— PRECIOSA’S bedchamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in an arm-chair, in an undress. DOLORES watching her.
Dol. She sleeps at last!
(Opens the window, and listens.)
All silent in the street,
And in the garden. Hark!
Prec. (in her sleep). I must go hence!
Give me my cloak!
Dol. He comes! I hear his footsteps.
Prec. Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night;
I am too ill! Look at me! See the fever 1160
That burns upon my cheek! I must go hence.
I am too weak to dance.
(Signal from the garden.)
Dol. (from the window). Who ‘s there?
Voice (from below). A friend.
Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I come.
Prec. I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me!
Shame! shame! to treat a feeble woman thus! 1165
Be you but kind, I will do all things for you.
I ‘m ready now, — give me my castanets.
Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps!
They glare upon me like an evil eye.
I cannot stay. Hark! how they mock at me! 1170
They hiss at me like serpents! Save me! save me!
(She wakes.)
How late is it, Dolores?
Dol. It is midnight.
Prec. We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me.
(She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices.)
Voice. Muera!
Another voice. O villains! villains!
Lara. So! have at you!
Voice. Take that!
Lara. Oh, I am wounded!
Dol. (shutting the window). Jesu Maria!
ACT III
SCENE I. — A cross-road through a wood. In the background a distant village spire. VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO, as travelling students, with guitars, sitting under the trees. HYPOLITO plays and sings.
SONG
Ah, Love! 1175
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!
Enemy
Of all that mankind may not rue!
Most untrue
To him who keeps most faith with thee. 1180
Woe is me!
The falcon has the eyes of the dove.
Ah, Love!
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!
Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, 1185
Is ever weaving into life’s dull warp
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian;
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate
In never-ending vistas of delight. 1190
Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures,
Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall.
SONG (continued)
Thy deceits
Give us clearly to comprehend,
Whither tend 1195
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets!
They are cheats,
Thorns below and flowers above.
Ah, Love!
Perjured, false, treacherous Love! 1200
Vict. A very pretty song. I thank thee for it.
Hyp. It suits thy case.
Vict. Indeed, I think it does.
What wise man wrote it?
Hyp. Lopez Maldonado.
Vict. In truth, a pretty song.
Hyp. With much truth in it.
I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest 1205
Try to forget this lady of thy love.
Vict. I will forget her! All dear recollections
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book,
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds!
I will forget her! But perhaps hereafter, 1210
When she shall learn how heartless is the world,
A voice within her will repeat my name,
And she will say, “He was indeed my friend!”
Oh, would I were a soldier, not a scholar,
That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, 1215
The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet,
The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm,
And a swift death, might make me deaf forever
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart!
Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more! 1220
To conquer love, one need but will to conquer.
Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain
I throw into Oblivion’s sea the sword
That pierces me; for, like Excalibar,
With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. 1225
There rises from below a hand that grasps it,
And waves it in the air; and wailing voices
Are heard along the shore.
Hyp. And yet at last
Down sank Excalibar to rise no more.
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. 1230
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time,
To make them jog on merrily with life’s burden,
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels.
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health
To talk of dying.
Vict. Yet I fain would die! 1235
To go through life, unloving and unloved;
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul
We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse,
And struggle after something we have not
And cannot have; the effort to be strong; 1240
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile,
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks;
All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone!
Would I were with them!
Hyp. We shall all be soon.
Vict. It cannot be too soon; for I am weary 1245
Of the bewildering masquerade of Life,
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers;
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts;
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, 1250
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us
A mockery and a jest; maddened, — confused, —
Not knowing friend from foe.
Hyp. Why seek to know?
Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth!
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, 1255
Nor strive to look beneath it.
Vict. I confess,
That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man,
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner,
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, 1260
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off,
And sinks again into the weltering sea,
Helpless and hopeless!
Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish.
The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation.
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines 1265
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star!
(Sound of a village bell in the distance.)
Vict. Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan
Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry!
A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide
Over the red roofs of the cottages, 1270
And bids the laboring hind afield, the shepherd,
Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer,
And all the crowd in village streets, stand still,
And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin!
Hyp. Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence 1275
The village lies.
Vict. This path will lead us to it,
Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail
Across the running sea, now green, now blue,
And, like an idle mariner on the main, 1280
Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. — Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group of Gypsies. The bell rings a merrier peal. A Gypsy dance. Enter PANCHO, followed by PEDRO CRESPO.
Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and Gypsy thieves!
Make room for the Alcalde and for me!
Pedro C. Keep silence all! I have an edict here
From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, 1285
Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands,
Which I shall publish in the market-place.
Open your ears and listen!
(Enter the PADRE CURA at the door of his cottage.)
Padre Cura,
Good day! and, pray you, hear this edict read.
Padre C. Good day, and God be with you! 1290
Pray, what is it?
Pedro C. An act of banishment against the Gypsies!
(Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.)
Pancho. Silence!
Pedro C. (reads). “I hereby order and command,
That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers,
Known by the name of Gypsies, shall henceforth 1295
Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds
And beggars; and if, after seventy days,
Any be found within our kingdom’s bounds,
They shall receive a hundred lashes each;
The second time, shall have their ears cut off; 1300
The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them,
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King.”
Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized!
You hear the law! Obey and disappear!
Pancho. And if in seventy days you are not gone, 1305
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.
(The Gypsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and discontent. PANCHO follows.)
Padre C. A righteous law! A very righteous law!
Pray you, sit down.
Pedro C. I thank you heartily.
(They seat themselves on a bench at the PADRE CURA’S door. Sound of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue which follows.)
A very righteous judgment, as you say.
Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know all things, — 1310
How came these Gypsies into Spain?
Padre C. Why, look you;
They came with Hercules from Palestine,
And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde,
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus.
And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, 1315
There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor
Is not a Christian, so ‘t is with the Gypsies.
They never marry, never go to mass,
Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent,
Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — nor — 1320
Pedro C. Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all!
No matter for the other ninety-five.
They should be burnt, I see it plain enough,
They should be burnt.
(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO playing.)
Padre C. And pray, whom have we here? 1325
Pedro C. More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants!
Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen! Is this Guadarrama?
Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you.
Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village;
And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, 1330
You must be he.
Padre C. I am. Pray, what ‘s your pleasure?
Hyp. We are poor students travelling in vacation.
You know this mark?
(Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.)
Padre C. (joyfully). Ay, know it, and have worn it.
Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters! by the mass! The worst of vagrants!
And there ‘s no law against them. Sir, your servant. [Exit. 1335
Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo.
Hyp. Padre Cura,
From the first moment I beheld your face,
I said within myself, “This is the man!”
There is a certain something in your looks,
A certain scholar-like and studious something, — 1340
You understand, — which cannot be mistaken;
Which marks you as a very learned man,
In fine, as one of us.
Vict. (aside). What impudence!
Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion,
“That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!” 1345
Meaning your Grace. “The other man,” said I,
“Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench,
Must be the sacristan.”
Padre C. Ah! said you so?
Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde!
Hyp. Indeed! you much astonish me! His air 1350
Was not so full of dignity and grace
As an alcalde’s should be.
Padre C. That is true,
He ‘s out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies,
Who have their camp here in the neighborhood.
There ‘s nothing so undignified as anger. 1355
Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness,
If, from his well-known hospitality,
We crave a lodging for the night.
Padre C. I pray you!
You do me honor! I am but too happy
To have such guests beneath my humble roof. 1360
It is not often that I have occasion
To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores,
Nec sinit esse feros, Cicero says.
Hyp. ‘T is Ovid, is it not?
Padre C. No, Cicero.
Hyp. Your Grace is right.
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