ACT III
Scene I.—A Wood near Zalamea. 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, inexorable face above the hills! Oh! horror! What shall 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 accomplice in my own shame! Oh that I had stayed to be slain by Juan over my slaughtered 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—
Isab. That voice!
[Exit.
Scene II.—Another place in the Wood. Crespo tied to a tree.
Enter to him Isabel.
Isab. My father!
Cres. Isabel! Unbind these cords, my child.
Isab. I dare not—I dare not yet, lest you kill before you hear my story—and you must hear that.
Cres. No more, no more! Misery needs no remembrancer.
Isab. It must be.
Cres. Alas! Alas!
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 feigned 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 ceased!—till here, where out of reach of pursuit,—all dark—the very moon lost from heaven—the wretch began with passionate lies to excuse 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, imprecations, 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 my wretched life. So—it is done! and I kneel before 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!
Cres. 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 instruction 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.
Voice (within). Crespo! Peter Crespo!
Cres. Hark!
Voice. Peter! Peter Crespo!
Cres. Who calls?
Enter Notary.
Not. Peter Crespo! Oh, here you are at last!
Cres. Well?
Not. Oh, I’ve had a rare chase. Come—a largess for my news! The corporation have elected you Mayor.
Cres. Me!
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? (Aloud.) 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.
Isab. Oh, my father!
Cres. Ay, who can now see that justice is done you. Courage! Come.
[Exeunt.
Scene III.—A room in Zalamea.
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 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?
Serg. Yes, sir.
Capt. Let us be off then before these fellows know; else we shall have to fight for it.
Enter Rebolledo.
Reb. Oh, sir, the magistrates are coming!
Capt. Well, what’s that to me?
Reb. I only say they are at the door.
Capt. All the better. It will be their duty to prevent any riot the people might make if they knew of our being here.
Reb. They know, and are humming about it through the town.
Capt. I thought so. The magistrates must interfere, and then refer the cause to a court martial, where, though the affair is awkward, I shall manage to come off.
Cres. (within). Shut the doors; any soldier trying to pass, cut him down!
Enter Crespo, with the wand of office in his hand, Constables, Notary, etc.
Capt. Who is it dares give such an order?
Cres. 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, etc.) retire awhile.
Cres. (to his people.) And you—but hark ye; remember my orders.
[Exeunt Notary, Constables, etc.
Cres. And now, sir, that I have used my authority to make you listen, I will lay it by, and talk to you as man to man. (He lays down the wand.) 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 offence) 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-townsmen, who neither envied me my wealth, nor taunted me as an upstart; and this even in a little community, 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 retribution, not revenge. And so, looking about, and considering 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 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 redeems 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 demand? 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 dishonour. ’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?
Cres. No pity?
Capt. I tell you I spare your life, and your son’s: pity enough.
Cres. Upon my knees, asking back my own at your hands that robbed me?
Capt. Nonsense!
Cres. Who could extort it if I chose.
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 wand). Then, by God, you shall pay for it! Ho there!
Enter Constables, etc.
Capt. What are these fellows about?
Cres. Take this captain to prison.
Capt. To prison! you can’t do it.
Cres. We’ll see.
Capt. Am I a bonâ fide officer or not?
Cres. And am I a straw magistrate or not? Away with him!
Capt. The king shall hear of this.
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 you too. Hark ye, (to Constable, etc.) carry the captain with due respect to Bridewell; 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 business, 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!
[They carry him off.
Enter Notary and others with Rebolledo, and Chispa in 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.
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?
Cres. What passed last night.
Reb. Your daughter can tell you that better than I.
Cres. Villain, you shall die for it!
[Exit.
Chis. Deny all, Rebolledo, 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.
[Exeunt, carried off, etc.
Scene IV.—A Room in Crespo’s House.
Enter Juan pursuing Isabel with a dagger.
Isab. Help, help, help!
[Exit.
Juan. You must not live!
Enter Crespo, who arrests him.
Cres. Hold! What is this?
Juan. My father! To avenge our shame—
Cres. Which is to be avenged by 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!
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! (They 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 business too. But at least I would not put up any where but at your friendly house.
Cres. You are too good. But, indeed, what makes you back, sir, so suddenly?
Lope. 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?
Lope. 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!
Cres. You will?
Lope. Will I!
Cres. But will he stand your thrashing?
Lope. Stand it or not, he shall have it.
Cres. Besides, might your captain happen to deserve what he met with?
Lope. And, if he did, I am his judge, not a trumpery mayor.
Cres. This mayor is an odd sort of customer to deal with, I assure you.
Lope. Some obstinate clodpole, I suppose.
Cres. 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 his wand.)
Lope. By God, I suspected it.
Cres. By God, you were right.
Lope. Well, Crespo, what’s said is said.
Cres. And, Don Lope, what’s done is done.
Lope. I tell you, I want my captain.
Cres. And I tell you, I’ve got him.
Lope. Do you know he is the king’s officer?
Cres. 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 me justice with no authority at all, but the offer of all my estate?
Lope. I tell you, I’ll 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 together 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 sure. 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.—Before the Prison in Zalamea. A Street in the centre.
Enter on one side Don Lope with Troops; at the other, before the Prison, Labourers, Constables, etc. armed: and afterward, 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, with Train, etc. Shouting, Trumpets, etc.
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?
Lope. The mayor of this place has had the impudence 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.
King. 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 substance.
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 captain; why should I be suspected of straining it in my daughter’s favour? But here is the process; let 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 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 Hidalgos 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 unusually, 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, who, at my 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 punishment 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 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 lived,
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 filled, 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 know; a speech (the beginning of it) worthy of the Greek Antigone, which, after two Acts of homely talk, Calderon has put into his Labradora’s mouth. This, admitting for all culmination of passion, and Spanish passion, must excuse my tempering it to the key in which (measure only kept) Calderon himself sets out.