GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXI. September, 1842 No. 3.

Contents

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXI. PHILADELPHIA: SEPTEMBER, 1842. No. 3.

THE SPANISH STUDENT.

———

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

———

What’s done we partly may compute,

But know not what’s resisted.

Burns.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Victorian, Student of Alcalá.

Hypolito, Student of Alcalá.

Count of Lara, Gentleman of Madrid.

Don Carlos, Gentleman of Madrid.

The Arch-Bishop of Toledo.

A Cardinal.

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Gipsies.

Padre, Cura of El Pardillo.

Pedro Crespo, Alcalde.

Pancho, Alguacil.

Francisco, Valet.

Chispa, Valet.

Preciosa, a Gipsy girl.

Angelica, a poor girl.

Martina, Padre Cura’s niece.

Dolores, Preciosa’s maid.

Gipsies and Musicians.

ACT THE FIRST.

Scene I.—The Count of Lara’s chambers. Night. The Count in his dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with Don Carlos.

Lara. You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos;

How happens it?

Don Carlos. I had engagements elsewhere:

Pray who was there?

Lara. Why, all the town and court.

The house was crowded; and the busy fans

Among the gaily dressed and perfumed ladies

Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers.

There was the Countess of Medina Celi;

The Goblin Lady with her Fantom Lover,

Her Lindo Don Diego; Doña Sal,

And Doña Serafina, and her cousins.

But o’er them all the lovely Violante

Shone like a star, nay, a whole heaven of stars.

Don Carlos. What was the play?

Lara. It was a dull affair.

One of those comedies in which you see,

As Lopè says, the history of the world

Brought down from Genesis to the day of judgment.

There were three duels in the first tornada,

Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds,

Laying their hands upon their hearts and saying

O I am dead! A lover in a closet,

An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan,

A Doña Inez with a black mantilla

Followed at twilight by an unknown lover,

Who looks intently where he knows she is not!

Don Carlos. Of course the Preciosa danced to-night?

Lara. And ne’er danced better. Every footstep fell

As lightly as a sunbeam on the water.

I think the girl extremely beautiful.

Don Carlos. Almost beyond the privilege of woman!

I saw her in the Prado yesterday.

Her step was royal—queen-like—and her face

As beauteous as a saint’s in Paradise.

Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise,

And be no more a saint?

Don Carlos. Why do you ask?

Lara. Because ’tis whispered that this angel fell;

And though she is a virgin outwardly,

Within she is a sinner; like those panels

Or doors and altar-pieces, the old monks

Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary

On the outside, and on the inside Venus!

Don Carlos. Nay, nay! you do her wrong.

Lara. Ah! say you so?

Don Carlos. She is as virtuous as she is fair;

A very modest girl, and still a maid.

Lara. You are too credulous. Would you persuade me

That a mere dancing girl, who shows herself

Nightly, half-naked, on the stage for money,

And with voluptuous motions fires the blood

Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held

A model for her virtue?

Don Carlos. You forget

That she’s a gipsy girl.

Lara. And therefore won

The easier.

Don Carlos. Nay, not to be won at all!

The only virtue that a gipsy prizes

Is chastity. That is her only virtue.

Dearer than life she holds it. I remember

A gipsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd,

Whose craft was to betray the young and fair;

And yet this woman was above all bribes.

And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty,

The wild and wizard beauty of her race,

Offered her gold to be what she made others,

She turned upon him, with a look of scorn,

And smote him in the face!

Lara. Most virtuous gipsy!

Don Carlos. Nay, do not mock me. I would fain believe

That woman, in her deepest degradation,

Holds something sacred, something undefiled,

Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature,

And, like the diamond in the dark, retains

Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light!

Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold.

Don Carlos. (rising.) You will not be persuaded!

Lara. Yes; persuade me.

Don Carlos. No one so deaf as he who will not hear!

Lara. No one so blind as he who will not see!

Don Carlos. And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams,

And greater faith in woman.— [Exit.

Lara. Greater faith!

Thou shallow-pated fool! Do I not know

Victorian is her lover?

Enter Francisco with a casket.

Well, Francisco,

What speed with Preciosa?

Fran. None my lord.

She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you

She is not to be purchased by your gold.

Lara. Then I will try some other way to win her.

Pray dost thou know Victorian?

Fran. Yes, my lord;

I saw him at the jeweller’s to-day.

Lara. What was he doing there?

Fran. I saw him buy

A golden ring, that had a ruby in it.

Lara. Was there another like it?

Fran. One so like it

I could not choose between them.

Lara. It is well.

To-morrow morning bring that ring to me.

Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. [Exeunt.

Scene II.—A street in Madrid. Night. Enter Chispa, followed by musicians, with a bag-pipe, guitars, and other instruments.

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the elements instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here’s my master, Victorian, yesterday a cow-keeper and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. Man is fire, and woman is tow, and the devil comes and blows; and, therefore, I have heard my grandmother say, that if your neighbor has a son, wipe his nose and marry him to your daughter. Aye! marry! marry! marry! Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daughter! And of a truth there is something more in matrimony than cake and kid gloves. (To the musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray walk this way; and don’t hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the man in the moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend?

First Musician. Geronimo Gil, at your service.

Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Geronimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee?

First M. Why so?

Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day for those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that?

First M. An Aragonese bag-pipe.

Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bag-piper of Bujalance, who asked a maravedi for playing and ten for leaving off?

First M. No, your honor.

Chispa. I am glad of it. What other instruments have we?

Second and Third M. We play the bandurria.

Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou?

Fourth M. The fife.

Chispa. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that soars up to my lady’s window like the song of a swallow. And you others?

Other Musicians. We are the singers, please your honor.

Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the Cathedral of Cordova? Four men can make but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the garden wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady’s window. It is by the vicar’s skirts that the devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me and make no noise. [Exeunt.

Scene III.—Preciosa’s Chamber. She stands by the open window.

Preciosa. How slowly through the lilac-scented air

Descends the tranquil moon! Like thistle-down

The vapory clouds float in the peaceful sky:

And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade

The nightingales breathe out their souls in song,

Flattering the ear of night. And hark! what sounds

Answer them from below!

Serenade.

Stars of the summer night!

Far in yon azure deeps,

Hide, hide your golden light,

She sleeps!

My lady sleeps!

Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night!

Far down yon western steeps,

Sink, sink in silver light!

She sleeps!

My lady sleeps!

Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night!

Where yonder woodbine creeps,

Fold, fold your pinions light!

She sleeps!

My lady sleeps!

Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night!

Tell her, her lover keeps

Watch! while in slumber light

She sleeps!

My lady sleeps!

Sleeps!

Enter Victorian by the balcony.

Victorian. Poor little dove! Thou tremblest like a leaf!

Pre. I am so frightened!—’Tis for thee I tremble!

I hate to have thee climb that wall by night!

Did no one see thee?

Vic. None, my love, but thou.

Pre. ’Tis very dangerous; and when thou’rt gone

I chide myself for letting thee come here

Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been?

Since yesterday I have no news from thee.

Vic. Since yesterday I’ve been in Alcalá.

Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa,

When that dull distance shall no more divide us;

And I no more shall scale thy wall by night

To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.

Pre. An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest.

Vic. And we shall sit together unmolested,

And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue,

As singing birds from one bough to another.

Pre. That were a life indeed to make time envious!

I knew that thou wouldst visit me to-night.

I saw thee at the play.

Vic. Sweet child of air!

Never did I behold thee so attired

And garmented in beauty, as to-night!

What hast thou done to make thee look so fair?

Pre. Am I not always fair?

Vic. Aye, and so fair,

That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee,

And wish that they were blind.

Pre. I heed them not;

When thou art present, I see none but thee!

Vic. There’s nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes

Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.

Pre. And yet thou leav’st me for those dusty books.

Vic. Thou com’st between me and those books too often!

I see thy face in every thing I see!

The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks,

The canticles are changed to sarabands,

And with the learned doctors of the schools

I see thee dance cachuchas.

Pre. In good sooth,

I dance with the learned doctors of the schools

To-morrow morning.

Vic. And with whom, I pray?

Pre. A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace

The Archbishop of Toledo.

Vic. What mad jest

Is this?

Pre. It is no jest. Indeed it is not.

Vic. Pr’ythee, explain thyself.

Pre. Why simply thus.

Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain

To put a stop to dances on the stage.

Vic. I’ve heard it whispered.

Pre. Now the Cardinal,

Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold

With his own eyes these dances: and the Archbishop

Has sent for me.

Vic. That thou may’st dance before them.

Now viva la cachucha! It will breathe

The fire of youth into these gray old men,

And make them half forget that they are old!

’Twill be thy proudest conquest!

Pre. Saving one.

And yet I fear the dances will be stopped,

And Preciosa be once more a beggar.

Vic. The sweetest beggar that e’er asked for alms;

With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee

I gave my heart away!

Pre. Dost thou remember

When first we met?

Vic. It was at Cordova,

In the Cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting

Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain.

Pre. ’Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees

Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.

The priests were singing, and the organ sounded,

And then anon the great Cathedral bell.

It was the elevation of the Host.

We both of us fell down upon our knees,

Under the orange boughs, and prayed together.

I never had been happy, till that moment.

Vic. Thou blessed angel!

Pre. And when thou wast gone

I felt an aching here. I did not speak

To any one that day.

Vic. Sweet Preciosa!

I lov’d thee even then, though I was silent!

Pre. I thought I ne’er should see thy face again.

Thy farewell had to me a sound of sorrow.

Vic. That was the first sound in the song of love!

Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound.

Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings

Of that mysterious instrument, the soul,

And play the prelude of our fate. We hear

The voice prophetic, and are not alone.

Pre. That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings?

Vic. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts

Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present.

As drops of rain fall into some dark well,

And from below comes a scarce audible sound⁠—

So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter,

And their mysterious echo reaches us.

Pre. I’ve felt it so, but found no words to say it!