Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume III

by M. Y. Halidom

Our dramatist, with some show of modest reluctance, or, as Mr Parnassus observed, "with sweet reluctant amorous delay," produced his manuscript from his ample pocket, inwardly, nothing loath to declaim his late effusion before the august assembly, seated himself with an air of dignity, and having waited till the whole club was fairly settled, and all attention, he thus began:

THE GIPSY QUEEN.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Don Diego.

Don Silvio.

Don Pascual, son of Don Diego, in love with Inez.

Pedro, servant to Don Silvio.

Juan, servant to Don Diego.

Don Alfonso, friend to Don Pascual, and student of Salamanca.

Donna Inez, only daughter of Don Silvio.

Donna Rodriguez, nurse to Donna Inez.

Lady Abbess, sister to Don Silvio.

Gipsy Queen, Pepa.

Miguel, a Priest.

Another Priest, Gipsies, Soldiers, Guests, Attendants, and Populace.

The Scene is laid in Spain in the mountains of Grenada. In Scene III. of Act I., in Salamanca.

ACT I.

Scene I.—Study of Don Silvio, with large open window, through which is seen the castle of Don Diego on the opposite mountain peak. Don Silvio is discovered at a table covered with books, papers, and scientific instruments. Strewn about the floor and on shelves are various objects of natural science. Don Silvio closes a book he has been reading and advances.

D. Sil. In vain the consolations of deep science,
The chiding voice of grave philosophy,
To wean us from our earthly fond affections,
When once deep-rooted in our bosom's core.
Paternal love, surviving youthful passion,
As autumn's deep'ning tints the summer's green,
Remains mature till the cold wintry blast
Of death hath scattered its last quivering leaf,
And driven us, whither? I have a daughter,
Than whom no saint in heaven purer is.
Fair and virtuous Inez! Sole object left
Me now to love on earth of all my kin.
An old man's pride, and only legacy
Of my late spouse, the sainted Dorothea.
Who, giving birth to this fair angel, left,
After ten years of childless married life,
This, my poor helpless babe, but in exchange
For her own precious self. Long unconsoled
For this, my doleful loss, I sought once more
Relief from sorrow in those studies deep,
Abandoned since my manhood's prime, when I
In Salamanca's university,
Did strive for honors, my child consigning
To a certain faithful old retainer,
The good Rodriguez, who in lieu of mother
Did rear the tender babe until it grew
To years maturer, when I thought it fit
To rescue her from out the hands of one
Who, whatsoe'er her care maternal be,
Is yet too full of vanity to make
A good instructress to my only child,
Whom I designed to educate in mode
Far different from that in which Rodriguez
And all her worldly tribe would seek to do.
With this my aim in view, I took the child
Away from home whilst yet her mind was tender,
And placing her under my sister's care,
The Lady Abbess of Saint Ursula—
A convent distant thirty miles from hence—
I left her until she should reach such age
As maidens having made due preparations
Are deemed fit to marry. Scarce sixteen
Is now my daughter Inez; far too young
To face without a guide the many wiles
And dire temptations of this giddy world;
I fain would keep her longer there, but then,
Then comes the thought that harasses my soul.
Having in youth squandered my patrimony,
Wasting my substance that I might procure
Expensive books and likewise instruments
I needed in the fond pursuits of science,
In gratifiying literary tastes,
And other fancies, thus I soon became
Deeply indebted to my richer neighbour,
The valiant Don Diego, who, much loath
To see an old house ruined, hath full oft
From time to time with liberal hand advanced
Such sums as I could ne'er hope to repay.
This knew he, too, full well, and having seen
Once my little daughter at the castle,
And fancying much her beauty, thereupon
Did make what he then doubtless did consider
An offer fair and not to be refused
By me, a desperate man—his debtor, too—
An offer, namely, for my daughter's hand
When she should have attained her sixteenth year;
And this he gave me well to understand
Would be the only way that he'd consent
To counsel all my former debts to him;
Refusing this, I knew th' alternative.
Don Diego is a soldier fierce and proud
As he is courageous, stern and merciless
Towards those who thwart his will. What could I do?
Unable to pay and in his power,
Groaning 'neath a sense of obligation;
Allured, too, perhaps, by prospects flattering
In worldly sense to her, a poor man's daughter,
I e'en consented. In an evil hour
I gave my word to friend Diego,
A man of my own years, whose castle stands
Upon the opposite peak. Behold it.
A man, I say, who might be her grandsire;
Nor is it mere disparity of years
That makes the gap to gape between the pair.
Besides his age, and now decaying health,
Don Diego all his youth has led a life
The most licentious. Rumours strange and wild
Are busy with his name, for it is known
That he esteems the holy love of woman
But as a flower to pluck and cast aside.
He hath no reverence for religious rites,
And thinks of matrimony but as a bond,
Of all bonds easiest broke. With thoughts like these
How shall it fare then with my poor daughter
When once the knot is tied? His temper then
Is stern and imperious, blunt and rude.
Accustomed to command, he reigns alone
Amidst a flattering troup of followers,
Like petty tyrant, treating men as serfs.
In boasting moods he vaunts of ancestry
Who never thwarted were in lust or hate,
And to this man shall I consign my daughter?
No, no, it was an evil hour when I
O'er hastily did consent to sacrifice
My lovely Inez, purest of her sex,
To this man's savage and rapacious lust.
Repentance came too late, for he doth hold
Me still to my promise, and all in vain
Are pleadings of my daughter's tender age.
The promise of her hand at some time hence,
When she to riper womanhood hath grown,
Excuse or promise unavailing both,
For he, with military punctilio
And lustful hot impatience, doth demand
Her hand at once, and will brook no delay.
He called on me of late, and from his mien
I saw there was but little left to hope.
A father's tears, as ever, failed to soften
His all too stubborn nature, and at length
He threatened me with ruin or with death
And forcible abduction of my daughter
If on a certain day ('tis now at hand)
I gave not him my daughter for his wife.
As yet my child knows nothing of this plan,
But now the time draws near when she must know.
How can I face my daughter? How can I
With humble, piteous whine, say, "Inez,
Thy father is ruined, an thou heed him not?
Save him by the sacrifice of thyself."
Or else, with imperious and austere brow,
Say, "Inez, I command thee as a father
To wed the man I've chosen thee—Don Diego.
Obedience is a filial duty, and
Thy father better knows what's for thy good
Than thou thyself. At once prepare, obey!"
Or should I, contrary to precepts taught
Once by myself when she was yet a child,
When I have preached 'gainst vanities and pomps,
Empty frivolities and lust of greed,
Can I now plead thus, and say, "Daughter mine,
Behold what a grand thing it is to be
One of the great ones of the earth, and move
For ever midst the gay and high-born throng
Of lords and ladies without care or pain,
With means at hand to gratify each wish,
To live the mistress of a noble castle,
With serfs at thy command, with gold, with jewels,
Dress at thy caprice, and hear around thee
Ravishing strains of music in thy halls;
Thy gardens, parks, and pleasure grounds rivalling
Those of the noblest peers, exciting envy
Of all thy neighbours, and this, yes, all this,
Thou hast but to reach out thy hand to take;
Accept the old Don Diego for thy spouse,
His castle's thine, and all that therein is;
Don't be a fool and throw this chance away
Because, forsooth, he's old, somewhat infirm,
Unfair to view, irascible and stern,
And recklessly give up thy giddy heart
To some young spendthrift, all because he's fair;
Throw not such a glorious chance away,
But make thy father's fortune and thine own?"
Is this the strain that I could use to her
After my virtuous lessons and wise saws?
Could she not answer, "Father, is it thou—
Thou who dids't ever counsel me to shun
The whispered words of gallants with the wiles
And impious vanities of this base world,
Dids't inculcate obedience, filial love,
As primary virtues ever with the young?
Was it that I might blindly, passively
Submit my will to thine? Shunning fresh youth;
That at thy bidding I might give my hand,
Loathing, yet passively, unto a man
Whose years do full quadruple mine, and all
Because this man has wealth and I have none?
Is this thy virtue, father? This the end
Of all thy teachings, that I should become
The minion, yes, the minion of a dotard?"
And would she not be right? Could I look up
Into her angel's face unblushingly,
And with a base hypocrisy reply,
"My child, 'tis for thy good. Such is the world."
Would she believe me? Would she not despise
Me and my words, see through my selfishness?
Yet what to do I know not. I am lost.
Would not the world itself proclaim me base?
Would not the mockers say, "Behold the sage,
The philosophic, wise Don Silvio,
He who despises wealth and this world's pomp,
Yet sells his daughter for Don Diego's gold?"
Thus run I counter both to God and man,
And mine own conscience. Crushing my child's heart
That I might save my own grey head from ruin.
Help me, ye saints! for I have need of guidance. [Kneeling.
Soul of my blest departed Dorothea!
Assist me with thy counsels, and send down
From that high heaven where thou in peace doth dwell
A blessing on thy daughter and her sire;
It cannot, sure, be that our Inez shall
Unwillingly and loathingly consent
To wed a vicious dotard for his gold. [Rising.
Time wanes, and with my part I must go through;
Then, as to the rest, let heaven think on't.
I know not if I meditate aright;
Nay, I know I am wrong, but I've no choice.
Hola! Rodriguez!—Rodriguez, I say!

Enter Rodriguez.

How now, Rodriguez, did'st not hear me call?
Rod. Indeed, my lord, I came as soon as I
Did hear you, but it may be that of late
I have grown a little hard of hearing;
Rodriguez now is getting old. How many
Years is it I have served your lordship here?
D. Sil. Cease thy prating tongue, and now lend thine ear.
Rod. I'm all attention, good my lord, proceed.
D. Sil. Well then, here is a letter I have written
To thy young mistress, bidding her return
With fullest speed to the paternal roof.
Rod. What! my young mistress Inez coming home
After full five years' stay within the walls,
The gloomy walls, of grim St. Ursula!
Poor soul! she'll scarce remember old Rodriguez.
How I long to see her! How she'll have grown.
Time will have wrought great changes. But a child
She was when first she left her father's hall,
And now returns a woman. Pretty dear!
Shall I ever forget how she did cry
At leaving me? For you must know, Señor,
That ever with a mother's tender care
I've cherished her as were she child of mine,
And she, sweet soul, ne'er having known her mother,
Looked for no other mother than myself.
And mother she would call me when a babe,
Until she grew and first began to learn
The death of your good lady Dorothea—
Peace be to her soul, the dear sweet lady—
Then she learned to call me Nurse Rodriguez.
Dear little soul! When I did see her last
She had her mother's brow, her mother's hair,
Her eyes, too, and her tiny foot and hand;
Her smile was all her mother's, yet methinks
Something about the nose and mouth and chin
Was from your lordship. How I wonder now
If she be changed, if she do remember
How I was wont to dance her on my knee
To still her cries with sweets, and how she'd ask
Me to tell her all about her mother—
How she looked and spoke, and how she dressed?
I told her all I knew. What I knew not
That straight I did invent to please the child,
And oftimes on a chilly wintry night
Of storm and tempest, when the lightning's flash
Lit up with lurid glare the outward gloom,
And the loud thunder, like to wake the dead,
Shook the old castle walls to their foundation,
On such nights as these, when sleep would desert
Her downy pillow, I would lift her thus,
And wrapping her up in my ample shawl,
I'd draw her to the fire. Then, whilst the warmth
Of the genial element diffused
Itself throughout the chamber, rendering
By the contrast of the black storm without
Its growing blaze more grateful, then would I
Beguile the night with tales of ghosts and ghouls,
Of elves and fairies, and hobgoblins grim,
Of witches, wizards, vampires, dwarfs, and giants,
Pirates, brigands, and unburied corpses,
Whose restless spirits, ever hovering near,
Render the place accursed, and bring ill
To happen unto those who wander there.
Wraiths and doubles, and corpse candles glim'ring
O'er unhallowed graves. Of secret murders,
Of spells, enchantment, and of hidden treasure,
Fights of knights and dragons, Christian damsels
Rescued from Moorish captors by their lovers,
Tales of the Inquisition and its tortures,
Of dungeons dark and drear, and skeletons
Found bleak and bare, laden with rusty chains
That ever and anon at midnight's hour
Were heard to move and shake, with many a tale
Of the wild gipsy tribes that roam these mountains,
Of haunted houses and weird palaces,
That at the magician's word sink 'neath the ground,
Of devils and of fiends—
D. Sil. And all the lore
That gossips love to frighten children with.
Wretch and most wicked beldam! Is it thus
By giving reins to thine accursed tongue
That thou hast sought to poison my child's mind?
Is this why every eve when it grew dark
I've seen her shudder and look o'er her shoulder?
Why she would never enter a dark room?
Why, as I've watched beside her tiny crib,
I've seen her start in sleep with stifled sob?
When I have watched her wan and haggard cheek,
Her thoughtful mien, her dreamy vacant stare,
Until I've fancied her in a decline,
And feared she would not long be left to cheer
My gloomy hearth; then was it this, I say,
Thy foolish wicked lies, torturing thus
Her tender infant brain? I say, for shame!
In good time I rescued her from thy hands.
Rod. I'm sure my lord, I've always sought to—
D. Sil. Hush!
And give me no more of thy silly prate,
I've some affairs on hand, and must away,
O'er long thou hast detained me with thy cant.
Here, take this note, bid Pedro start at once
And bear this safely to my daughter there,
For to-night at the hostel he must sleep,
To-morrow early he must start towards home,
Accompanying my daughter by the way. [Going.
Rod. My lord, I'll see to't.
D. Sil. And hark! Rodriguez,
There's one thing I would caution you against.
Rod. And that is, my lord?
D. Sil. And that is, I say,
That when my daughter home arrives to-morrow,
You fill not her head with foolish stories
And antiquated superstitions.
Above all, talk to her not of gallants,
Of tournaments, elopements, serenades,
Or anecdotes of thine own frivolous life.
Rod. My lord! my lord!
D. Sil. Once for all, I repeat,
Detail not all the follies of thy youth;
Talk to her not of dress or finery,
Nor all the gilded pageantries of courts,
Or such like vanities; and now, adieu,
I must go hence. Think well of what I've said. [Exit.
Rod. (Alone.) Poor, poor gentleman, I fear he's going;
He's growing old now, is my poor master,
And folks when they grow old are ever childish.
He ne'er has been the same since the departure
Of my poor mistress, Lady Dorothea.
What said he about my frivolous life?
Who can cast a stone at Dame Rodriguez?
Oh, his head's gone; that's very clear, alas!
My life! 'Twere well he thought about his own,
Spent here mid dusty books and parchments old,
With dirty bottles and queer instruments.
As no one ever saw the like before.
What he does with them, who can understand?
Shut up here like a hermit all day long.
A plague on him, and all his crotchety ways!
Wait till my mistress Inez doth return;
She will enliven him, and 'twixt us two,
We'll make a clearance of this dusty cell.
"Talk to her not of dress!" Poor silly man!
Why, how on earth is the poor child to know,
Shut up these five years in those convent walls,
Of all the latest fashions of the day?
How should she dress herself without the aid
Of old Rodriguez? See how these men are.
Do we live in a world or do we not?
I should not do my duty to his child
Were I to listen to him. No I must,
The instant she arrives, take her in hand.
"Talk to her not of gallants!" Why, forsooth?
Must the poor child see no society?
Is this hall a convent or a desert?
Was she not born to marry and to mix
With other ladies of her state and rank?
How should she find a husband without me?
She's growing up now, and has no mother,
And as for her poor father, he'd as soon
Think of flying as of his daughter's weal.
No, no; but I will teach her how to cut
A figure in this world as best becomes
Her rank and station. I will teach her, too,
What colours best become her, and how I,
I, Rodriguez, figured once in youth,
When I with train of yellow and scarlet silk,
And stomacher of green, sleeves of sky-blue,
First did meet my Carlos at the bull-fight.
I'll teach her how to dress, to use the fan—
Thus, also thus, and thus, and how to draw,
With well-feigned coyness, the mantilla, thus,
Across her face, leaving one eye exposed,
And ogle, so, the gallants as they pass.
A few good lessons taken from an adept
Will soon prepare her for society.
Pedro. (Without.) Rodriguez, Hola! Rodriguez, What ho!

Enter Pedro.