If no one but myself were implicate. 
 
 Juan. There is then some one else ? 
 
 Fel. There is. 
 
 Juan. Who else ?
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 471 
 
 Fel. That's what I cannot tell you. 
 
 'Juan. Dare not trust 
 
 A friend as true to you as you to him ? 
 
 Fel. In anything but this. 
 
 Juan. What can this do 
 
 But aggravate my worst suspicions ? 
 
 Fel. I cannot help it. 
 
 Juan. I must tell you then 
 
 My friendship for you, Felix, may defer. 
 But not forego, the reading of that letter. 
 
 Fel. I am sorry, sir, your friendship must abide 
 In ignorance till doomsday. 
 
 Juan. You'll not show it ? 
 
 Fel. No, never. 
 
 Juan. Follow me, sir. 
 
 Fel. Where you please. 
 
 As they are going out, enter Pedro. 
 
 Fed. How now ? Don Juan and Felix quarrelling ? 
 
 Fel. Nay, only walking out. 
 
 Fed. What, walking out, 
 
 With hands upon your swords and inflam'd &ces ? 
 You shall not go. 
 
 Hem. That's right, sir, keep them back. 
 
 They were about —
 
 472 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act hi 
 
 Fel. Peace, rascal ! 
 
 Ped. Friends may quarrel, 
 
 But surely not to such extremity 
 But that a third may piece the quarrel up 
 Without the sword. The cause of your dispute ? 
 
 Fel. I must be silent. 
 
 'Juan. And so must not I ; 
 
 Who will not have it thought 
 That I forgot my manners as a guest 
 For any idle reason. You, Don Pedro, 
 Though lately known to me, are a gentleman. 
 And you shall hear my story. 
 
 Fel. Not a word. 
 
 Or else — 
 
 Ped. Nay, Felix — 
 
 Juan. I will speak it out ! 
 
 Don Pedro, I confided to Don Felix, 
 My friend and host, the love I long have borne 
 For one with whom he could advance my suit, 
 And promis'd so to do it ; but instead, 
 Yea, under the very mask of doing it, 
 Has urg'd his own ; has even now receiv'd 
 A letter through that ready window thrown. 
 He dares not show me ; and to make all sure, 
 I heard him whispering as I came upstairs.
 
 SCENE ii] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 473 
 
 The very name of my Eugenia — 
 
 Ped. Hold ! 
 
 This is my quarrel. 
 He who pretends to love Eugenia 
 Must answ^er it to me. 
 
 Juan. Two rivals, then ! 
 
 Fel. Two enemies grown out of two old friends 
 By the very means I us'd to keep them so ! 
 
 Juan. Keep them, indeed ! 
 
 Ped. When with base treachery — 
 
 Juan. Hypocrisy — 
 
 Ped. Under the name of friend — 
 
 Juan. A pretty friend — 
 
 Ped. You robb'd me — 
 
 Juan {ttiming to Pedro). You ! Dare you 
 
 Pretend — 
 
 Ped. {to Juan). Dare / .' Dare ji^a, sir ? 
 
 Fel. Peace, I say. 
 
 And hear me speak ! 
 
 Juan {to Felix). The time is past for that. 
 Follow me, sir. 
 
 Ped. No, me. 
 
 Fel. One, or the other, or together both, 
 I'll either lead or follow, nothing loath ! 
 
 \Exeunt wrangling.
 
 474 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act hi 
 
 Scene III. Alonso sitting. — Enter Torribio. 
 
 Torr. Oh, uncle ! 
 
 Alon. Well, what now ? 
 
 Ton: Oh, such a thing ! I suspected it ! 
 
 Jkn. Well, tell me. 
 
 Torr. Such a thing ! 
 
 Jlon. Speak, man. 
 
 Torr. When we were searching the house for the 
 man cousin Clara told us of — 
 
 Alon. Well ? 
 
 Torr. Passing by cousin Eugenia's room, I saw — 
 I have not breath to say it ! 
 
 Alon. Speak, sir. 
 
 Torr. Those men in the house — those dandies 
 about the door — I know how they get in now — 
 when I found in my cousin's room — behind her very 
 bed— 
 
 Jlon. Don Torribio ! 
 
 Torr. The very ladder they climb up by ! 
 
 Jlon. A ladder ? 
 
 Torr. Ah, and a very strong one too, all of iron 
 and cord. 
 
 Alon. If this were true — 
 
 Torr. Wait till I show it you, then. \_Exit.
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 475 
 
 Alon. Not in vain did Mari Nuno warn me of 
 her dangerous disposition ! If he have such a proof 
 of her incontinence how will he marry her ? 
 
 Re-enter Torribio with a fardingnk. 
 
 Torr. There, uncle, there it is, hoops, and steps, 
 and all ! 
 
 Jlon. This a ladder ? 
 
 Ton: Ah, that, if it were all let out, would scale 
 the tower of Babel, I believe. 
 
 Alon. I can scarce control my rage. Fool ! this 
 is a fardingale, not a ladder. 
 
 1o)r. A what-ingale ? 
 
 Alon. A fardingale, fool ! 1 
 
 1 "A hoop of whalebone, used to spread out the petticoat to 
 a wide circumference ; " — Johnson ; who one almost wonders 
 did not spread out into a wider circumference of definition 
 about the ^^ poo re •verdingales" that (according to Hey wood) 
 
 " must lie in the streete, 
 
 To have them no doore in the citye made meete." 
 
 The Spanish name is " guarda infanta," which puzzles Don 
 Torribio, as to what his cousin had to do with infants. Our 
 word was first (as Heywood writes) -verdingale : which as 
 Johnson tells us, " much exercised the etymology of Skin'ner, 
 who at last seems to determine that it is derived from I'ertu 
 garde." This, however, Johnson thinks does not at all get to 
 the bottom of the etymology, which may, he says, be found in 
 Dutch. Perhaps the old French petenlair was of the same 
 kindred.
 
 476 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act hi 
 
 Ton: Why, that's worse than the ladder ! 
 
 Jlon. You will fairly drive me out of my senses ! 
 Go, sir, directly, and put it back where you took it 
 from, and for Heaven's sake, no more of such folly ! 
 
 [^Exit. 
 
 Ton: Well — to think of this ! and my cousin that 
 look'd so nice too ! 
 
 Voices [within). Coach there ! coach ! 
 
 Ente7- Mari Nuno. 
 
 Mai'i. They are come back. I must get lights. 
 Who's this ? 
 
 To}r. Nobody. 
 
 Mari. What are you doing with that fardingale ; 
 and where did you get it ? 
 
 To}r. Nothing, and nowhere. 
 
 Mafi. Come, give it me at once, lest I give you 
 the fellow of the cuff I gave you before. 
 
 Ton: For fear of which, take that upon your 
 wrinkled chaps. {Strikes her, and calls out.) Help ! 
 help ! Murder ! murder ! Help ! 
 
 Enter Alonso, Clara, Eugenia, IfSc, in mantles. 
 
 Jlon. What now ? 
 
 Torr. Mari Nuno there, only because I wish'd her 
 good night, laid violent hands on me.
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 477 
 
 Man. Oh the wretch ! he wanted to make love 
 to me — and worse — declaring he would none of any 
 who used such a thing as this. {Showing fardingak^ 
 
 Alon. Let us hear no more of such folly. There 
 is something else to-day to tell of Well, {to his 
 daughters,) you have seen this procession ? 
 
 Eug. Ay, sir ; the greatest sight, I believe, that 
 Spain has seen since she was greatest of nations. 
 
 j4lon. I, who could not go myself, am to see it, 
 you know, in your recital. 
 
 Eug. As best we can, sir. 
 
 Clara {aside to Mari Nuno). Have you seen Don 
 Felix ? 
 
 Ma)'i {aside). Enough, he will be here. But 
 when ? 
 
 Clara. When the story is done, and all weary are 
 gone to bed. 
 
 Mali. Good. \Exit ; the rest sit down. 
 
 Clara. Begin you then, Eugenia, I will chime 
 in. 
 
 Eug. This being the long-expected day 
 When our fair Spain and fairest Mariana 
 Should quicken longing hope to perfect joy, 
 Madrid awoke, and dress'd her squares and streets 
 In all their glory ; through all which we pass'd
 
 478 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act in 
 
 Up to the Prado, where the city's self, 
 
 In white and pearl array'd, by ancient usage, 
 
 Waited in person to receive the bride 
 
 By a triumphal arch that rose heaven-high. 
 
 The first of four all nam'd and hung about 
 
 With emblems of the four parts of the world, 
 
 (Each with a separate element distinct,) 
 
 Of which our sovereign lord was now to lay 
 
 The four crowns at his sovereign lady's feet. 
 
 Clara. And this first arch was Europe ; typified 
 By the wide Air, which temperatest she breathes, 
 And which again, for double cognizance. 
 Wore the imperial eagle for its crest ; 
 With many another airy symbol more. 
 And living statues supplementary 
 Of Leon and Castile, each with its crown, 
 Austria, the cradle of the royal bride. 
 And Rome, the mistress of the fiith of all. 
 
 Eug. Here then, when done the customary rite 
 Of kissing hands and due obeisance, 
 Drum, trumpet, and artillery thundering, 
 With that yet lordliest salute of all, 
 A people's universal acclamation ; 
 (And never in the world were subjects yet 
 So proud, and bow'd, and with so good a cause ;)
 
 SCENE III] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 479 
 
 Under a golden canopy she mov'd 
 Tow'rd San Geronimo, whose second arch, 
 Of no less altitude and magnificence, 
 Deck't with the sixty crowns of Asia, 
 Receiv'd her next, wearing for cognizance 
 Earth, of which Asia is the largest piece ; 
 Which Earth again carried a lion's mane, 
 As proclamation of her noblest growth. 
 
 Clara. Thence passing on, came to where Africa 
 Her waste of arid desert embleming 
 By Fire, whose incarnation, the Sun, 
 Burn'd on this arch as in his house in heaven. 
 Bore record of the trophies two great Queens 
 Upon the torrid continent had won, 
 Who, one with holy policy at home. 
 The other in Granada by the sword, 
 Extirpated deadly Mahometism. 
 
 Eug. Last, to the Holy Virgin dedicate, 
 From whose cathedral by the holy choir 
 Chaunted Te Deum, rose in splendid arch 
 America, wearing for her device 
 The silver image of the Ocean, 
 That roU'd the holy cross to the New World. 
 And so all pass'd to the Escurial, 
 In front of which, in two triumphal cars,
 
 48o BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act hi 
 
 Two living statues were — one Mercury, 
 Who, as divine ambassador, thus far 
 Had brought the royal bride propitiously ; 
 The other, Hymen, who took up the charge 
 Mercury left, and with unquenching torch. 
 While cannon, trumpet, choir, and people's voice 
 Thunder'd her praises, took the palfrey's rein. 
 Who gloried in the beauty that he bore, 
 And brought and left her at her palace door. 
 
 Ahn. Well done, well done, both of you, in 
 whose lively antiphony I have seen it all as well as if 
 I had been there. 
 
 Torr. Well, for my part I neither wanted to see it 
 nor hear of it. 
 
 Ahn. No ? why so, nephew ? 
 
 Torr. Lord, I've seen twice as good as that 
 down in my country many a time, all the boys 
 and girls dancing, and the mayor, and the priest, 
 and — 
 
 Alon. Peace, peace. Come, Brigida, light me to 
 my room, I am sleepy. 
 
 Eug. And I ; with sight-seeing, and sight-telling, 
 
 I suppose. {Aside.) And with a heavy heart, alas ! 
 
 \_Exeunt Alonso, Eugenia, and Brigida. 
 
 Clara. Will not you to bed too, sir ?
 
 SCENE in] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 481 
 
 Ton: Not till I've had my supper, I promise you. 
 Oh, I don't care for all your sour looks, not I, nor 
 your threats of revenge neither. 
 
 Clara. You don't ? 
 
 Ton: No, I defy you. 
 
 Clara. Not if I were to prove to you that she you 
 slighted me for loves another ? 
 
 Torr. Oh, cousin Clara ! 
 
 Clara. Shall I prove it to you r 
 
 Torr. Oh, if my ancestors could hear this, what 
 would they say ? 
 
 Clara. I don't know. But you may hear if you 
 like what she says to your rival. 
 
 Torr. Ha ! 
 
 Clara. Go into this balcony, and you will hear 
 her talking to him in the street. 
 
 Torr. I knew ! I guessed ! the ladder ! 
 
 {He goes into the balcony and she shuts him in). 
 
 Clara. There cool yourself in the night till I let 
 you out. And now to have you safe too. {Locks 
 Eugenia's dooi^. And now, all safe, for the first time 
 in my life Love and I meet in fair field. Mari Nurio ! 
 {Enter "M. Ma.) Where is the Cavalier ? 
 
 Mari. Waiting in my chamber.
 
 482 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act hi 
 
 Clara. Bring him. You understand it is all for 
 Eugenia's good ? 
 
 Mari. I understand. 
 
 \_Extt, and returns with Felix, 
 
 Fel. I fly, madam, to your feet. {Kneels). 
 
 Clara. Rise, sir, 'tis about your letter I sent to you. 
 
 Fel. Alas, madam, all is worse than ever ! 
 
 Clara. What has happened r 
 
 Fel. Not only did my two friends fall out with 
 each other, as I expected, but with me for the very 
 good services I was doing them ; insulted me till I 
 could withhold my sword no longer ; we went out to 
 fight ; were seen, pursued, and disperst by the 
 alguazils. I return'd home to await them, but as yet 
 know nothing more of them. 
 
 Clara. Alas, sir, what do I not owe you for your 
 care on my behalf? 
 
 Fel. More perhaps than you imagine. 
 
 Ckra. Tell me all at least, that I may at least 
 know my debt, if unable to repay it. 
 
 Fel. Alas, I dare not say what is said in not saying. 
 
 Clara. Said, and not said r I do not understand. 
 
 Fel. I, alas, too well ! 
 
 Clara. Explain to me then, sir. 
 
 Fel. No, madam. If what I feel is so much on
 
 SCENE in] BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 483 
 
 my friends' account, it is still more for their sakes that 
 I keep it unsaid. 
 
 Clara. Hark ! what noise is that ? Mari Nuno 
 what is the matter ? 
 
 Enter Mari Nuno. 
 
 Mari. Oh, madam, some one is getting over the 
 garden wall ! Your father has heard the noise ; and 
 is got up with his sword. 
 
 Clara. If he should find you ! 
 
 Fel. He need not. This balcony — 
 
 Clara. No, no ! 
 
 Torr'ib'io {within). Thieves ! Murder ! Help ! 
 {He opens the balcony ; Torribio falls forward on him, 
 push'd in by Juan with his sword drawn). 
 
 Ton: Murder ! Murder ! 
 
 Juan {to Felix). Thou too here, 
 traitor ! \yill at once. 
 
 Fel. {draiving his szvord). Who are 
 these ? ^ 
 
 {Contusion, in which enter Alonso with drawn sword, 
 Otanez, Brigida, i^c). 
 
 Alon. Two ! Torribio, to my side ! 
 Fel. Wait ! wait ! Let me explain.
 
 484 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER [act iii 
 
 Alon. Don Felix ! 
 
 Fel. Listen to me, all of you, I say ! I was sent 
 for to prevent, not to do, mischief, by Donna Eugenia 
 herself — 
 
 Enter Eugenia. 
 
 Eug. By me, sir ! 
 
 Clara, Hold, hold, Eugenia ! 
 
 Eug. 1 will not hold when my name is in ques- 
 tion without my — Sent for by me, sir ! 
 
 Fel. Not by you, madam ; by Donna Eugenia, 
 {j)ointing to Clara) to prevent — 
 
 J Ion. and Eug. Clara ! 
 
 Torr. Ah, 'twas she put me to freeze in the bal- 
 cony, too. 
 
 Clara {to Felix). Sir, you come here to save 
 another from peril. Leave me not in it. 
 
 Fel. I leave you, madam, who would lay down 
 my life for you ! and all the rather if you are not 
 Donna Eugenia. 
 
 Awn. None but her father or her husband must 
 do that. 
 
 Fel. Then let me claim to do it as the latter. 
 {Kneels to Clara.) 
 
 Jlon. But Clara ?
 
 SCENE in] BEWARE OF SMODTH WATER 4.85 
 
 Clara. Sir, I am ready to obey my father — and 
 my husband. 
 
 Eug. And I, sir. And to prove my dut}-, let me 
 marry my cousin at once, and retire with him to the 
 mountains. 
 
 Ton: Marry me ! No, indeed ! No Capacities, 
 and ladders, and — what-d'ye-call-'ems — for me. I'll 
 e'en go back as I came, with my ancestors safe in my 
 saddle-bags, I will. 
 
 Juan {to Alonso). Permit me, sir. I am Don 
 Juan de Mendoza ; a name at least not unknown to 
 you. I have loved your daughter long ; and might 
 have had perchance favourable acceptation from her 
 mother long ago, had not you yourself been abroad at 
 the time. 
 
 Jlou. I now remember to have heard something 
 of the kind. What say you, Eugenia ? 
 
 Eug. I am ready to obey my father — and my 
 husband. 
 
 With which at last our comedy shall close. 
 Asking indulgence both of friends and foes. 
 
 Clara. And ere we part our text for envoy give, — 
 Beware of all smooth waters while you live ! 
 
 This Comedy seems an Occasional Piece, to celebrate the
 
 486 BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER 
 
 marriage of Philip IV. with Anna Maria of Austria, and the 
 pageants that Calderon himself was summoned to devise and 
 manage. This marriage was in 1649 ; when Calderon, as old 
 as the century, was in his prime ; and I think the airy lightness 
 of the dialogue, the play of character, the easy intrigue, and the 
 happily introduced wedding rhapsodies, make it one of the most 
 agreeable of his comedies. 
 
 As I purposely reduced the swell of Isabel's speech in the last 
 play, I must confess that the present version of these wedding 
 pageants, though not unauthorized by the original, had perhaps 
 better have been taken in a lighter tone to chime in with so 
 much common dialogue. But they were done first, to see what 
 could be made of them : and, as little dramatic interest is con- 
 cerned, are left as they were ; at least not the less like so much 
 in Calderon, where love and loyalty are concerned ; and to be 
 excused by the reader as speeches spouted by boys on holiday 
 occasions.
 
 Notes 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 I, 3-9. It seems probable that FitzGerald very wisely pre- 
 ferred reading Calderon's plays themselves rather than the books 
 that have been written on them : otherwise he would scarcely 
 have made this statement. For the rest, his foot-notes show 
 that he himself admired several of them. Thus (p. 106) he 
 places El Pintor de su Deshonra above the more famous Medico 
 Je su Honra ; and (p. 486) extols Giiardate del Agua Maiisa, 
 which many competent critics, both before 1853 and since, 
 regard as the finest among the poet's comedias pure and simple : 
 indeed, Men^ndez y Pelayo, the most competent of them all, 
 selects this play to represent the lighter comedies in his Teatro 
 Selecto of Calder6n. The second of our plays is scarcely in- 
 ferior as an example of this genre ; while the third justly ranks 
 among the greatest of the tragedies. Luis Perez, alone, perhaps 
 deserves the title of melodrama ; and though some perfervid 
 German admirers of our poet insist, not only on drawing 
 parallels between this piece and the Rduber (for which there is 
 some justification), but on extolling it at the expense of Schiller's 
 play (for which there is no justification whatever) — all the best 
 critics agree in condemning it, on the score both of its faulty 
 construction and of its bombastic dialogue. It almost certainly 
 belongs to the period of the poet's youth. There is nothing 
 to show on what principle FitzGerald proceeded in the 
 487
 
 488 NOTES 
 
 fclection of the plays. They are all contained in vol. iv. of 
 Keil's edition (1830) ; and it seems probable that he used this 
 text, not only from the evidence of certain readings, but because 
 he recommends it to Borrow (in a letter dated August 3, 1853). 
 I, 13-16 and 2, 1-14. Very similar views have been ex- 
 pressed by other Calderonians. See for example, Rapp, at the 
 end of his Introduction to Braunfels' fine translation of some of 
 Calderon's plays (in vol. vi. of their Spanisches Theater Leipzig, 
 
 EL PINTOR DE SU DESHONRA 
 
 No attempt has been made to fix the date of this play. I 
 have often thought that some of the incidents may have been 
 inspired by an episode in the life of the painter Jusepe de 
 Ribera (Spagnoletto), in which case the piece must have been 
 written after 1648. The event in question has been discredited 
 by some of the artist's biographers ; but, whether it actually 
 occurred or not, there certainly were many rumours of the 
 story current, some of which must have reached our poet from 
 Naples, especially after Velasquez had visited Ribera there. 
 Sir William ..Stirling-Maxwell relates the incident as follows : 
 " The Neapolitans, who hated Ribera for his country and for 
 his arrogance, have a tradition which brings his story to a close 
 with somewhat of poetical justice [see Dominici, Vite dei Piteori, 
 etc., Napolitani, 1 840-1 846, iii. pp. 30, 31]. When Don Juan 
 of Austria [not to be confounded with his name-sake, the hero 
 of Lepanto] came to Naples in 1648, they say that the 
 Valencian entertained him at an ostentatious musical party, 
 and that he became enamoured of Maria Rosa, the painter's 
 eldest daughter, who was remarkable for her beauty and grace. 
 Dancing with her at balls, and visiting her under pretence of 
 admiring her father's pictures, the Prince sighed and the maiden 
 yielded • he carried her to Sicily, and when his passion was 
 cloyed, he placed her in a convent at Palermo. . . . This
 
 NOTES 489 
 
 story is treated as a mere fable by Cean Bermudez [£>/cc. Hist, 
 iie los mas ilustres Frofesorcs de las Bellas Artes en Esparia, Madrid, 
 1800], who, departing from his usual candour, is silent as to the 
 misdeeds of his countryman " (Annals oj the Artists of Spain, 
 London, 1848, pp. 748, 749). 1 quote a further passage irom. 
 Maxwell (pp. 752, 753) to show that the tradition was well 
 established : " I'he nuns of Sta. Isabel hung over their high 
 altar one of his Virgins of the Conception, in which they caused 
 Claudio Coello to re-paint the head, because they had heard the 
 scandal about Don Juan of Austria, and believed their Imma- 
 culate Lady to be a portrait of the peccant Maria Rosa." Mr. 
 W. M. Rossetti says m the Encjcl. Brit. (ed. 9, s.-u. Ribera) that 
 the painter's "daughter, so tar from being disgraced by an 
 abduction, married a Spanish nobleman, who became a minister 
 of the viceroy " ; but this was a younger daughter, Annicea, 
 the wife of an official in the War Office named Don Tommaso 
 Manzano. Allowing that there is some truth in the theory, it 
 goes without saying that Calderon did not dramatise the story 
 as he found it : Don Juan was a natural son of King Philip 
 IV (by an actress named " Calderona ") and a great tavourite 
 of his. In fact, the points of contact, when reduced to their 
 narrowest limits, are very slight. In the story, whether it be 
 true or false, a Governor of Naples seduces the daughter of a 
 Spanish painter j in the play the son of a Governor of Naples 
 compromises the wife of a Spanish painter, while a Prince is 
 implicated, too, though he is depicted as, on the whole, a man 
 of magnanimous character. In both cases the abduction takes 
 place at a festivity. Ribera painted mythological subjects, but 
 I cannot find that his works include a Hercules such as is de- 
 scribed in our play (see pp. 92 and 93). All I claim for my 
 theory is that Calderon may have borrowed some motives from 
 the tradition relating to Don Juan ; though it may, of course, 
 have been his intention at the same time to make the play 
 serve as a covert rebuke to the young Prince. 
 
 14, zo, sqq, FitzGerald has a note (p. 139) on all that a 
 coach implies to the average Spaniard. See, too, p. 427.
 
 49° NOTES 
 
 50, 6 and 51, 9, 10. Calderon often seems to feel that the 
 poetical imagery, to which he was almost committed by the 
 taste of his time and country, and in which he was surpassed 
 by no writer (this to be understood not altogether in a lauda- 
 tory sense) — was, if carried to excess, out of place on the stage. 
 Another instance of such self-criticism will be found on p. 194. 
 
 89 and 90. Similarly, Don Juan's speech may be taken as 
 an indictment against those unspeakably cruel laws involved by 
 the " point of honour," which played such a part in Spain — 
 especially, though by no means exclusively, on the stage. 
 
 106 (nofe). This Treatise on Painting was not printed till 
 the year 1781, in vol. iv. of Francisco Mariano Nifo's Ca/dn 
 de sastre, literato, etc. 
 
 NADIE FIE SU SECRETO 
 
 Though the incidents of this play are, so far as I know, not 
 historical, the hero, Prince Alexander Farnese, of Parma, is, of 
 course, a well known figure in history. He was the nephew of 
 King Philip II, and played a conspicuous part in the war of 
 the Netherlands (i 578-1 584). English readers should be 
 familiar with his exploits from Part vi. of Motley's Rise of the 
 Dutch Republic. The second chapter contains an account of the 
 terrible second Siege of Maestricht (March 12 to June 29, 
 1579), which reads like a nightmare, but of which the Spaniards 
 were always particularly proud (see, in our volume, pp. 183 
 and 458). 
 
 114 and 115. Ombre is "usually played by three persons, 
 though sometimes by two and five. The game is played with 
 40 cards (the eights, nines and tens, having been removed), and 
 each player receives nine cards, three by three " (Chambers' 
 EncycPj. — Basto^the ace of clubs ; malilla^t\\.t deuce of spades 
 or clubs, or the seven of hearts or diamonds ; espadilla=:the ace 
 of spades. — The Belinda of the foot-note is, of course, the
 
 NOTES 491 
 
 heroine of the Rape of the Lock, the third canto of which con- 
 tains a brilliant account of a game at Ombre. 
 
 142 {note). It may not be superfluous to state that the 
 Deidicha de la Voz is a play by Calderon himself. 
 
 184 [note). It would lead me too far to discuss all the plays 
 with which the present one has been connected, Schack 
 mentions Lope's To me entiendo, and this, again, is akin to the 
 same writer's La Quinta de Florencia. All seem to go back to 
 a novel of Bandello's (ii. 15). Students of the English Drama 
 will find matter of interest in Koppel's admirable Quellenstudien 
 zu den Dramcn Ben yonson s, yohn Marstons, nnd Beaumont und 
 Fletcher's, 1895 (pp. 111-114). This scholar assigns The Maia 
 in the Mill and The Loyal Subject to the same dramatic 
 family. 
 
 LUIS PEREZ EL GALLEGO 
 
 This is the correct title of the play, which was altered by 
 FitzGerald (see note on p. 254). It was first printed in 1652 
 (in vol. i. of the Comedias Escogidas by various authors). At 
 the end of the piece Calderon speaks of it as the First Part ; 
 but a second is not known to exist. 
 
 Though I do not agree with those critics who draw com- 
 parisons between our play and the Rdnler (any more than I 
 can see such striking points of resemblance between Las Tres 
 yusticias en una and King Lear as are held to exist by the same 
 school of Calderon worshippers), yet no one will deny that Luis 
 has many traits in common with Karl Moor. The period of 
 the action must be somewhere about the year 1588, for (on p. 
 214) there is mention of the war against England ; the Capitan 
 General in question being the Duke of Medina-Sidonia, who, 
 on the death of the Marquis of Santa-Cruz (1588), was ap- 
 pointed to the command of the Armada. 
 
 220, 12. Here, again, Calderon seems to be poking fun at the 
 prevailing fashions of the Spanish Drama.
 
 492 NOTES 
 
 LAS TRES JUSTICIAS EN UNA 
 
 This play was first printed in 1660, in vol. xiii. of the 
 Comedias Escogidas. It is historical in so far as one of the 
 characters is a King of Aragon, called Peter. The original 
 does not specify which Peter is meant, but FitzGerald is wrong 
 in assuming that it is Pedro IV (so in the Dramatis Persona, 
 and on p. 312, 10). On p. 289 (last line but two) he follows 
 Keil in a misprint, taken over from the first Spanish edition, 
 by reading Norandino. This should obviously be Conradino (as 
 Hartzenbusch has it) — a reading which makes it clear that 
 the Pedro of this play is the Third of that name. Students 
 of medieval history and of Dante are familiar with the 
 historical facts and personages in question : with Charles of 
 Anjou, who "came to Italy, and, for am.ends, made a victim 
 of Conradin " {Purg. xx. 66, 67) ; and with our Peter of 
 Aragon and his former enemy, this same Charles, singing 
 together in Purgatory, in the Valley of the Negligent Rulers — 
 " He who seems so stout of limb, and accords his singing with 
 him of the virile nose, was begirt with the cord of every worth ! " 
 {Purg. I'ii. 1 1 2-1 14). Others will need to be told that Conradin, 
 the son of Conrad IV, was, in 1254, left heir to the 
 Empire. As he was but three years old, his uncle Manfred 
 usurped the crown, and held it till his death at the battle of 
 Benevento (1265), where the Ghibelline force was routed by 
 the adherents of the Guelfs, under Charles of Anjou. Young 
 Conradin was, thereupon, urged to try his fortune against 
 the aggressive Charles ; but he, too, suffered defeat — at 
 Tagliacozzo in 1268— and was beheaded two months later by 
 Charles' orders. Pedro's connection with Charles and with 
 young Conradin is explained in this way : When Charles was 
 driven from the throne of Naples and Sicily after the terrible 
 outbreak known as the "Sicilian Vespers" (1282), he was 
 succeeded by Peter, whose claim to the crown of Sicily was 
 based on his marriage with Constance, the daughter of Manfred,
 
 NOTES 493 
 
 King of Sicily ; and, as we have seen, Conradin was Manfred's 
 nephew. 
 
 It may be noted in this place that the Spanish dramatists 
 were very fond of changing the scene of their action from 
 Spain to Italy, especially to the kingdom of Naples. Readers of 
 the present volume will see that Calderon was specially addicted 
 to this practice — a practice that distinctly adds to the interest 
 of the pieces in question, for it enabled the writers to introduce 
 touches of local colour and to provide a change of atmosphere. 
 Spain's connection with the "Two Sicilies" dates from the 
 events I have just briefly sketched ; culminated in the year 
 1504, when Gonsalvo de Cordova expelled the French from 
 Naples, thus securing that kingdom for the crown of Aragon 
 alone; and was ended by Garibaldi in i860 — and rightly 
 ended : for the Spanish rule had been of the most tyrannous 
 nature. 
 
 286 (note). The present generation is not so well acquainted 
 with this play by Mrs. Centlivre, which was produced at Drury 
 Lane in 1714, and selected by Garrick for his last appearance 
 at that theatre (June 10, 1776) ; while Charles Kemble took 
 the part of Felix for the last time at Covent Garden on April i, 
 1840. The complete title of the piece is The fVonder : a 
 Woman Keeps a Secret, Modern reprints are in Lacy's Acting 
 Edition of Plays (vol. 25), and in Dick's Standard Plays (No. 
 27). There can be no doubt that the scenes between Lissardo 
 and the two girls Flora and Inis are inspired by some Spanish 
 source, though not necessarily by our play, remarkable as are 
 the points of resemblance between the two. 
 
 309 {note). I have taken the liberty of bringing this 
 quotation from Chaucer up to date, by printing it from Prof. 
 Skeat's edition (1894.). 
 
 310. The note on this page had best be skipped, as it 
 only serves to confuse the reader. Schmidt shows (pp. 237, 
 238) how Calder6n has, in various plays, amalgamated three 
 historical Pedros into one legendary, ideal figure.
 
 49+ NOTES 
 
 EL ALCALDE DE ZALAMEA 
 
 This play was first printed at Alcala in 165 i, as El Garrote 
 mas bien dado. The title under which it has become universally 
 known had been previously adopted by Lope de Vega for a 
 drama that deals with the same incident, and was the direct 
 source of Calderon's masterpiece. Since FitzGerald wrote 
 his note on pp. 40^, 406 this play of Lope's has been carefully 
 edited by Max Krenkel, in his monumental edition of our 
 drama (Leipzig, 1887). 
 
 The English student cannot do better than study Calder6n's 
 Alcalde in Mr. MacCoU's volume, to which I referred in 
 the Preface. There he will find a careful and impartial 
 comparison between Lope's and Calderon's treatment of the 
 theme. I quote the following general remarks : " The plot 
 is certainly not one that Calderon would have chosen for 
 himself. By nature he was little of a realist, and he would 
 in all probability never have thought of making a 'villano 
 and his daughter the leading characters of a tragedy ; but 
 finding the theme handled by Lope, he saw its capabilities 
 with the intuition of a great poet, and he has turned a clever, 
 eminently matter-of-fact piece, in which Lope probably deviated 
 very slightly from the incidents as they actually occurred, into 
 one of the most touching and poetical dramas ever written. 
 Any one inclined to adopt the opinion now fashionable, that 
 Lope is a greater dramatist than Calderon, will do well, before 
 coming to a definite conclusion, to compare their treatment 
 of the same subject." 
 
 It is interesting to note that only two copies of the early 
 edition of Lope's play are known to exist, both of them in 
 England. The one, belonging to the Library of Holland 
 House, has been (temporarily, let us hope) mislaid ; the other, 
 formerly in the possession of Chorley, is now in the British 
 Museum, and served as the basis of Krenkel's edition. 
 
 Another fact of far greater interest is that not only
 
 NOTES 495 
 
 Cervantes took part in the expedition of which this play 
 records an incident (see note on pp. 340, 341), but that Lope 
 de Vega, too, went through the campaign, and may therefore 
 be assumed to have heard an account of th episode from the 
 lips of an eye-witness. Both the great writers were in the 
 Tercio de Flandes — the famous legion commanded by Figueroa. 
 
 The campaign in question was undertaken by Philip II 
 in 1580, on the death of Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, 
 against Don Antonio, one of the claimants of the crown 5 his 
 object being, of course, to unite Portugal with Spain under 
 one sceptre ; and in this object he was ultimately successful. 
 Philip's mercenary army was largely composed of the scum, 
 not of Spain alone, but of Germany and Italy as well. It 
 is not surprising, therefore, that incidents such as the one 
 immortalised in our play were of common occurrence. Jose 
 Pellicer y Tovar, a Spanish Pepys of the first half of the 17th 
 century, whose A-visos historicos (published by a Valladores y 
 Sotomayor in the Semanario erudito, xxxi and xxxVt)^ were 
 largely drawn on by Hartzenbusch for his Calderon notes, 
 mentions several of them ; and Krenkel adds a number of 
 interesting data to the list. It is not necessary to repeat 
 them here. 
 
 Till Krenkel's book appeared, the following theories were 
 held with regard to the historical facts and Calderon's treat- 
 ment of them : — Before placing the main body of his forces 
 under Alva's command, Philip marched westward to review 
 the force at Badajoz. While on his way thither, on passing 
 through the little town of Zalamea, some fifty leagues west of 
 Madrid, he took part in the incident described. The only 
 inaccuracy of which Calderon was held guilty was that he 
 credited the Tercio de Flandes with a share in the opening 
 movements of the campaign ; whereas, in point of fact, they 
 did not reach the scene of action till towards the close of 
 the operations. 
 
 Krenkel, after an exhaustive survey and much original 
 research, concludes that the incident did not take place in
 
 496 NOTES 
 
 August (see pp. 368 and 384 of the present volume), by which 
 time the Spanish army had long crossed the Spanish frontier, 
 but at the earliest towards the end of 1580, or the beginning 
 of 1 58 1 ; that the Captain Alvaro de Ataide was not under 
 the supreme command of Figueroa (who was still far from 
 Spain) ; and that King Philip had no part in the whole affair. 
 
 GUARDATE DEL AGUA MANSA 
 
 This play must have been written very shortly after 1649 
 (see FitzGerald's note on pp. 485, 486) ; but it was not 
 printed till 1657 {Comedias nuenjas, viii). We have Tassis* 
 testimony for the fact that Calderon had charge of the arrange- 
 ments for the procession in question : El \jino de] 49, 
 Jialldndose en Alba con el Excelenttsivto seHor Duque \_de Oli-vares], 
 le 7nand6 S. M. por su real decreto 'volver 4 la corte d tra-::,ar 
 y describir aquellos celebres arcos triunfalei para la Jelia entrada 
 de su augusta esclarecida esposa, Dofia Maria Ana de Austria, 
 nuestra sefiora, gloriosisima reina madre. Most of Calderon's 
 tiographers imply that the poet was too modest to take all 
 the credit for this magnificent State Entry, and that, although 
 lie wrote out the official account, he let a certain Lorenzo 
 Ramirez de Prado put his name to the book. Tassis refers 
 to it as el libra de la entrada de la augusta Reina madre, nuestra 
 seiiora, and mentions it among our poet's works. In Antonio 
 I find an entry under de Prado's name, which is evidentlv 
 the book in question — Noticia del Recibimiento y entrada de la 
 Reyna N. SeSiora Dona Maria Anna de Austria en la Corte de 
 Madrid. But I feel sure that Calderon never wrote a line 
 of it ; and that, if he was really told to describir the affair, he 
 only did it once — namely, in our play. The poor little Queen 
 about whom they made all this fuss, was only fourteen years of 
 age at the time (p. 421, 11). She is the heroine of the anecdote 
 retailed in so many school-books, the point of which is that " the 
 <3ueen of Spain has no legs." The bridegroom, Philip IV, was
 
 NOTES 
 
 497 
 
 the girl's uncle (p. 443, 14), and her senior by thirty-one 
 years. Her mother, Maria, was Philip IV's sister and the 
 wife of the Emperor Ferdinand III : hence she is called 
 "a debt" (p. 421, i), or pledge {f>rcnda), which, having 
 been temporarily lost to Spain, was now being redeemed in the 
 person of her daughter. The child was accompanied as far as 
 Trent by her brother Ferdinand, from Trent to Milan by the 
 Duke of Turin (this stage being omitted in FitzGerald's version), 
 and from Milan to Denia (on the E. coast of Spain, between 
 Valencia and Alicante) by the Admiral Doria — one of the lesser 
 scions of that house (pp. 421-423). Schmidt sees in Calder6n's 
 allusion to Ferdinand IV (p. 421, 21-25 ^""^ P- 4^25 i""^) a re- 
 flection of the earnest desire of the Spanish Court for a marriage 
 between this young man and Maria Theresa, Philip IV's 
 daughter. The scheme was, however, frustrated, first by the 
 Spaniards' fear of France, and then by Ferdinand's premature 
 death. 
 
 Calderon's play Mejor estd que estaba forms a parallel with the 
 present piece in so far as its scene was laid in Vienna for the 
 obvious purpose of celebrating the festive entry of the Infanta 
 Maria into Austria. 
 
 456, I. fort or apple. Eugenia is referring to Clara's phrase 
 about the apple and the fortress (last two lines of p. 454). 
 
 475 (note). FitzGerald's ingenious, but somewhat unsavoury, 
 etymology is, of course, wrong. The Oxford Dictionary very 
 properly goes back, to " F. •uerdugale, -vertugalle, corruption of 
 Sp. I'erJt/gado, a farthingale, from t'erdugo, rod, stick (so called 
 because distended by cane hoops or rods inserted underneath)." 
 I do not feel at all sure that there may not be, at the same 
 time, some element of popular etymolog)' in the word — if 
 not in the English, at least in the Spanish form. Bearing 
 in mind the Spanish synonym, guardainfanta, it is difficult to 
 resist the feeling that =virtud and guardar may be connected 
 with the word I'erdugada,
 
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