ACT III
Scene I.—A room in Don Luis’ country-house near Naples.
Enter Don Luis reading 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 immediately. 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.’
My heart prevents my eyes from reading more.
O 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;
But honour needs must wince before a straw,
And never rest until it be avenged.
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 yourself alone:
This letter in your hand—What is it, sir?
Luis. Nothing, nothing, Porcia; (for Juan’s sake
I 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 you.
Luis. Well, why not?
Por. They say that those who ask unseasonably
Must be content with a refusal.
Luis. Nay,
Between us two no season’s out of season.
Por. So? then I’ll ask. Alvaro—
Luis. All but that!
Ask me not that way.
Por. 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!
Por. 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.
Por. But may not, sir, the thoughtlessness of youth
Be some excuse? Pray you remember, sir,
How on a sudden you yourself determined
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 advised, 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 eremitically,
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.
Por. 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.
Por. Yes, Julia,
Two 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.—A room in Don Luis’ castle in the hills.
Enter Alvaro and Fabio.
Alv. How is ’t with Serafina?
Fab. Nay, you know.
Ever the same.
Alv. You mean still weeping?
Fab. Ay.
Alv. Yes, from the hour when, fainting in my arms,
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 ceased to weep; all my caresses
Unable to console her.
I fondly hoped that she—
Enter Serafina.
Ser. 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?
Alv. No, Serafina, but—
Ser. But what?
Alv. And yet perhaps ’twas that I hoped—
The very desperation of my act
Bringing its pardon with it, soon or late,
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 ruled 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
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, unsuffused
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—forgo me quite,
And give me up to some cold convent’s cloister,
Where buried I may wear away—
Alv. No more,
Rather than give you up again, Serafina,
Pray heaven’s thunder—
(Shot within.)
Ser. Again, this dreadful omen!
’Tis for my death!
Alv. Fear not—Belardo! ho!
What shot was that?
Enter Belardo.
Bel. Your sister Porcia
Is coming up the mountain; nay, is now
At the very gate.
Ser. Oh, whither must I go!
Alv. Belardo, lead her hence.
Bel. Not that way, sir,
By which your sister enters.
Alv. In here then.
I’ll go and meet Porcia.
Ser. Mercy, heaven!
[She goes in at one door, as Porcia enters by another.
Alv. How now, Porcia, you look pleased to-day!
Por. And well I may—for two reasons, Alvaro.
Alv. Well, what are they?
Por. First, I have got my father to relax in his humour against you.
Alv. My good sister!
Por. So as he will see you at Bellaflor this very evening.
Alv. Good! and your second reason?
Por. That coming up the pass, I made the crowning shot of my life with this arquebuss—a hare at full speed—flying, I might say.
Alv. Give you joy of both your hits, Porcia.
Por. 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.
Alv. So—
Por. 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?
Por. Fear not, I shall soon be after you.
Alv. Well, if so, then——(apart to Belardo) Belardo, remember you get the lady to her room directly my sister is gone out.
Por. 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.
Ser. (entering cautiously). 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 neither key nor bolt within. But she is gone and I can get to my own.
Bel. No.
Ser. Belardo! why?
Bel. Some one coming.
Ser. Again!
[She hides, as before.
Enter Prince.
Prince. How now, Belardo, where is your mistress? 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.
Por. 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, 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 Spain too; one of which country I have happened 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.
Por. What now?
Bel. What can make your brother return so suddenly?
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 where Serafina is.
Prince. For your sake, Porcia.
Enter Alvaro.
Alv. I cannot be easy till I am assured that Serafina——Porcia here?
Por. Alvaro!
Alv. You left me on a sudden?
Por. I was tired, and came back for rest.
Alv. So—
Por. But you?
Alv. 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—
Alv. So that if he should relapse into ill-humour, you know how to direct him.
Por. Well, shall we start again together?
Alv. Is not that best?
Por. As you please.
Alv. (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 imprisoned 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.
Bel. Only this was wanting to the plot! The sister’s gallant in love with the brother’s mistress!
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.
Prince. 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 you believe.
Ser. I shall not be ashamed
To own the debt, though hopeless to repay it.
But heav’n shall do that for me. Farewell, my lord.
Prince. Farewell.
[Exeunt Prince and Serafina.
Bel. I wonder if they know the ancient line,
‘I’ll keep your secret, only you keep mine.’
[Exit.
Scene III.—The Prince’s Villa.
Enter Don Juan in 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.
[Exit 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
Reduced by that name Honour; whose nice laws,
Accurst be he who framed!
Little he knew the essence of the thing
He legislated for, who put my honour
Into another’s hand; made my free right
Another’s slave, for others to abuse,
And then myself before the world arraign’d,
To answer for a crime against myself!
And one being vain enough to make the law,
How came the silly world to follow it,
Like sheep to their own slaughter! And in all
This silly world is there a greater victim
To its accursed custom than myself!
Enter Leonelo, poorly drest.
Leon. Yes, one,
Who follows your misfortunes, and picks up
The crumbs of misery that fall from you;
My chief subsistence now.
Juan. 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 you.
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
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? 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 avenged.
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 changed you so your oldest friend would pass you.
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 off
Deianira, 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.
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 scorcht,
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,
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.
Juan. 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 face
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.
Juan. 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
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’ Villa.
Enter Luis and Alvaro.
Alv. 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
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.
Alv. 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.
Alv. Don Juan!
Luis. Yes, Don Juan.
Alv. What of him?
(I’ll drink the cup at once!) (aside).
Luis. What evil star
Made him my friend!
Alv. 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,
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!
Alv. (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.
Alv. 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.
Alv. 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.
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.
Alv. 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.
Enter 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.
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 know nothing of them?
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.
(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?
Ped. Your pleasure’s mine. Adieu,
Fair lady.
Por. Farewell, sir.
Luis. Porcia, you
Will follow in the carriage.
[Exeunt Luis and Pedro.
Por. 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.
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—doubloons, not diamonds.
[Exeunt Prince and Leonelo.
Here she mostly 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.
[Puts Juan into the grated door, and locks it.
Juan (through the grated window). 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.
Juan. 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,
To fight the self-same battle o’er again!
Juan. He stands in the way; I cannot see her face.
Bel. Still weeping, madam?
Ser. 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 lady.
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
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!
Enter Alvaro; she 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!
Alv. Calm yourself;
You must withdraw awhile. Come in with me.
Juan. Villain!
Ser. (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 fall; Serafina into the arms of Belardo, who has come in during the noise.—Then directly enter Don Luis, Pedro, Portia.
Luis. What noise is this?
Ser. My father!—in your arms
To die;—not by your hand—Forgive me—Oh!
[Dies.
Ped. (taking her in his arms). My Serafina?
Luis. And Alvaro!
Alv. 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.
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.
Prince. Get you to horse,
And leave the wind behind you.
Luis. Nay, my lord,
Whom should he fly from? not from me at least,
Who loved his honour as my own, and would
Myself have help’d him in a just revenge,
Ev’n on an only son.
Ped. I cannot speak,
But I bow down these miserable gray hairs
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 off 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 defendiendo la nobleza de la Pintura.’