EIGHT DRAMAS
OF
CALDERON

EIGHT DRAMAS
OF
CALDERON

FREELY TRANSLATED
BY
EDWARD FITZGERALD

London
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1906

All rights reserved

CONTENTS

ADVERTISEMENT

In apologizing for the publication of so free translations of so famous a poet as Calderon, I must plead, first, that I have not meddled with any of his more famous plays; not one of those on my list being mentioned with any praise, or included in any selection that I know of, except the homely Mayor of Zalamea. Four of these six indeed, as many others in Calderon, may be lookt on as a better kind of what we call melodramas. Such plays as the Magico Prodigioso and the Vida es Sueño (I cannot rank the Principe Constante among them) require another translator, and, I think, form of translation.

Secondly, I do not believe an exact translation of this poet can be very successful; retaining so much that, whether real or dramatic Spanish passion, is still bombast to English ears, and confounds otherwise distinct outlines of character; Conceits that were a fashion of the day; or idioms that, true and intelligible to one nation, check the current of sympathy in others to which they are unfamiliar; violations of the probable, nay possible, that shock even healthy romantic licence; repetitions of thoughts and images that Calderon used (and smiled at) as so much stage properties—so much, in short, that is not Calderon’s own better self, but concession to private haste or public taste by one who so often relied upon some striking dramatic crisis for success with a not very accurate audience, and who, for whatever reason, was ever averse from any of his dramas being printed.

Choosing therefore such less famous plays as still seemed to me suited to English taste, and to that form of verse in which our dramatic passion prefers to run, I have, while faithfully trying to retain what was fine and efficient, sunk, reduced, altered, and replaced, much that seemed not; simplified some perplexities, and curtailed or omitted scenes that seemed to mar the breadth of general effect, supplying such omissions by some lines of after-narrative; and in some measure have tried to compensate for the fulness of sonorous Spanish, which Saxon English at least must forgo, by a compression which has its own charm to Saxon ears.

That this, if proper to be done at all, might be better done by others, I do not doubt. Nay, on looking back over these pages, I see where in some cases the Spanish individuality might better have been retained, and northern idiom spared; and doubtless there are many inaccuracies I am not yet aware of. But if these plays prove interesting to the English reader, I and he may be very sure that, whatever of Spain and Calderon be lost, there must be a good deal retained; and I think he should excuse the licence of my version till some other interests him as well at less expense of fidelity.

I hope my Graciosos will not be blamed for occasional anachronisms not uncharacteristic of their vocation.

THE PAINTER OF HIS OWN DISHONOUR

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT I

Scene I.—A Room in Don Luis’ palace at Naples.

Enter Don Luis and Don Juan meeting.

Luis. Once more, a thousand times once more, Don Juan,

Come to my heart.

Juan. And every fresh embrace

Rivet our ancient friendship faster yet!

Luis. Amen to that! Come, let me look at you—

Why, you seem well—

Juan. So well, so young, so nimble,

I will not try to say how well, so much

My words and your conception must fall short

Of my full satisfaction.

Luis. How glad am I

To have you back in Naples!

Juan. Ah, Don Luis,

Happier so much than when I last was here,

Nay, than I ever thought that I could be.

Luis. How so?

Juan. Why, when I came this way before,

I told you (do you not remember it?)

How teased I was by relatives and friends

To marry—little then disposed to love—

Marriage perhaps the last thing in my thoughts—

Liking to spend the spring time of my youth

In lonely study.

Luis. Ay, ay, I remember:

Nothing but books, books, books—still day and night

Nothing but books; or, fairly drowsed by them,

By way of respite to that melancholy,

The palette and the pencil—

In which you got to such a mastery

As smote the senseless canvas into life.

O, I remember all—not only, Juan,

When you were here, but I with you in Spain,

What fights we had about it!

Juan. So it was—

However, partly wearied, partly moved

By pity at my friends’ anxieties,

Who press’d upon me what a shame it were

If such a title and estate as mine

Should lack a lineal inheritor,

At length I yielded—

Fanned from the embers of my later years

A passion which had slept in those of youth,

And took to wife my cousin Serafina,

The daughter of Don Pedro Castellano.

Luis. I know; you show’d me when you last were here

The portrait of your wife that was to be,

And I congratulated you.

Juan. Well now

Still more congratulate me—as much more

As she is fairer than the miniature

We both enamoured of. At the first glance

I knew myself no more myself, but hers,

Another (and how much a happier!) man.

Luis. Had I the thousand tongues, and those of brass,

That Homer wished for, they should utter all

Congratulation. Witty too, I hear,

As beautiful?

Juan. Yourself shall judge of all,

For even now my lady comes; awhile

To walk the Flora of your shores, and then

Over your seas float Venus-like away.

Luis. Not that, till she have graced our gardens long,

If once we get her here. But is she here?

Juan. Close by—she and her father, who would needs

See her aboard; and I push’d on before

To apprize you of our numbers—so much more

Than when I first proposed to be your guest,

That I entreat you—

Luis. What?

Juan. —to let us go,

And find our inn at once—not over-load

Your house.

Luis. Don Juan, you do me an affront—

What if all Naples came along with you?—

My heart—yes, and my house—should welcome them.

Juan. I know. But yet—

Luis. But yet, no more ‘but yets’—

Come to my house, or else my heart shall close

Its doors upon you.

Juan. Nay, I dare not peril

A friendship—

Luis. Why, were ’t not a great affront

To such a friendship—when you learn besides,

I have but held this government till now

Only to do you such a courtesy.

Juan. But how is this?

Luis. Sickness and age on-coming,

I had determined to retire on what

Estate I had—no need of other wealth—

Beside, Alvaro’s death—my only son—

Juan. Nay, you have so felicitated me,

I needs must you, Don Luis, whose last letter

Told of a gleam of hope in that dark quarter.

Luis. A sickly gleam—you know the ship he sail’d in

Was by another vessel, just escaped

The selfsame storm, seen to go down—it seem’d

With all her souls on board.

Juan. But how assured

’Twas your son’s ship?—

Luis. Alas, so many friends

Were on the watch for him at Barcelona,

Whither his ship was bound, but never came—

Beside the very messenger that brought

The gleam of hope, premised the tragedy—

A little piece of wreck,

That floated to the coast of Spain, and thence

Sent to my hands, with these words scratcht upon ’t—

‘Escaped alive, Alvaro.’

Juan. When was this?

Luis. Oh, months ago, and since no tidings heard,

In spite of all inquiry. But we will hope.

Meanwhile, Serafina—when will she be here?

Juan. She must be close to Naples now.

Luis. Go then,

Tell her from me—

I go not forth to bid her welcome, only

That I may make that welcome sure at home.

Juan. I’ll tell her so. But—

Luis. What! another ‘But’?

No more of that. Away with you.—Porcia!

[Exit Juan.

Enter Porcia.

Daughter, you know (I have repeated it

A thousand times, I think) the obligation

I owe Don Juan Roca.

Porcia. Sir, indeed

I’ve often heard you talk of him.

Luis. Then listen.

He and his wife are coming here to-day—

Directly.

Por. Serafina!

Luis. Yes.

To be our guests, till they set sail for Spain;

I trust long first—

Por. And I. How glad I am!

Luis. You! what should make you glad?

Por. That Serafina,

So long my playmate, shall be now my guest.

Luis. Ay! I forgot—that’s well, too—

Let us be rivals in their entertainment.

See that the servants, Porcia, dress their rooms

As speedily and handsomely as may be.

Por. What haste can do (which brings its own excuse)

I’ll do—’tis long a proverb hereabout

That you are Entertainer-general,

Rather than Governor, of Naples.

Luis. Ay,

I like to honour all who come this way.

Enter Leonelo.

Leonelo. Peace to this house!—and not only that, but a story beside.—A company of soldiers coming to a certain village, a fellow of the place calls out for two to be billeted on him. ‘What!’ says a neighbour, ‘you want a double share of what every one else tries to shirk altogether?’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘for the more nuisance they are while they stay, the more glad one is of their going.’ In illustration of which, and also of my master’s orders, I crave your Lordship’s hand, and your Ladyship’s foot, to kiss.

Luis. Welcome, good Leonelo. I was afraid I had overlooked you in receiving your master.

Por. And how does marriage agree with you, Leonelo?

Leon. One gentleman asked another to dine; but such an ill-ordered dinner that the capon was cold, and the wine hot. Finding which, the guest dips a leg of the capon into the wine. And when his host asks him what he’s about—‘Only making the wine heat the capon, and the capon cool the wine,’ says he. Now just this happened in my marriage. My wife was rather too young, and I rather too old; so, as it is hoped—

Por. Foolery, foolery, always!—tell me how Serafina is—

Leon. In a coach.

Por. What answer is that?

Leon. A very sufficient one—since a coach includes happiness, pride, and (a modern author says) respectability.

Por. How so?

Leon. Why, a certain lady died lately, and for some reason or other, they got leave to carry her to the grave in a coach. Directly they got her in,—the body, I mean,—it began to fidget—and when they called out to the coachman—‘Drive to St. Sepulchre’s!’—‘No!’ screams she,—‘I won’t go there yet. Drive to the Prado first; and when I have had a turn there, they may bury me where they please.’

Luis. How can you let your tongue run on so!

Leon. I’ll tell you. A certain man in Barcelona had five or six children: and he gave them each to eat—

(Voices within.) ‘Way there! way!’

Por. They are coming.

Leon. And in so doing, take that story out of my mouth.

Enter Julia.

Julia. Signor, your guests are just alighting.

Luis. Come, Porcia—

Leon. (No, no, stop you and listen to me about those dear children.)

Por. They are coming upstairs—at the door—

Enter Don Juan leading Serafina, Don Pedro and Flora—all in travelling dress.

Luis. Your hand, fair Serafina, whose bright eyes

Seem to have drawn his lustre from the sun,

To fill my house withal;—a poor receptacle

Of such a visitor.

Por. Nay, ’tis for me

To blush for that, in quality of hostess;

Yet, though you come to shame my house-keeping,

Thrice welcome, Serafina.

Serafina. How answer both,

Being too poor in compliment for either!

I’ll not attempt it.

Pedro. I am vext, Don Luis,

My son-in-law should put this burden on you.

Luis. Nay, vex not me by saying so.—What burden?

The having such an honour as to be

Your servant?—

Leon. Here’s a dish of compliments!

Flora. Better than you can feed your mistress with.

(Guns heard without.)

Juan. What guns are those?

Enter Fabio.

Fabio. The citadel, my lord,

Makes signal of two galleys in full sail

Coming to port.

Luis. More guests! the more the merrier!

Ped. The merrier for them, but scarce for you,

Don Luis.

Luis. Nay, good fortune comes like bad,

All of a heap. What think you, should it be,

As I suspect it is, the Prince Orsino

Returning; whom, in love and duty bound,

I shall receive and welcome—

Juan. Once again,

Don Luis, give me leave—

Luis. And once again,

And once for all, I shall not give you leave.

Prithee, no more—

All will be easily arranged. Porcia,

You know your guest’s apartments—show her thither;

I’ll soon be back with you.

Ped. Permit us, sir,

To attend you to the port, and wait upon

His Highness.

Luis. I dare not refuse that trouble,

Seeing what honour in the prince’s eyes

Your company will lend me.

Leon. And methinks

I will go with you too.

Juan. What, for that purpose?

Leon. Yes—and because perhaps among the crowd

I shall find some to whom I may relate

That story of the children and their meat.

[Exeunt Don Luis, Pedro, Juan, Leonelo, Fabio, etc.

Ser. Porcia, are they gone?

Por. They are.

Ser. Then I may weep.

Por. Tears, Serafina!

Ser. Nay, they would not stay

Longer unshed. I would not if I could

Hide them from you, Porcia. Why should I,

Who know too well the fount from which they flow?

Por. I only know you weep—no more than that.

Ser. Yet ’tis the seeing you again, again

Unlocks them—is it that you do resent

The discontinuance of our early love,

And that you will not understand me?

Por. Nay,—

What can I say?

Ser. Let us be quite alone.

Por. Julia, leave us.

Ser. Flora, go with her.

Julia. Come, shall we go up to the gallery,

And see the ships come in?

Flora. Madam, so please you.

[Exeunt Flora and Julia.

Ser. Well, are we quite alone?

Por. Yes, quite.

Ser. All gone,

And none to overhear us?

Por. None.

Ser. Porcia,

You knew me once when I was happy!

Por. Yes,

Or thought you so—

Ser. But now most miserable!

Por. How so, my Serafina?

Ser. You shall hear.

Yes, my Porcia, you remember it,—

That happy, happy time when you and I

Were so united that, our hearts attuned

To perfect unison, one might believe

That but one soul within two bodies lodged.

This you remember?

Por. Oh, how could I forget!

Ser. Think it not strange that so far back I trace

The first beginnings of another love,

Whose last sigh having now to breathe, whose last

Farewell to sigh, and whose deceased hopes

In one last obsequy to commemorate,

I tell it over to you point by point

From first to last—by such full utterance

My pent up soul perchance may find relief.

Por. Speak, Serafina.

Ser. You have not forgot

Neither, how that close intimacy of ours

Brought with it of necessity some courtesies

Between me and your brother, Don Alvaro—

Whose very name, oh wretched that I am!

Makes memory, like a trodden viper, turn,

And fix a fang in me not sharp enough

To slay at once, but with a lingering death

Infect my life—

Por. Nay, calm yourself.

Ser. We met,

Porcia—and from those idle meetings love

Sprang up between us both—for though ’tis true

That at the first I laugh’d at his advances,

And turn’d his boyish suit into disdain,

Yet true it also is that in my heart

There lurk’d a lingering feeling yet behind,

Which if not wholly love, at least was liking,

In the sweet twilight of whose unris’n sun

My soul as yet walk’d hesitatingly.

For, my Porcia, there is not a woman,

Say what she will, and virtuous as you please,

Who, being loved, resents it: and could he,

Who most his mistress’s disfavour mourns,

Look deeply down enough into her heart,

He’d see, however high she carries it,

Some grateful recognition lurking there

Under the muffle of affected scorn.

You know how I repell’d your brother’s suit:

How ever when he wrote to me I tore

His letters—would not listen when he spoke—

And when, relying on my love for you,

Through you he tried to whisper his for me,

I quarrell’d with yourself—quarrell’d the more

The more you spoke for him. He wept—I laugh’d;

Knelt in my path—I turn’d another way;

Though who had seen deep down into my heart,

Had also seen love struggling hard with pride.

Enough—at last one evening as I sat

Beside a window looking on the sea,

Wrapt in the gathering night he stole unseen

Beside me. After whispering all those vows

Of love which lovers use, and I pass by,

He press’d me to be his. Touch’d by the hour,

The mask of scorn fell from my heart, and Love

Reveal’d himself, and from that very time

Grew unconceal’d between us—yet, Porcia,

Upon mine honour, (for I tell thee all,)

Always in honour bounded. At that time

In an ill hour my father plann’d a marriage

Between me and Don Juan—yours, you know,

Came here to Naples, whence he sent your brother,

I know not on what business, into Spain;

And we agreed, I mean Alvaro and I,

Rather than vex two fathers at one time

By any declaration of our vows,

’Twere best to keep them secret—at the least,

Till his return from Spain. Ah, Porcia,

When yet did love not thrive by secrecy?

We parted—he relying on my promise,

I on his quick return. Oh, mad are those

Who, knowing that a storm is up, will yet

Put out to sea, Alvaro went—my father

Urged on this marriage with my cousin. Oh!—

Por. You are ill, Serafina!

Ser. Nothing—nothing—

I reason’d—wept—implored—excused—delay’d—

In vain—O mercy, Heaven!

Por. Tell me no more:

It is too much for you.

Ser. Then suddenly

We heard that he was dead—your brother—drown’d—

They married me—and now perhaps he lives

They say—Porcia, can it be?—I know not

Whether to hope or dread if that be true:—

And every wind that blows your father hope

Makes my blood cold; I know that I shall meet him,

Here or upon the seas—dead or alive—

Methinks I see him now!—Help! help!

[Swoons.

Por. Serafina!—

She has fainted!—Julia! Flora!—

Enter Alvaro.

Alvaro. My Porcia!

Por. Alvaro! (They embrace.)

Alv. I have outrun the shower of compliment

On my escapes—which you shall hear anon—

To catch you to my heart.

Por. Oh joy and terror!

Look there!—

Alv. Serafina!

And sleeping too!

Por. Oh, swooning! see to her

Till I get help.

[Exit.

Ser. (in her swoon). Mercy, mercy!

Alvaro, slay me not!—I am not guilty!—

Indeed I am not!—

Alv. She dreams—and dreams of me—but very strangely—

Serafina!—

Ser. (waking). Dead!—or return’d alive to curse and slay me!—

But I am innocent!—I could not help—

They told me you were dead—and are you not?—

And I must marry him—

Alv. Must marry?—whom?—

Why, you are dreaming still—

Awake!—’tis your Alvaro—

(Offers to embrace her.)

Ser. No, no, no—

I dare not—

Alv. Dare not!

Enter Porcia, Flora, Julia.

Por. Quick, quick!

Flora. My lady!

Julia. My lord alive again!

Alv. Porcia, come hither—I am not alive,

Till I have heard the truth—nay, if ’t be true

That she has hinted and my heart forebodes,

I shall be worse than dead—

[Retires with Porcia to back of Stage.

Enter Juan and Pedro.

Juan. What is the matter?—

My Serafina!

Pedro. We have hurried back,

Told of your sudden seizure—What is it?

Ser. The very heart within me turn’d to ice.

Juan. But you are better now?—

Ser. Yes—better—pray,

Be not uneasy for me.

Alv. (to Porcia in the rear). This is true then!

Por. Nay, nay, be not so desperate, Alvaro,

Hearing but half the story—no fault of hers—

I’ll tell you all anon. Come, Serafina,

I’ll see you to your chamber.

Pedro. She will be better soon—

Juan. Lean upon me, my love—so—so.

Alv. Oh, fury!

Ser. Oh, would to heaven these steps should be my last,

Leading not to my chamber, but my grave!

Por. (to Alvaro). Wait here—compose yourself—I shall be back

Directly.

[Exeunt Porcia, Serafina, and Juan.

Alv. She is married—broke her troth—

And I escape from death and slavery

To find her—but the prince!—Oh weariness!

Enter the Prince Orsino, Celio, Don Luis, and Train.

Prince. Each day, Don Luis, I become your debtor

For some new courtesy.

Luis. My lord, ’tis I

Who by such small instalments of my duty

Strive to pay back in part the many favours

You shower upon your servant. And this last,

Of bringing back Alvaro to my arms,

Not all my life, nor life itself, could pay.

Prince. Small thanks to me, Don Luis; but indeed

The strangest chance—two chances—two escapes—

First from the sinking ship upon a spar,

Then from the Algerine who pick’d him up,

Carried him captive off—

He first adroitly through their fingers slipping

That little harbinger of hope to you,

And then, at last, himself escaping back

To Barcelona, where you know I was—

If glad to welcome, house, and entertain

Any distrest Italian, how much more,

Both for his own sake and for yours, your son,

So making him, I trust, a friend for life.

Alv. Rather a humble follower, my lord.

Luis. I have no words to thank you—we shall hear

The whole tale from Alvaro by and by—

To make us merry—once so sad to him.

Meanwhile, Alvaro, thou hast seen thy sister?

Alv. Yes, sir—

Luis. Oh what a joy ’tis to see thee!

Prince. A day of general joy.

Alv. (aside). Indeed!—

Prince. Especially

To her, Alvaro—

Alv. Sir?

Prince. I mean your sister.

Alv. Yes, my lord—no—I am not sure, my lord—

A friend of hers is suddenly so ill,

My sister is uneasy—

Luis. Serafina!

Indeed!—I know your Highness will forgive

My seeing to her straight.

[Exit.

Alv. And I, my lord,

Would fain see some old faces once again

As soon as may be.

Prince. Nay, no more excuse—

Follow your pleasure.

Alv. (aside). ’Tis no friend I seek,

But my one deadliest enemy—myself.

[Exit.

Prince. Celio, I think we have well nigh exhausted

The world of compliment, and wasted it:

For I begin to doubt that word and deed

Are wasted all in vain.

Celio. How so, my lord?

Prince. Why, if I never am to see Porcia,

Whom I have come so far and fast to see—

Cel. Never, my lord! her father’s guest is ill,

And she for a few minutes—

Prince. Minutes, Celio!

Knowest thou not minutes are years to lovers?

Cel. I know that lovers are strange animals.

Prince. Ah, you have never loved.

Cel. No, good my lord,

I’m but a looker-on; or in the market

Just give and take the current coin of love—

Love her that loves me; and, if she forget,

Forget her too.

Prince. Ah, then I cannot wonder

You wonder so at my impatience;

For he that cannot love, can be no judge

Of him that does.

Cel. How so?

Prince. I’ll tell thee, Celio.

He who far off beholds another dancing,

Even one who dances best, and all the time

Hears not the music that he dances to,

Thinks him a madman, apprehending not

The law that rules his else eccentric action.

So he that’s in himself insensible

Of love’s sweet influence, misjudges him

Who moves according to love’s melody:

And knowing not that all these sighs and tears,

Ejaculations, and impatiences,

Are necessary changes of a measure,

Which the divine musician plays, may call

The lover crazy; which he would not do

Did he within his own heart hear the tune

Play’d by the great musician of the world.

Cel. Well, I might answer, that, far off or near,

Hearing or not the melody you tell of,

The man is mad who dances to it. But

Here is your music.

Enter Porcia.

Porcia. I left my brother here but now.

Prince. But now,

Sweet Porcia, you see he is not here—

By that so seeming earnest search for him

Scarce recognising me, if you would hint

At any seeming slight of mine toward you,

I plead not guilty—

Por. You mistake, my lord—

Did I believe my recognition

Of any moment to your Excellency,

I might perhaps evince it in complaint,

But not in slight.

Prince. Complaint!—

Por. Yes, sir—complaint.

Prince. Complaint of what? I knowing, Porcia,

And you too knowing well, the constant love

That I have borne you since the happy day

When first we met in Naples—

Por. No, my lord—

You mean my love to you, not yours to me—

Unwearied through your long forgetful absence.

Prince. How easily, Porcia, would my love

Prove to you its unchanged integrity,

Were it not that our friends—

Por. Your friends indeed,

Who stop a lame apology at the outset.

Enter Serafina.

Serafina. I cannot rest, Porcia, and am come

To seek it in your arms—but who is this?

Por. The Prince Orsino.

Ser. Pardon me, my lord—

I knew you not—coming so hurriedly,

And in much perturbation.

Prince. Nay, lady,

I owe you thanks for an embarrassment

Which hides my own.

Ser. Let it excuse beside

What other courtesies I owe your Highness,

But scarce have words to pay. Heaven guard your Highness—

Suffer me to retire.

[Exit.

Por. I needs must after her, my lord. But tell me,

When shall I hear your vindication?—

To-night?

Prince. Ay, my Porcia, if you will.

Por. Till night farewell, then.

[Exit.

Prince. Farewell.—Celio,

Didst ever see so fair an apparition,

As her who came and went so suddenly?

Cel. Indeed, so sweetly manner’d when surprised,

She must be exquisite in her composure.

Prince. Who is she?

Cel. Nay, my lord, just come with you,

I know as little—

What! a new tune to dance to?—

Prince. In good time,

Here comes Alvaro.

Enter Alvaro.

Alvaro. How restless is the sickness of the soul!

I scarce had got me from this fatal place,

And back again—

Prince. Alvaro!

Alv. My lord—

Prince. Who is the lady that was here anon?

Alv. Lady, my lord—what lady?—

Prince. She that went

A moment hence—I mean your sister’s guest.

Alv. (This drop was wanting!)

My lord, the daughter of a nobleman

Of very ancient blood—

Don Pedro Castellano.

Prince. And her name?

Alv. Serafina.

Prince. And a most seraphic lady!

Alv. You never saw her, sir, before?

Prince. No, surely.

Alv. (aside). Would I had never done so!

Prince. And in the hasty glimpse I had,

I guess her mistress of as fair a mind

As face.

Alv. Yes, sir—

Prince. She lives in Naples, eh?

Alv. No—on her way

To Spain, I think—

Prince. Indeed!—To Spain. Why that?

Alv. (How much more will he ask?)

My lord, her husband—

Prince. She is married then?—

Alv. Torture!

Prince. And who so blest to call her his,

Alvaro?

Alv. Sir, Don Juan Roca, her cousin.

Prince. Roca? Don Juan Roca? Do I know him?

Alv. I think you must; he came, sir, with my father

To wait upon your Grace.

Prince. Don Juan Roca!

No; I do not remember him—should not

Know him again.

Enter Don Luis.

Luis. My lord, if my old love

And service for your Highness may deserve

A favour at your hands—

Prince. They only wait

Until your tongue has named it.

Luis. This it is then—

The captain of the galleys, good my lord,

In which your Highness came,

Tells me that, having landed you, he lies

Under strict orders to return again

Within an hour.

Prince. ’Tis true.

Luis. Now, good my lord,

The ships, when they go back, must carry with them

Some friends who, long time look’d for, just are come,

And whom I fain—

Prince. Nay, utter not a wish

I know I must unwillingly deny.

Alvaro. Confusion on confusion!

Prince. I have pledg’d

My word to Don Garcia of Toledo,

The galleys should not pass an hour at Naples.

I feel for you,—and for myself, alas!

So sweet a freight they carry with them. But

I dare not—and what folly to adore

A Beauty lost to me before I found it!

[Exeunt Prince and Celio.

Luis. And those I so had long’d for, to avenge

Their long estrangement by as long a welcome,

Snatcht from me almost ere we’d shaken hands!—

Is not this ill, Alvaro?

Alv. Ill indeed.

Luis. And, as they needs must go, my hospitality,

Foil’d in its spring, must turn to wound myself

By speeding their departure. (Going.)

Alv. Sir, a moment.

Although his Highness would not, or could not,

Grant you the boon your services deserved,

Let not that, I beseech you, indispose you

From granting one to me.

Luis. What is ’t, Alvaro?

’Twere strange could I refuse you anything.

Alv. You sent me, sir, on state affairs to Spain,

But being wreckt and captured, as you know,

All went undone.

Another opportunity now offers;

The ships are ready, let me go and do

That which perforce I left undone before.

Luis. What else could’st thou have askt,

In all the category of my means,

Which I, methinks, had grudged thee! No, Alvaro,

The treacherous sea must not again be trusted

With the dear promise of my only son.

Alv. Nay, for that very reason, I entreat you

To let me go, sir. Let it not be thought

The blood that I inherited of you

Quail’d at a common danger.

Luis. I admire

Your resolution, but you must not go,

At least not now.

Beside, the business you were sent upon

Is done by other hands, or let go by

For ever.

Alv. Nay, sir—

Luis. Nay, Alvaro.

[Exit.

Alv. He is resolved. And Serafina,

To whose divinity I offer’d up

My heart of hearts, a purer sacrifice

Than ever yet on pagan altar blazed,

Has play’d me false, is married to another,

And now will fly away on winds and seas,

As fleeting as herself.

Then what remains but that I die? My death

The necessary shadow of that marriage!

Comfort!—what boots it looking after that

Which never can be found? The worst is come,

Which ’twere a blind and childish waste of hope

To front with any visage but despair.

Ev’n that one single solace, were there one,

Of ringing my despair into her ears,

Fails me. Time presses; the accursed breeze

Blows foully fair. The vessel flaps her sails

That is to bear her from me. Look, she comes—

And from before her dawning beauty all

I had to say fades from my swimming brain,

And chokes upon my tongue.

Enter Serafina, drest as at first, and Porcia.

Porcia. And must we part so quickly?—

Serafina. When does happiness

Last longer?

Alv. Never!—who best can answer that?

I standing by, why ask it of another?

At least when speaking of such happiness

As, perjured woman, thy false presence brings!

Ser. Alvaro, for Heaven’s sake spare me the pang

Of these unjust reproaches.

Alv. What! unjust!

Ser. Why, is it not unjust, condemning one

Without defence?

Alv. Without defence indeed!

Ser. Not that I have not a most just defence,

But that you will not listen.

Alv. Serafina,

I listen’d; but what wholly satisfies

The criminal may ill suffice the judge;

And in love’s court especially, a word

Has quite a different meaning to the soul

Of speaker and of hearer. Yet once more,

Speak.

Ser. To what purpose? I can but repeat

What I have told your sister, and she you,—

What on the sudden waking from my swoon,

I, who had thought you dead so long, Alvaro,

Spoke in my terror, suddenly seeing you

Alive, before me.

Alv. I were better, then,

Dead than alive?

Ser. I know not—were you dead

I might in honour weep for you, Alvaro;

Living, I must not.

Alv. Nay then, whether you

Forswear me living or lament me dead,

Now you must hear me; if you strike the wound,

Is it not just that you should hear the cry?

Ser. I must not.

Alv. But I say you must.

Ser. Porcia,

Will you not help me when my life and honour

Are thus at stake?

Alv. Porcia’s duty lies

In keeping watch that no one interrupt us.

Porcia. Between the two confused, I yield at last

To him, both as my brother, Serafina,

And for his love to you. Compose yourself;

I shall be close at hand, no harm can happen.

And let him weep at least who has lost all.

[Exit.

Ser. If I am forced to hear you then, Alvaro,

You shall hear me too, once more, once for all,

Freely confessing that I loved you once;

Ay, long and truly loved you. When all hope

Of being yours with your reported death

Had died, then, yielding to my father’s wish,

I wed another, and am—what I am.

So help me Heaven, Alvaro, this is all!

Alv. How can I answer if you weep?

Ser. No, no,

I do not weep, or, if I do, ’tis but

My eyes,—no more, no deeper.

Alv. Is ’t possible you can so readily

Turn warm compassion into cold disdain!

And are your better pulses so controll’d

By a cold heart, that, to enhance the triumph

Over the wretched victim of your eyes,

You make the fount of tears to stop or flow

Just as you please? If so, teach me the trick,

As the last courtesy you will vouchsafe me.

Ser. Alvaro, when I think of what I was,

My tears will forth; but when of what I am,

My honour bids them cease.

Alv. You do feel then—

Ser. Nay, I’ll deny it not.

Alv. That, being another’s—

Ser. Nay, no argument—

Alv. These tears—

Ser. What tears?

Alv. Are the relenting rain

On which the Iris of my hope may ride;

Or a sweet dew—

Ser. Alvaro—

Alv. That foretells

That better day when in these arms again—

Ser. Those arms! Alvaro, when that day shall come

May heaven’s thunder strike me dead at once!

(Cannon within.)

Mercy, what’s that?

Enter Porcia.

Porcia. A signal from the ship,

’Tis time: your father and Don Juan now

Are coming for you.

Alv. O heavens!

Por. Compose yourself,

And you, Alvaro——(Motions him back.)

Enter Don Juan, Luis, Pedro, Leonelo, etc.

Luis. Lady, believe how sadly I am come

To do you this last office.

Juan. Trembling still?—

But come, perhaps the sea-breeze, in requital

Of bearing us away from those we love,

May yet revive you.

Luis. Well, if it must be so,

Lady, your hand. Porcia, come with us.

[Exeunt all but Alvaro.

ACT II

Scene I.—A room in Don Juan’s house at Barcelona: he is discovered painting Serafina. It gradually grows dusk.

Juan. Are you not wearied sitting?

Serafina. Surely not

Till you be wearied painting.

Juan. Oh, so much

As I have wish’d to have that divine face

Painted, and by myself, I now begin

To wish I had not wish’d it.

Ser. But why so?

Juan. Because I must be worsted in the trial

I have brought on myself.

Ser. You to despair,

Who never are outdone but by yourself!

Juan. Even so.

Ser. But why so?

Juan. Shall I tell you why?

Painters, you know, (just turn your head a little,)

Are nature’s apes, whose uglier semblances,

Made up of disproportion and excess,

Like apes, they easily can imitate:

But whose more gracious aspect, the result

Of subtlest symmetries, they only outrage,

Turning true beauty into caricature.

The perfecter her beauty, the more complex

And hard to follow; but her perfection

Impossible.

Ser. That I dare say is true,

But surely not in point with me, whose face

Is surely far from perfect.

Juan. Far indeed

From what is perfect call’d, but far beyond,

Not short of it; so that indeed my reason

Was none at all.

Ser. Well now then the true reason

Of your disgust.

Juan. Yet scarcely my disgust,

When you continue still the cause of it.

Well then, to take the matter up again—

The object of this act, (pray, look at me,

And do not laugh, Serafina,) is to seize

Those subtlest symmetries that, as I said,

Are subtlest in the loveliest; and though

It has been half the study of my life

To recognise and represent true beauty,

I had not dreamt of such excess of it

As yours; nor can I, when before my eyes,

Take the clear image in my trembling soul;

And therefore if that face of yours exceed

Imagination, and imagination

(As it must do) the pencil; then my picture

Can be but the poor shadow of a shade.

Besides,—

Ser. Can there be any thing besides?

Juan. ’Tis said that fire and light, and air and snow,

Cannot be painted; how much less a face

Where they are so distinct, yet so compounded,

As needs must drive the artist to despair!

I’ll give it up.——(Throws away his brushes, etc.)

The light begins to fail too.

And Serafina, pray remember this,

If, tempted ever by your loveliness,

And fresh presumption that forgets defeat,

I’d have you sit again, allow me not,—

It does but vex me.

Ser. Nay, if it do that

I will not, Juan, or let me die for it,—

Come, there’s an oath upon ’t.

Juan. A proper curse

On that rebellious face.

Enter Leonelo.

Leonelo. And here comes in a story:—

A man got suddenly deaf, and seeing the people about him moving their lips, quoth he, ‘What the devil makes you all dumb?’ never thinking for a moment the fault might be in himself. So it is with you, who lay the blame on a face that all the world is praising, and not on your own want of skill to paint it.

Juan. Not a very apt illustration, Leonelo, as you would admit if you heard what I was saying before you came in. But, whose soever the fault, I am the sufferer. I will no more of it, however. Come, I will abroad.

Ser. Whither, my lord?

Juan. Down to the pier, with the sea and the fresh air, to dispel my vexation.

Ser. By quitting me?

Juan. I might indeed say so, since the sight of you is the perpetual trophy of my defeat. But what if leave you in order to return with a double zest?

Ser. Nay, nay, with no such pretty speeches hope to delude me; I know what it is. The carnival with its fair masks.

Juan. A mask abroad when I have that face at home!

Ser. Nay, nay, I know you.

Juan. Better than I do myself?

Ser. What wife does not?

Leon. Just so. A German and the priest of his village coming to high words one day, because the man blew his swine’s horn under the priest’s window, the priest calls out in a rage, ‘I’ll denounce your horns to the parish, I will!’ which the man’s wife overhearing in the scullery, she cries out, ‘Halloa, neighbour, here is the priest revealing my confession!’

Ser. What impertinence, Leonelo!

Leon. Very well then, listen to this; a certain man in Barcelona had five or six children, and one day—

Juan. Peace, foolish fellow.

Leon. Those poor children will never get the meat well into their mouths.

Juan. Farewell, my love, awhile.

[Exeunt Juan and Leonelo.

Ser. Farewell, my lord.

Thou little wicked Cupid,

I am amused to find how by degrees

The wound your arrows in my bosom made,

And made to run so fast with tears, is healing.

Yea, how those very arrows and the bow

That did such mischief, being snapt asunder—

Thyself art tamed to a good household child.

Enter Flora, out of breath.

Flora. O madam!

Ser. Well, Flora, what now?

Flora. O madam, there is a man down-stairs!

Ser. Well?

Flora. Drest sailor-like.

Ser. Well?

Flora. He will not go away unless I give this letter into your hands.

Ser. Into my hands? from whom?

Flora. From the lady Porcia he says, madam.

Ser. From Porcia, well, and what frightens you?

Flora. Nothing, madam, and yet—

Ser. And yet there is something.

Flora. O, my lady, if this should be Don Alvaro!

Ser. Don Alvaro! what makes you think that?

Flora. I am sure it is he.

Ser. But did you tell him you knew him?

Flora. I could not help, madam, in my surprise.

Ser. And what said he then?

Flora. That I must tell you he was here.

Ser. Alvaro!—

Flora, go back, tell him you dared not tell me,

Fearful of my rebuke, and say beside,

As of your own advice, that it is fit,

Both for himself and me,

That he depart immediately.

Flora. Yes, madam.

As she is going, enter Alvaro, as a Sailor.

Alvaro. No need. Seeing Don Juan leave his house,

I have made bold to enter, and have heard

What Flora need not to repeat.

Ser. Nay, sir,

Rather it seems as if you had not heard;

Seeing the most emphatic errand was

To bid you hence.

Alv. So might it seem perhaps,

Inexorable beauty: but you know

How one delinquency another breeds:

And having come so far, and thus disguised,

Only to worship at your shrine, Serafina,

(I dare not talk of love,) I do beseech you

Do not so frown at my temerity,

As to reject the homage that it brings.

Ser. Don Alvaro,

If thus far I have listen’d, think it not

Warrant of further importunity.

I could not help it—’tis with dread and terror

That I have heard thus much; I now beseech you,

Since you profess you came to honour me,

Show that you did so truly by an act

That shall become your honour well as mine.

Alv. Speak, Serafina.

Ser. Leave me so at once,

And without further parley,

That I may be assured you are assured

That lapse of time, my duty as a wife,

My husband’s love for me, and mine for him,

My station and my name, all have so changed me,

That winds and waves might sooner overturn

Not the oak only,

But the eternal rock on which it grows,

Than you my heart, though sea and sky themselves