ACT I
Scene I.—A Mountain Pass near Saragossa.
Shot within. Then enter Don Mendo and Violante pursued by Robbers, among whom is Vicente.
Men. Villains, let steel or bullet do their worst,
I’ll die ere yield.
Viol. Heaven help us!
Robber I. Fool, to strive
Against such odds—upon their own ground too,
Red with the blood of hundreds like yourselves.
Vic. Come, sir, no more ado;
But quietly give my young madam up,
Nice picking for our captain.
Men. Not while a drop of blood is in my body.
Robbers. Here’s at you then!
Viol. My father!
(As the Robbers attack Mendo, enter Don Lope.)
Lope. How now? whom have you here?
Vic. Oh, noble captain,
We found this lady resting from the sun
Under the trees, with a small retinue,
Who of course fled.
All but this ancient gentleman, who still
Holds out against us.
Lope (to Mendo). What can you expect
Against such numbers?
Men. Not my life, but death.
You come in time—
Upon my knees I do beseech of you (kneels)
No other mercy save of instant death
To both of us.
Lope. Arise! you are the first
Has moved me to the mercy you decline.
This lady is—your wife?
Men. My only daughter!
Viol. In spirit as in blood. If by his death
You think to make you masters of my life,
Default of other weapon, with these hands
I’ll cease the breath of life, or down these rocks
Dash myself headlong.
Lope. Lady, calm yourself;
Your beauty has subdued an angry devil
One like yourself first raised within my soul.
Your road lies whither, sir?
Men. To Saragossa.
Where if I could requite—
Lope. Your name?
Men. Don Mendo
Torellas, after a long embassage
To Paris, Rome, and Naples, summon’d back
By Pedro, King of Arragon—with whom
If ’t be (as oft) some youthful petulance,
Calling for justice or revenge at home,
Drives you abroad to these unlawful courses,
I pledge my word—
Lope. Alas, sir, I might hail
Your offer could I hope that your deserts,
However great, might cancel my account
Of ill-deserving. But indeed my crimes
Have gather’d so in number, and in weight,
And condemnation—committed, some of them,
To stave away the very punishment
They must increase at last; others, again,
In the sheer desperation of forgiveness
That all had heap’d upon me—
Men. Nay, nay, nay;
Despair not; trust to my good offices;
In pledge of which here, now, before we part,
I swear to make your pardon the first boon
I’ll ask for or accept at the King’s hand.
Your name?
Lope. However desperate, and ashamed
To tell it, you shall hear it—and my story.
Retire!
(To the Robbers, who exeunt.)
Don Mendo, I am Lope, son
Of Lope de Urrea, of some desert,
At least in virtue of my blood.
Men. Indeed!
Urrea and myself were, I assure you,
Intimate friends of old,—another tie,
If wanting one, to bind me to your service.
Lope. I scarce can hope it, sir; if I, his son,
Have so disgraced him with my evil ways,
And so impoverisht him with my expenses,
Were you his friend, you scarcely can be mine.
And yet, were I to tell you all, perhaps
I were not all to blame.
Men. Come, tell me all;
’Tis fit that I should hear it.
Viol. I begin
To breathe again.
Lope. Then listen, sir. My father in his youth,
As you perhaps may know, but why I know not,
Held off from marriage; till, bethinking him,
Or warn’d by others, what a shame it were
So proud a name should die for want of wearer,
In his late years he took to wife a lady
Of blameless reputation, and descent
As noble as his own, but so unequal
In years, that she had scarcely told fifteen
When age his head had whiten’d with such snows
As froze his better judgment.
Men. Ay, I know
Too well—too well! (Aside.)
Lope. Long she repell’d his suit,
Feeling how ill ill-sorted years agree;
But, at the last, before her father’s will
She sacrificed her own. Oh sacrifice
That little lacks of slaughter! So, my father
Averse from wedlock’s self, and she from him,
Think what a wedlock this must be, and what
The issue that was like to come of it!
While other sons cement their parents’ love,
My birth made but a wider breach in mine,
Just in proportion as my mother loved
Her boy, my father hated him—yes, hated,
Even when I was lisping at his knees
That little language charms all fathers’ hearts.
Neglecting me himself, as I grew up
He neither taught, nor got me taught, to curb
A violent nature, which by love or lash
May even be corrected in a wolf:
Till, as I grew, and found myself at large,
Spoilt both by mother’s love and father’s hate
I took to evil company, gave rein
To every passion as it rose within,
Wine, dice, and women—what a precipice
To build the fabric of a life upon!
Which, when my father
Saw tottering to its fall, he strove to train
The tree that he had suffer’d to take root
In vice, and grow up crooked—all too late!
Though not revolting to be ruled by him,
I could not rule myself. And so we lived
Both in one house, but wholly apart in soul,
Only alike in being equally
My mother’s misery. Alas, my mother!
My heart is with her still! Why, think, Don Mendo,
That, would she see me, I must creep at night
Muffled, a tip-toe, like a thief, to her,
Lest he should know of it! Why, what a thing
That such a holy face as filial love
Must wear the mask of theft! But to sum up
The story of my sorrows and my sins
That have made me a criminal, and him
Almost a beggar;—
In the full hey-day of my wilfulness
There lived a lady near, in whom methought
Those ancient enemies, wit, modesty,
And beauty, all were reconciled; to her,
Casting my coarser pleasures in the rear,
I did devote myself—first with mute signs,
Which by and by began to breathe in sighs,
And by and by in passionate words that love
Toss’d up all shapeless, but all glowing hot,
Up from my burning bosom, and which first
Upon her willing ears fell unreproved,
Then on her heart, which by degrees they wore
More than I used to say her senseless threshold
Wore by the nightly pressure of my feet.
She heard my story, pitied me
With her sweet eyes; and my unruly passion,
Flusht with the promise of first victory,
Push’d headlong to the last; not knowing, fool!
How in love’s world the shadow of disappointment
Exactly dogs the substance of success.
In fine, one night I stole into her house,
Into her chamber; and with every vow
Of marriage on my tongue; as easy then
To utter, as thereafter to forswear,
When in the very jewel I coveted
Very compliance seem’d to make a flaw
That made me careless of it when possess’d.
From day to day I put our marriage off
With false pretence, which she at last suspecting
Falsely continued seeming to believe,
Till she had got a brother to her side,
(A desperate man then out-law’d, like myself,
For homicide,) who, to avenge her shame,
With other two waylaid me on a night
When as before I unsuspectingly
Crept to her house; and set upon me so,
All three at once, I just had time to parry
Their thrusts, and draw a pistol, which till then
They had not seen, when—
Voices (within). Fly! Away! Away!
Enter Vicente.
Lope. What is the matter now?
Vic. Captain!
Lope. Well, speak.
Vic. We must be off; the lady’s retinue
Who fled have roused the soldiery, and with them
Are close upon our heels. We’ve not a moment.
Lope. Then up the mountain!
Men. Whither I will see
They shall not follow you; and take my word
I’ll not forget my promise.
Lope. I accept it.
Men. Only, before we part, give me some token,
The messenger I send may travel with
Safe through your people’s hands.
Lope (giving a dagger). This then.
Men. A dagger?
An evil-omen’d pass-word.
Lope. Ah, Don Mendo,
What has a wretched robber got to give
Unless some implement of death! And see,
The wicked weapon cannot reach your hand,
But it must bite its master’s. (His hand bleeding.)
Ill-omen’d as you say!
Voices (within). Away! Away!
Vic. They’re close upon us!
Viol. O quick! begone! My life hangs on a thread
While yours is in this peril.
Lope. That alone
Should make me fly to save it. Farewell, lady.
Farewell, Don Mendo.
Men. and Viol. Farewell!
Lope. What strange things
One sun between his rise and setting brings!
[Exit.
Men. Let us anticipate, and so detain
The soldiers. That one turn of Fortune’s wheel
Years of half-buried memory should reveal!
Viol. Could I believe that crime should ever be
So amiable! How fancy with us plays,
And with one touch colours our future days!
[Exeunt severally.
Scene II.—An Audience Hall in the Palace of Pedro, King of Arragon.
Enter Don Lope de Urrea and Don Guillen.
Guil. Such bosom friends, sir, as from infancy
Your son and I have been, I were ashamed,
You being in such trouble, not to offer
My help and consolation. Tell me aught
That I can serve you in.
Urr. Believe me, sir,
My heart most deeply thanks your courtesy.
When came you to the city?
Guil. Yesterday,
From Naples.
Urr. Naples?
Guil. To advance a suit
I have in Arragon.
Urr. I too am here
For some such purpose; to beseech the King
A boon I doubt that he will never grant.
Guil. Ev’n now his Highness comes.
Enter King Pedro and Train.
Urr. So please your Majesty, listen to one,
Of whom already you have largely heard—
Don Lope de Urrea.
King. Oh! Don Lope!
Urr. I come not hither to repeat in words
The purport of so many past petitions,
My sorrows now put on a better face
Before your Highness’ presence. I beseech you
To hear me patiently.
King. Speak, Urrea, speak!
Urr. Speak if I can, whose sorrow rising still
Clouds its own utterance. My liege, my son,
Don Lope, loved a lady here; seduced her
By no feign’d vows of marriage, but compell’d
By me, who would not listen to a suit
Without my leave contracted, put it off
From day to day, until the lady, tired
Of a delay that argued treachery,
Engaged her brother in the quarrel; who
With two companions set upon my son
One night to murder him. The lad, whose metal
Would never brook affront, nor cared for odds,
Drew on all three; slew one—a homicide
That nature’s common law of self-defence
Permits. The others fled, and set on him
The officers of justice, one of whom
In his escape he struck—
A self-defence against your laws I own
Not so to be excused—then fled himself
Up to the mountains. I must needs confess
He better had deserved an after-pardon
By lawful service in your camp abroad
Than aggravating old offence at home,
By lawless plunder; but your Highness knows
It is an ancient law of honour here
In Arragon, that none of noble blood
In mortal quarrel quit his native ground.
But to return. The woman, twice aggrieved,
Her honour and her brother lost at once,
(For him it was my son slew of the three,)
Now seeks to bring her sorrows into port:
And pitying my grey hairs and misery,
Consents to acquit my son on either count,
Providing I supply her wherewithal
To hide her shame within some holy house;
Which, straiten’d as I am, (that, by my troth,
I scarce, my liege, can find my daily bread,)
I have engaged to do; not only this,
But, in addition to the sum in hand,
A yearly income—which to do, I now
Am crept into my house’s poorest rooms,
And, (to such straits may come nobility!)
Have let for hire what should become my rank
And dignity to an old friend, Don Mendo
Torellas, who I hear returns to-day
To Saragossa. It remains, my liege,
That, being by the plaintiff’s self absolved,
My son your royal pardon only needs;
Which if not he nor I merit ourselves,
Yet let the merits of a long ancestry,
Who swell your glorious annals with their names
Writ in their blood, plead for us not in vain;
Pity the snows of age that misery
Now thaws in torrents from my eyes; yet more,
Pity a noble lady—my wife—his mother—
Who sits bow’d down with sorrow and disgrace
In her starved house.
King. This is a case, Don Lope,
For my Chief Justice, not for me.
Urr. Alas!
How little hope has he who, looking up
To dove-eyed mercy, sees but in her place
Severely-sworded justice!
King. Is ’t not fit
That the tribunal which arraign’d the crime
Pronounce the pardon also?
Urr. Were it so,
I know not where to look for that tribunal,
Or only find it speechless, since the death
Of Don Alfonso.
King. His successor’s name
This day will be announced to Arragon.
Urr. Yet let a father’s tears—
King. They might indeed
The marble heart of justice make to bleed.
[Exeunt King, Don Guillen, and Train.
Urr. And thus to satisfy the exigence
Of public estimation, one is forced
To sacrifice entreaty and estate
For an ill son.
Yet had but this petition been inflamed
With love, that love of his had lit in me,
My prayer had surely prosper’d. But ’tis done,
Fruitless or not: well done, for Blanca’s sake;
Poor Blanca, though indeed she knows it not,
And scarcely would believe it—
But who comes here?—the friend of better days,
Don Mendo! I would hide me from his eye,
But, oh indignity, his ancient friend,
Equal in birth and honour to himself,
Must now, reduced to ’t by a shameless son,
Become his tavern-keeper! For the present
I may hold back—the King too! come to meet
And do him honour.
Enter, meeting, King, with Train, and Don Mendo.
Men. My royal master, let me at your feet
Now and for ever—
King. Rise, Don Mendo, rise,
Chief Justice of all Arragon.
Men. My liege,
How shall I rise with such a weight of honour
And solemnest responsibility,
As you have laid upon my neck!
King. ’Tis long
Since we have met. How fare you?
Men. How but well,
On whom your royal favour shines so fair!
King. Enough. You must be weary. For to-day
Go rest yourself, Chief Justice. And to-morrow
We’ll talk together. I have much to tell,
And much to ask of you.
Men. Your Highness knows
How all my powers are at your sole command,
And only well employ’d in doing it.
[Exit King with Train.
Urr. If it be true that true nobility
Slowly forgets what once it has esteem’d,
I think Don Mendo will not turn away
From Lope de Urrea.
Men. My old friend!
I must forget myself, as well as honour,
When I forget the debt I owe your love.
Urr. For old acquaintance then I kiss your hand;
And on two other counts. First, as your host,
You know, on your arrival; be assured
That I shall do my best to entertain you:
And, secondly, congratulating you
On your new dignity, which you hardly don
Before I am your suitor.
Men. Oh Don Lope,
How gladly shall I serve you!
Urr. This memorial
I had presented to the King, and he
Referr’d to his Chief Justice.
Men. Oh trust to me,
And to my loyal friendship in the cause.
Urr. A son of mine, Don Mendo,—
Men. Nay, no more—
I am apprized of all.
Urr. I know that men
Think my heart harden’d toward my only son.
It might have been so; not, though, till my son’s
Was flint to me. O Mendo, by his means
My peace of mind, estate, and good repute
Are gone for ever!
Men. Nay, be comforted:
I fill a post where friendship well can grant
What friendship fairly asks. Think from this hour
That all is ended. Not for your sake only,
But for your son’s; to whom (you soon shall hear
The whole strange history) I owe my life,
And sure shall not be slack to save his own.
All will be well. Come, let us to your house,
Whither, on coming to salute the King,
I sent my daughter forward.
Urr. I rejoice
To think how my poor Blanca will rejoice
To do her honour. You remember Blanca?
Men. Remember her indeed, and shall delight
To see her once again. (Aside.) O lying tongue,
To say so, when the heart beneath would fain
We had not met, or might not meet again!
Scene III.—A Room in Urrea’s House.
Enter Blanca and Violante in travelling dress, meeting.
Blan. How happy am I that so fair a guest
Honours my house by making it her own,
And me her servant!
To welcome and to wait on Violante
I have thus far intruded.
Viol. Nay, Donna Blanca,
Mine is the honour and the happiness,
Who, coming thus to Arragon a stranger,
Find such a home and hostess. Pardon me
That I detain you in this ante-room,
My own not ready yet.
Blan. You come indeed
Before your people look’d for you.
Viol. But not
Before my wishes, lady, I assure you:
Not minding on the mountains to encounter
Another such a risk.
Blan. There was a first then?
Viol. So great that I assure you—and too truly, (aside)—
My heart yet beats with it.
Blan. How was ’t?
Viol. Why, thus:
In wishing to escape the noon-day sun,
That seem’d to make both air and land breathe fire,
I lighted from my litter in a spot
That one might almost think the flowers had chosen
To tourney in, so green and smooth the sward
On which they did oppose their varied crests,
So fortified above with closing leaves,
And all encompass’d by a babbling stream.
There we sat down to rest; when suddenly
A company of robbers broke upon us,
And would have done their worst, had not as suddenly
A young and gallant gentleman, their captain,
Arrested them, and kindly—but how now?
Why weep you, Donna Blanca?
Blan. Weeping, yes,
My sorrows with your own—But to your tale.
Viol. Nay, why should I pursue it if my trouble
Awake the memory of yours?
Blan. Your father,
Saw he this youth, this robber cavalier
Who graced disgrace so handsomely?
Viol. Indeed,
And owes his life and honour to him.
Blan. Oh!
He had aton’d for many a foregone crime
By adding that one more! But I talk wild;
Pardon me, Violante.
I have an anguish ever in my breast
At times will rise, and sting me into madness;
Perhaps you will not wonder when you hear
This robber was my son, my only son,
Whose wicked ways have driv’n him where he is,
From home, and law, and love!
Viol. Forgive me, lady,
I mind me now—he told us—
But I was too confused and terrified
To heed to names. Else credit me—
Enter Urrea and Mendo.
Urr. Largess! a largess, wife! for bringing you
Joy and good fortune to our house, from which
They have so long been banisht.
Blan. Long indeed!
Urr. So long, methinks, that coming all at once
They make me lose my manners. (To Violante.) This fair hand
Must, as I think it will, my pardon sign;
Inheriting such faculty. Oh, Blanca,
I must not let one ignorant moment slip—
You know not half our joy.
Don Mendo, my old friend, and our now guest,
Graced at the very threshold by the King
With the Chief-Justiceship of Arragon,
Points his stern office with an act of mercy,
By pardoning your Lope—whom we now
Shall have once more with us, I trust, for ever.
Oh join with me in thanking him!
Blan. I am glad,
Don Mendo, that we meet under a roof
Where I can do you honour. For my son,
I must suppose from what your daughter says,
You would, without our further prayer or thanks,
Have done as you have done.
Mend. Too true—I know—
And you still better, lady—that, all done,
I am your debtor still.
Enter Elvira.
Elv. Madam, your room is ready.
Viol. May I then
Retire?
Blan. If I may wait upon you thither.
Urr. Nay, nay, ’tis I that as a grey-hair’d page
Must do that office.
Mend. Granted, on condition
That I may do as much for Donna Blanca.
Viol. As master of the house, I must submit
Without condition.
[Exeunt Violante and Urrea.
Blan. You were going, sir?—
Mend. To wait upon you, Blanca.
Blan. Nay, Don Mendo,
Least need of that.
Mend. Oh, Blanca, Heaven knows
How much I have desired to talk with you!
Blan. And to what purpose, sir?
No longer in your power—perhaps, nor will—
To do as well as talk.
Mend. If but to say
How to my heart it goes seeing you still
As sad as when I left you years ago.
Blan. ‘As sad?—as when you left me years ago’—
I understand you not—am not aware
I ever saw you till to-day.
Mend. Ah, Blanca,
Have pity!
Blan. Nay, Don Mendo, let us cease
A conversation, uselessly begun,
To end in nothing. If your memory,
Out of some dreamt-of fragments of the past,
Attach to me, the past is dead in time;
Let it be buried in oblivion.
Mend. Oh, with what courage, Blanca, do you wield
Your ready woman’s wit!
Blan. I know not why
You should say that.
Mend. But I know.
Blan. If ’t be so,
Agree with me to say no more of it.
Mend. But how?
Blan. By simple silence.
Mend. How be silent
Under such pain?
Blan. By simple suffering.
Mend. Oh, Blanca, how learn that?
Blan. Of me—and thus.
Beatrice!
Enter Beatrice.
Beat. Madam?
Blan. Light Don Mendo to
His chamber. Thus be further trouble sped.
Mend. Nay, rather coals of fire heap’d on my head!
[Exeunt severally.