ACT I
Scene I.—A Room in Don Alonso’s House at Madrid.
Enter Alonso and Otañez, meeting.
Otañ. My own dear master!
Alon. Welcome, good Otañez,
My old and trusty servant!
Otañ. Have I lived
To see what I so long have longed to see,
My dear old master home again!
Alon. You could not
Long for ’t, Otañez, more than I myself.
What wonder, when my daughters, who, you know,
Are the two halves that make up my whole heart,
Silently called me home, and silently
(For maiden duty still gagged filial love)
Out of the country shade where both have grown,
Urged me to draw the blossom of their youth
Where it might ripen in its proper day.
Otañ. Indeed, indeed, sir. Oh that my dear lady
Were but alive to see this happy hour!
Alon. Nay, good Otañez, mar it not recalling
What, ever sleeping in the memory,
Needs but a word to waken into tears.
God have her in his keeping! He best knows
How I have suffered since the king, my master,
Despatching me with charge to Mexico,
I parted from her ne’er to see her more;
And now come back to find her gone for ever!
You know ’twas not the long and roaring seas
Frighted her for herself, but these two girls—
For them she stayed—and full of years and honour
Died, when God willed! and I have hastened home
Well as I may, to take into my hands
The charge death slipped from hers.
Otañ. Your own good self!
Though were there ever father, who could well
Have left that charge to others, it was you,
Your daughters so religiously brought up
In convent with their aunt at Alcalá.
Well, you are come, and God be praised for it!
And, at your bidding, here are they, and I,
And good old Mari Nuño—all come up
To meet you at Madrid. I could not wait
The coach’s slower pace, but must spur on
To kiss my old master’s hand.
Alon. Myself had gone
To meet them; but despatches of the king’s
Prevented me. They’re well?
Voices (within). Make way there—way!
Otañ. And lovely as the dawn. And hark! are here
To answer for themselves.
Enter Clara, Eugenia, Mari Nuño, as from travel.
Clara (kneeling). Sir, and my father—by my daily prayers
Heaven, won at last in suffering me to kiss
These honoured hands, leaves me no more to ask,
Than at these honoured feet to die,
With its eternal blessing afterward.
Eug. And I, my father, grateful as I am
To Heaven, for coming to your feet once more,
Have yet this more to ask—to live with you
For many, many happy years to come!
Alon. Oh, not in vain did nature fix the heart
In the mid bosom, like a sun to move
Each circling arm with equal love around!
Come to them—one to each—and take from me
Your lives anew. God bless you!
Come, we are here together in Madrid,
And in the sphere where you were born to move.
This is the house that is to be your own
Until some happy lover calls you his;
Till which I must be father, lover, husband,
In one. Brigida!
Enter Brigida.
Brig. Sir?
Alon. My daughters’ rooms
Are ready?
Brig. Ay, sir, as the sky itself
For the sun’s coming.
Alon. Go and see them then,
And tell me how you like what I have bought,
And fitted up for your reception.
Clara. I thank you, sir, and bless this happy day,
Though leaving my loved convent far away.
Eug. (aside). And I twice bless it, that no longer hid
In a dull cell; I come to see Madrid.
[Exeunt Clara and Eugenia.
Mari Nuño. Now the young ladies, sir, have had their turn,
Shall not I kiss your hand?
Alon. Oh, welcome too,
Good Mari Nuño; who have been so long
A mother to them both. And, by the by,
Good Mari Nuño, now we are alone,
I’d hear from you, who know them both so well,
Their several characters and dispositions,
And not as ’twere, come blindfold to the charge
That Heaven has laid upon me.
Mari. You say well, sir.
Well, I might say at once, and truly too,
That nothing need be said in further praise
But that they are your daughters. But to pass,
Lest you should think I flatter,
From general to individual,
And to begin with the eldest, Donna Clara;
Eldest in years and in discretion too,
Indeed the very pearl of prudence, sir,
And maidenly reserve; her eyes still fixt
On earth in modesty, or heaven in prayer;
As gentle as a lamb, almost as silent;
And never known to say an angry word:
And, such her love of holy quietude,
Unless at your desire, would never leave
Her cloister and her missal. She’s, in short,
An angel upon earth, whom to be near
And wait on, one would sell oneself a slave.
So much for her. Donna Eugenia,
Though unexceptionable in heart and head,
As, God forgive me, any child of yours
Must be, is different,—not for me to say
Better or worse,—but very different:
Of a quick spirit, loving no control;
Indeed, as forward as the other shy;
Quick to retort, and sharply; so to speak,
Might sometimes try the patience of a saint;
Longing to leave a convent for the world,
To see and to be seen; makes verses too;
Would not object, I think, to have them made
(Or love, may be) to her—you understand;
Not that I mean to say—
Alon. Enough, enough.
Thanks for your caution as your commendation:
How could I fortify against weak points
Unless I knew of them? And, to this end,
Although Eugenia be the younger sister,
I’ll see her married first; husband and children
The best specific for superfluous youth:
And to say truth, good Mari, the very day
Of my arrival hither, I despatch’d
A letter to my elder brother’s son,
Who still maintains our dwindled patrimony
Up in the mountains, which I would reclaim,
Or keep it rather in its lawful line,
By an alliance with a child of mine,
All falls out luckily. Eugenia
Wedded to him shall make herself secure,
And the two stems of Cuadradillos so
Unite and once more flourish, at a blow.
[Exeunt.
Scene II.—A Room in Don Felix’s House.
Don Felix, and Hernando dressing him.
Hern. Such fine ladies, sir, come to be our neighbours.
Fel. So they ought to be, such a noise as they made in coming.
Hern. One of them already betrothed, however.
Fel. So let her, and married too, if she would only let me sleep quiet. But what kind of folks are they?
Hern. Oh, tip-top. Daughters of the rich old Indian has bought the house and gardens opposite, and who will give them all his wealth when they marry, which they say he has brought them to Madrid expressly to do.
Fel. But are they handsome?
Hern. I thought so, sir, as I saw them alighting.
Fel. Rich and handsome then?
Hern. Yes, sir.
Fel. Two good points in a woman, at all events, of which I might profit, such opportunities as I have.
Hern. Have a care, sir, for the old servant who told me this, told me also that the papa is a stout fiery old fellow, who’d stick the Great Turk himself if he caught him trifling with his daughters.
Fel. That again is not so well; for though I’m not the Great Turk, I’ve no mind to share that part of his fortune. But of the two girls, what said your old servant? who, as such, I suppose told you all that was amiss in them at least.
Hern. Well, you shall judge. One, the oldest, is very discreet.
Fel. Ah, I told you so.
Hern. The other lively.
Fel. Come, that sounds better. One can tackle her hand to hand, but the grave one one can only take a long shot at with the eyes.
Hern. Whichever it be, I should like to see you yourself hit one of these days, sir.
Fel. Me? The woman is not yet cast who will do that. If I meddle with these it is only because they lie so handy.
Hern. And handsome as well as handy!
Fel. Pooh! I wouldn’t climb a wall to pluck the finest fruit in the world. But hark! some one’s at the door. See who ’tis.
Enter Don Juan in travelling dress.
Juan. I, Felix, who seeing your door open, could not but walk in without further ado.
Fel. You know that it and my heart are ever open to you. Welcome, welcome, Don Juan! all the more welcome for being unexpected: for though I had heard we might one day have you back, I did not think to see you yet.
Juan. Why, the truth is I got my pardon sooner than I expected.
Fel. Though not than I prayed for. But tell me all about it.
Juan. You know I was obliged to fly to Italy after that unlucky duel. Well, there the great duke of Terranova, who (as good luck would have it) was then going ambassador to Hungary, took a fancy to me, and carried me with him; and, pleased with what service I did him, interested himself in my fortunes, and one good day, when I was least expecting it, with his own hand put my pardon into mine.
Fel. A pardon that never should have needed asking, all of an unlucky quarrel at cards.
Juan. So you and the world suppose, Felix: but in truth there was something more behind.
Fel. Ah?
Juan. Why the truth is, I was courting a fair lady, and with fair hope of success, though she would not confess it, urging that her father being away at the time, her mother would not consent in his absence. Suddenly I found I had a rival, and took occasion of a casual dispute at cards to wipe out the score of jealousy; which I did with a vengeance to both of us, he being killed on the spot, and I, forced to fly the country, must, I doubt, ere this, have died out of my lady’s memory, where only I cared to live.
Fel. Ay, you know well enough that in Madrid Oblivion lies in the very lap of Remembrance, whether of love or loathing. I thank my stars I never pinned my faith on woman yet.
Juan. Still the same sceptic?
Fel. Ay, they are fine things, but my own heart’s ease is finer still; and if one party must be deceived, I hold it right in self-defence it should not be I. But come; that you may not infect me with your faith, nor I you with my heresy, tell me about your journey.
Juan. How could it be otherwise than a pleasant one, such pageants as I had to entertain me by the way?
Fel. Oh, you mean our royal master’s nuptials?
Juan. Ay!
Fel. I must hear all about them, Juan; even now, upon the spot.
Juan. Well then, you know at least, without my telling you, how great a debt Germany has owed us—
Enter Don Pedro hastily.
Ped. My dear Don Felix!
Fel. Don Pedro! By my faith, my door must be the door of heaven, I think; for all the good keep coming in by ’t. But how comes your University term so soon over?
Ped. Alas, it’s not over, but—
Fel. Well?
Ped. I’ll tell you.
Juan. If I be in your way—
Ped. No, no, sir, if you are Felix’s friend you command my confidence. My story is easily told. A lady I am courting in Alcalá is suddenly come up to Madrid, and I am come after her. And to escape my father’s wrath at playing truant, I must beg sanctuary in your house awhile.
Fel. And this once will owe me thanks for your entertainment, since I have Don Juan’s company to offer you.
Juan. Nay, ’tis I have to thank you for Don Pedro’s.
Fel. Only remember, both of you, that however you may amuse one another, you are not to entertain me with your several hearts and darts. Hernando, get us something to eat; and till it comes you shall set off rationally at least, Juan, with the account of the royal nuptials you were beginning just as Don Pedro came in.
Juan. On condition you afterwards recount to me your rejoicings in Madrid meanwhile.
Fel. Agreed.
Ped. I come in happy time to hear you both.
Juan. You know, as I was saying, what a debt
Germany has owed us since our fair Maria
Her title of the Royal Child of Spain
Set in the crown of Hungary—a debt
They only could repay us as they do,
Returning us one of the self-same stock,
So like herself in beauty and desert,
We seem but taking what we gave away.
If into Austria’s royal hand we gave
Our royal rose, she now returns us one
Sprung of the self-same stem, as fair, as sweet—
In maiden graces; and if double-dyed
In the imperial purple, yet so fresh,
She scarce has drunk the dawns of fourteen Aprils.
The marriage contract signed, the marriage self
Delayed, too long for loyal Spain’s desire,
That like the bridegroom for her coming burned,
(But happiness were hardly happiness
Limped it not late,) till her defective years
Reached their due blossom—Ah, happy defect,
That every unconditioned hour amends!
At last arose the day—the day of days—
When from her royal eyrie in the North
The imperial eaglet flew. Young Ferdinand,
King of Bohemia and Hungary
Elect, who not in vain Rome’s holy hand
Awaits to bind the laurel round his brow,
As proxy for our king espoused her first,
And then, all lover-like, as far as Trent
Escorted her, with such an equipage
As when the lords and princes of three realms
Out-do each other in magnificence
Of gold and jewel, ransackt from the depths
Of earth and sea, to glitter in the eye
Of Him who sees and lights up all from heaven.
So, like a splendid star that trails her light
Far after her, she crossed fair Italy,
When Doria, Genoa’s great Admiral,
Always so well-affected to our crown,
Took charge of her sea-conduct; which awhile,
Till winds and seas were fair, she waited for
In Milan; till, resolved on embarkation,
The sea, that could not daunt her with his rage,
Soon as her foot was on his yellow shore,
Call’d up his Tritons and his Nereids
Who love and make a calm, to smooth his face
And still his heaving breast; on whose blue flood
The golden galley in defiance burn’d,
Her crew in wedding pearl and silver drest;
Her silken sail and cordage, fluttering
With myriad flags and streamers of all dye,
Sway’d like a hanging garden over-head,
Amid whose blossoms stood the royal bride,
A fairer Venus than did ever float
Over the seas to her dominions
Arm’d with the arrows of diviner love.
Then to the sound of trump and clarion
The royal galley, and with her forty more
That follow’d in her wake as on their queen,
Weigh’d, shook out sail, and dipp’d all oars at once,
Making the flood clap hands in acclamation;
And so with all their streamers, as ’twere spring
Floating away to other hemispheres,
Put out to sea; and touching not the isles
That gem the midway deep—not from distrust
Of friendly France in whose crown they are set,
And who (as mighty states contend in peace
With courtesies as with hard blows in war)
Swell’d the triumphal tide with pageantries
I may not stop to tell—but borne upon,
And (as I think) bearing, fair wind and wave,
The moving city on its moving base
With sail and oar enter’d the Spanish Main,
Which, flashing emerald and diamond,
Leap’d round the golden prow that clove between,
And kiss’d the happy shore that first declined
To meet its mistress. Happy Denia,
That in her golden sand holds pearly-like
The first impression of that royal foot!
I will not tell—let Felix, who was here,
And has new breath—how, landed happily,
Our loyal Spain—yea, with what double welcome—
Received the niece and consort of our king,
Whom, one and both, and both in one, may Heaven
Bless with fair issue, and all happiness,
For years and years to come!
Enter Hernando.
Hern. Sir, sir!
Fel. Well?
Hern. Your two new neighbours—just come to the window.
Fel. Gentlemen, we must waive my story then, for as the proverb goes, ‘My Lady first.’ (He looks out.) By Heaven, they are divine!
Juan. Let me see. (Aside.) By Heaven, ’tis she!
Ped. Come, it is my turn now. (Aside.) Eugenia! I must keep it to myself.
Fel. I scarce know which is handsomest.
Juan. Humph! both pretty girls enough.
Ped. Yes, very well.
Fel. Listen, gentlemen; whether handsome, or pretty, or very well, or all three, you must not stare at them from my window so vehemently; being the daughters of a friend of mine, and only just come to Madrid.
Juan (aside). That the first thing I should see on returning to Madrid, is she for whose love I left it!
Ped. (aside). That the first thing I see here is what I came for the very purpose of seeing!
Hernando (entering). Table is served, sir.
Fel. To table, then. I know not how it is with you, gentlemen, but for myself, my appetite is stronger than my love.
Juan (aside to Felix). You jest as usual; but I assure you it is one of those very ladies on whom my fortune turns!
[Exit.
Fel. Adieu to one then.
Ped. All this is fun to you, Felix; but believe me, one of those ladies is she I have followed from Alcalá.
[Exit.
Fel. Adieu to both then—unless indeed you are both of you in love with the same. But, thank God,
I that am in love with neither,
Need not plague myself for either.
The least expense of rhyme or care
That man can upon woman spare.
But they are very handsome nevertheless.
[Exit.
Scene III.—An Apartment in Don Alonso’s House.
Enter Clara and Eugenia.
Clara. Is ’t not a pretty house, Eugenia,
And all about it?
Eug. I dare say you think so.
Clara. But do not you then?
Eug. No—to me it seems
A sort of out-court and repository,
Fit but for old Hidalgos and Duennas,
Too stale and wither’d for the blooming world,
To wear away in.
Clara. I like its quietude;
This pretty garden too.
Eug. A pretty thing
To come for to Madrid—a pretty garden!
I tell you were it fuller of all flowers
Than is a Dutchman’s in his tulip-time,
I want the lively street whose flowers are shops,
Carriages, soldiers, ladies, cavaliers,
Plenty of dust in summer, dirt in winter,
And where a woman sitting at her blind
Sees all that passes. Then this furniture!
Clara. Well—surely velvet curtains, sofas, chairs,
Rich Indian carpets, beds of Damascene,
Chandeliers, gilded mirrors, pictures too—
What would you have, Eugenia?
Eug. All very well,
But, after all, no marvellous result
Of ten years spent in golden India.
Why, one has heard how fine a thing it is
To be my Lord Mayor’s daughter; what must be,
Methought, to own a dowry from Peru!
And when you talk about the furniture,
Pictures, chairs, carpets, mirrors, and all that—
The best of all is wanting.
Clara. What is that?
Eug. Why, a coach, woman! Heaven and earth, a coach!
What use is all the money-bonds and gold
He has been boasting of in all his letters,
Unless, now come at last, he plays the part
We’ve heard so long rehearsing?
Clara. Not to spare
Your father even, Eugenia! For shame!
’Tis time to tie your roving tongue indeed.
Consider, too, we are not in the country,
Where tongue and eyes, Eugenia, may run wild
Without offence to uncensorious woods;
But in a city, with its myriad eyes
Inquisitively turn’d to watch, and tongues
As free and more malicious than yours
To tell—where honour’s monument is wax,
And shame’s of brass. I know, Eugenia,
High spirits are not in themselves a crime;
But if to men they seem so?—that’s the question.
For it is almost better to do ill
With a good outward grace than well without;
Especially a woman; most of all
One not yet married; whose reputation
One breath of scandal, like a flake of snow,
May melt away; one of those tenderest flowers
Whose leaves ev’n the warm breath of flattery
Withers as fast as envy’s bitterest wind,
That surely follows short-lived summer praise.
Ev’n those who praise your beauty, grace, or wit,
Will be the first, if you presume on them,
To pull the idol down themselves set up,
Beginning with malicious whispers first,
Until they join the storm themselves have raised.
And most if one be given oneself to laugh
And to make laugh: the world will doubly yearn
To turn one’s idle giggle into tears.
I say this all by way of warning, sister,
Now we are launcht upon this dangerous sea.
Consider of it.
Eug. ‘Which that all may do
May Heaven—’ Come, Clara, if the sermon’s done,
Pray finish it officially at once,
And let us out of church. These homilies
In favour of defunct proprieties,
Remind one of old ruff and armour worn
By Don Punctilio and Lady Etiquette
A hundred years ago, and past with them
And all their tedious ancestors for ever.
I am alive, young, handsome, witty, rich,
And come to town, and mean to have my fling,
Not caring what malicious people say,
If nothing true to say against my honour.
And so with all sail set, and streamers flying,
(A coach shall be my ship, and I will have it!)
I mean to glide along the glittering streets
And down the Prado, as I go along
Capturing what eyes and hearts I find by the way,
Heedless of every little breath of scandal
That such as you turn back affrighted by.
I’ll know the saints’ days better than the saints
Themselves; the holidays and festivals
Better than over-done apprentices.
If a true lover comes whom I can like
As he loves me, I shall not turn away:
As for the rest who flutter round in love,
Not with myself, but with my father’s wealth,
Or with themselves, or any thing but me,
You shall see, Clara, how I’ll play with them,
Till, having kept them on my string awhile
For my own sport, I’ll e’en turn them adrift
And let them go, the laugh all on my side.
And therefore when you see—
Clara. How shall I dare
To see what even now I quake to hear!
Enter Alonso.
Alon. Clara! Eugenia!
Both. Sir?
Alon. Good news, good news, my girls! What think you? My nephew, Don Torribio Cuadradillos, my elder brother’s elder son, head of our family and inheritor of the estate, is coming to visit me; will be here indeed almost directly. What think you now?
Eug. (aside). One might have thought, from such a flourish of trumpets, the king was coming at least.
Alon. Mari Nuño!
Mari (entering). Sir?
Alon. Let a chamber be got ready for my nephew, Don Torribio, directly. Brigida!
Brig. (entering). Sir?
Alon. See that linen be taken up into Don Torribio’s room. Otañez, have dinner ready for my nephew, Don Torribio, directly he arrives. And you two, (to his daughters,) I expect you will pay him all attention; as head of the family, consider. Ay, and if he should take a fancy to one of you—I know not he will—but if he should, I say, whichever it be, she will take precedence of her sister for ever. (Aside.) This I throw out as a bait for Eugenia.
Eug. It must be Clara, then, sir, for she is oldest you know.
Clara. Not in discretion and all wife-like qualities, Eugenia.
Eug. Clara!
Alon. Hark! in the court!
Don Torribio (speaking loud within). Hoy! good man there! Can you tell me if my uncle lives hereabout?
Alon. ’Tis my nephew, surely!
Torr. (within). Why, fellow, I mean of course Don Alonso—who has two daughters, by the token I’m to marry one of ’em.
Alon. ’Tis he! I will go and receive him.
[Exit.
Torr. (within). Very well then. Hold my stirrup, Lorenzo.
Eug. What a figure!
Enter Alonso and Torribio.
Alon. My nephew, Don Torribio, giving thanks to Heaven for your safe arrival at my house, I hasten to welcome you as its head.
Torr. Ay, uncle, and a head taller, I promise you, than almost any body in the parish.
Alon. Let me introduce your cousins to you, who are so anxious for your acquaintance.
Torr. Ah, that’s proper of ’em, isn’t it?
Both. Welcome, sir.
Alon. And how are you, nephew?
Torr. Very tired, I promise you: for the way is long and my horse a rough goer, so as I’ve lost leather.
Alon. Sit down, and rest till they bring dinner.
Torr. Sitting an’t the way to mend it. But, however—— (Sits.) Nay, though I be head of the house, I an’t proud—you can all of you sit down too.
Clara (aside). Amiable humility!
Eug. (aside). No wonder the house is crazy if this be its head!
Torr. Well, now I come to look at you, cousins, I may say you are both of you handsome girls, indeed; which’ll put me to some trouble.
Clara. How so, cousin?
Torr. Why, didn’t you ever hear that if you put an ass between two bundles of hay, he’ll die without knowing which to begin on, eh?
Alon. His father’s pleasant humour!
Clara. A courteous comparison!
Eug. (aside). Which holds as far as the ass at least.
Torr. Well, there’s a remedy. I say, uncle, mustn’t cousins get a dispensation before they marry?
Alon. Yes, nephew.
Torr. Well then, when you’re about it, you can get two dispensations, and I can marry both my cousins. Aha! Well, but, uncle, how are you? I had forgot to ask you that.
Alon. Quite well, in seeing you in my house at last, and to reap, I trust, the fruits of all my travel.
Torr. Ah, you may say that. Oh, cousins, if you could only see my pedigree and patent, in a crimson velvet case; and all my forefathers painted in a row—I have it in my saddle bags, and if you’ll wait a minute—
Enter Mari Nuño.
Mari. Dinner’s ready.
Torr. (looking at Mari). Lord a’mercy, uncle, what’s this? something you brought from India, belike; does it speak?
Alon. Nay, nephew, ’tis our Duenna.
Torr. A what?
Alon. A Duenna.
Torr. A tame one?
Alon. Come, come, she tells us dinner’s ready.
Torr. Yes, if you believe her; but I’ve heard say, Duennas always lie. However, I’ll go and see for myself.
[Exit.
Clara. What a cousin!
Eug. What a lover!
Mari. Foh! I wonder how the watch came to let the plague into the city!
[Exit.
Alon. You are silent, both of you?
Both. Not I, sir.
Alon. I understand you; Don Torribio
Pleases you not—Well, he’s a little rough;
But wait a little; see what a town life
Will do for him; all come up so at first,
The finest diamonds, you know, the roughest—
Oh, I rejoice my ancestor’s estate
Shall to my grandchildren revert again!
For this I tell you—one, I care not which,
But one of you, shall marry Don Torribio:
And let not her your cousin does not choose,
For one more courtly think herself reserved;
By Heaven she shall marry, if e’er marry,
One to the full as rough and country-like.
What, I to see my wealth, so hardly won,
Squander’d away by some fine town gallant,
In silks and satins! see my son-in-law
Spend an estate upon a hat and feather!
I tell you I’ll not have it. One of you
Must marry Don Torribio.
[Exit.
Clara. I’ll die first.
Eug. And I’ll live an old maid—which much is worst.