Their talk is interrupted by the return of Don Enriquez and the arrival of a secret agent of his from a mission whose object was to destroy Albuquerque, and gain the King's good graces through an alliance with the Padillas. The Count asks his agent what is thought of Don Pedro in the South. The answer is:
PEDRO THE CRUEL
After one or two slight beginnings of romantic historical dramas, she made, in 1855, a more serious attempt on a more ambitious subject and in a style that denotes a considerable advance of power. This was the story of King Pedro the Cruel of Castille and his conflict with his illegitimate brothers, Fadrique and Enriquez. Her object was to depict the deterioration of a young noble nature under unnatural circumstances, the temptations of power, the sense of early cruel wrongs to himself and those he loved, the growing bitterness of an unnatural conflict, and the half-madness which all these causes produced in a hot, impetuous, though naturally a generous, temper. The one redeeming feature all through was his constant and devoted love to the beautiful young Andalusian, Maria de Padilla, whom in this drama he is supposed, as he is indeed afterwards asserted, to have privately married. Under her gentle influence he consents to pardon his rebellious brothers who are living in exile, when the drama opens, soon after Pedro's accession to the crown and his secret marriage with Maria.
Nine consecutive scenes were written. We shall extract the following:
ACT I., SCENE III
Maria and Juanito her young brother
Juan. Maria! thou art very beautiful.
Maria. Oh Juanito! Thou art not the first
Sweet flatterer who has told me so to-day.
Juan. Who was the other then?
Maria.Who but my mirror?
It whispered to me in the corridor
As I passed by just now, "How fair thou art
To-day. Maria!"
Juan.Didst thou answer it?
Maria. Oh Juanito, never be so witched
By vanity as I was; for what think'st thou?
Soon as I heard that whisper I turned back
And curtseyed to the self that stood before me
Smiling and curtseying too.
Juan.Sister, the King
Once told me that my eyes were just like yours,
And so I think he loves you for my sake;
For he will give me anything I ask him,
And makes as much of me as of a prince.
Maria. My little brother, if the King so loves thee,
Thou must love him. If all the world forsook him,
Thou wouldst still stand beside him, wouldst thou not?
Juan. Yes, that I would.
Maria.Then there's a kiss for thee.
Now run away and gather me some grapes
And figs, and leaves and flowers to deck them with.
[Exit Juantro,
There! there, I hear him! Surely it was he.
Maria. Oh Juanito! Thou art not the first
Sweet flatterer who has told me so to-day.
Juan. Who was the other then?
Maria.Who but my mirror?
It whispered to me in the corridor
As I passed by just now, "How fair thou art
To-day. Maria!"
Juan.Didst thou answer it?
Maria. Oh Juanito, never be so witched
By vanity as I was; for what think'st thou?
Soon as I heard that whisper I turned back
And curtseyed to the self that stood before me
Smiling and curtseying too.
Juan.Sister, the King
Once told me that my eyes were just like yours,
And so I think he loves you for my sake;
For he will give me anything I ask him,
And makes as much of me as of a prince.
Maria. My little brother, if the King so loves thee,
Thou must love him. If all the world forsook him,
Thou wouldst still stand beside him, wouldst thou not?
Juan. Yes, that I would.
Maria.Then there's a kiss for thee.
Now run away and gather me some grapes
And figs, and leaves and flowers to deck them with.
[Exit Juantro,
There! there, I hear him! Surely it was he.
Enter PeDro.
Pedro!
Pedro. My love! my beauty!
Maria.Oh my Pedro!
Pedro. My love! my love! how oft I dreamed of thee
Before the walls of Aguilar!
Maria.Sweet Cid!
Had no one told me thou com'st back a conquerer,
The rapture of thy step along the gallery,
The light that burst in with the opening door,
Would have revealed it.
Pedro.Thou art more to me
Than twice a hundred victories! Yet indeed
I am a conqueror and a King to-day—
Victory abroad, and love at home. Oh see,
Maria, never yet was King so blest.
Maria. Now tell me everything. Tell me, my Lord,
Where is Alonzo Coronel?
Pedro. He is dead.
Maria. What, did he perish in th' assault?
Pedro. Not so;
He fell into our hands and was despatched
Before my eyes.
Maria.Ah, that was not thy doing!
Where Albuquerque is, there the tender foot
Of mercy has no place.
Pedro. Yet by my soul
I almost longed to save him. Never knight,
Though a false traitor, was so proudly brave.
When all was lost, when thro' the breach my men
Stormed in behind my banner, like a flood,
He scorned to lift a hand in vain appeal.
He mad« no prayer for mercy; he was found
Bowing his haughty head before the Mass,
And asked no favour save a speedy death.
Maria. How royal look'st thou in thy pity, Pedro!
It well becomes thee.
Pedro. And how beautiful
Thy lips look when they flatter! Thou hast but to open them
And all thy thoughts are mine.
Maria. Am I a witch,then?
Pedro. The queen of Andalusian sorceresses!
Maria. And yet, my husband, yet that Coronel
Better deserved his fate than Garci Laso!
He who deserted in her utmost need
And hour of sorrow, Leonor,[1] his Lady,
Was false to manhood and his knighthood's faith.
Ne'er was he worthy of a Prince's trust.
Pedro. I was a boy then, but those days are o'er!
But lo, Maria, in the joy of meeting
I had forgot a strange perplexity
For which we must take counsel. Blanche of Bourbon
Has crossed the Pyrenees; my aunt and mother
Are gone to meet her.
Maria. Let me pity her
For loss of such a happiness. Ah, Pedro!
I robbed her e'er she knew her treasure's worth.
But we were wrong to let the time fly by
In that sweet thoughtlessness.
Pedro? The hour has come!
Now, now will I proclaim thee to Castille
As my true wedded queen.
Maria. Pedro, not so!
To do that now were now to lose Castille.
Thou must not yet in all the people's eyes
So shame thy father's crown.
Pedro. By Heaven, that man
Who dares to say my crown is shamed by thee,
Shall lose his lying tongue. I am the King,
And she I wed, whoe'er she be, is queen.
Let all Castille gainsay it, if it dare!
Maria. Ah, let me linger here a little longer,
Caged in the green bowers of this Paradise,
A little longer, ere thou lead'st me up
The proud stair of the throne. I am so happy!
I love to dream myself thy secret angel.
I do not want with jewelled royalty
To crown a scornful brow and tread Castille
Beneath a conqueror's foot.
Pedro. Scorn'st thou my crown?
It is the noblest thing I have to give thee.
Maria. What! nobler than thy heart? And does my husband
Think that his wedded wife disdains his crown,
That gracious diadem that flings its light
From stern Galicia's heights and fierce Biscay
To lordly Cordova and sweet Seville?
Let him not think so for his true wife's sake.
Pedro. Then wear it!
Maria.Nay, too much I honour it
To put it on ere I have learnt the lesson
How to become it gracefully and well.
Pedro. And Blanche of Bourbon? Wilt thou have me lead
Her to the altar before God and man,
When God and man have bound me unto thee?
Give me that ring; perchance 'twill fit her hand.
Maria. No, my sweet Pedro! Thou must take good counsel
How courteously and kingly to put by
The bride thy mother and thy tutor found thee—
But oh, what talk we? Are we not like children
Whom soon the rod will threaten back to duty?
Canst thou withstand thy master to his face?
Pedro. Now hush, Maria! Am I not the King?
And yet time was, he was my only friend.
He gave me royal nurture when my father
Forgot his heir—he gave my mother honour
When her own husband taught the world to scorn her.
He was my friend.
Maria.God gave thee better friends:
But thou hast suffered man to put them from thee.
Pedro. Whom speak'st thou of?
Maria.Thy brothers, oh my husband.
Alas, thy father's orphans have been wronged,
Because thy father loved them, and because
God hath exalted thee so far above them.
Pedro. So far as I was once abased beneath them.
I was my father's heir—they were his children.
They grew up in the sunshine—I in shadow.
My childhood's curse, my boyhood's bitterness,
Above all others was Enriquez' name.
Oft as my father showered fresh graces on him,
My mother tortured with her sighing pity,
And murmurs of despairing jealousy
The blushing agonies of my child's pride.
How would she prophesy o'er her victim boy
A thousand wrongs and perils from Enriquez,
And every lip around me echoed her.
If I offended in my waywardness,
I was chastised with mention of his name.
Failed I in any martial enterprise
Of sword or spear, or feat of horsemanship,
Still was I taunted with Enriquez' skill.
"How," would they ask, "wilt thou defend thy crown
From him hereafter who so far excels thee?
As sinners with the devils, so was I
Still threatened with Enriquez. Such the lesson
Burnt into me from my cradle.
Maria. Ah, unlearn it!
Now thou art raised so high, and they brought low.
Pedro. Maria, I will not sue to them again
To let me pardon them! They trust me not!
Like young wild hawks, amid the northern hills,
Cowering and fiercely shy, deaf to my voice,
In dangerous sullen silence still they watch me.
Maria. Their mother, Pedro! Oh, their murdered mother!
How should they trust thee? How should they come near thee?
Blessed be God, the crime was none of thine;
But he who did it is thy minister,
And stands so near thee that his guilt's vast shadow
Blots thy young royalty. What, must I kneel?
Pedro. Thou look'st so lovely so, I will not raise thee.
Speak thy petition.
Maria. Wilt thou say me no?
Pedro. Try me. What wilt thou?
Maria. May it please Don Pedro,
Recall thy brothers, banish Albuquerque.
Pedro. 'Tis granted, love, joyfully, fully, freely!
Already for thy sake I love my brothers;
Already in my heart I do embrace them;
Next to myself and thee they shall have worship,
And all Castille shall know them for my friends.
Maria. Now is my heart in tears with happiness.
Pedro. Risest thou not? What more dost thou require?
Maria. His suppliant further will entreat Don Pedro
That he will royally and reverently
Entreat the Lady Blanche in all things, saving
To take her for his queen.
Pedro. Granted as well.
What wilt thou more?
Maria. That it may please Don Pedro
To take the orphans of Don Juan de Lara,
Doña Juana and Doña Isabel,
Out of the hands of Juan de Albuquerque,
And give the eldest to her affianced lord,
Don Tello, brother to the said Don Pedro.
Pedro. Granted. What further?
Maria. May it please Don Pedro
To take no step rashly or hastily,
But first to take due counsel from those true
And sage advisers that his wife shall name,
To wit, her Uncle Juan Hinetrosa,
Don Simuel Levi, the King's treasurer,
Diego de Padilla, his wife's brother,
And lastly one Maria de Padilla,
His servant, friend, and wife unto all time.
Pedro. Granted, my love.
Maria. Now may I kiss thy hand,
And rise the happiest of all suppliants.
For happiness is hallowed by good deeds,
And flowers and fruit are mingled on one tree.
Pedro. My love! my beauty!
Maria.Oh my Pedro!
Pedro. My love! my love! how oft I dreamed of thee
Before the walls of Aguilar!
Maria.Sweet Cid!
Had no one told me thou com'st back a conquerer,
The rapture of thy step along the gallery,
The light that burst in with the opening door,
Would have revealed it.
Pedro.Thou art more to me
Than twice a hundred victories! Yet indeed
I am a conqueror and a King to-day—
Victory abroad, and love at home. Oh see,
Maria, never yet was King so blest.
Maria. Now tell me everything. Tell me, my Lord,
Where is Alonzo Coronel?
Pedro. He is dead.
Maria. What, did he perish in th' assault?
Pedro. Not so;
He fell into our hands and was despatched
Before my eyes.
Maria.Ah, that was not thy doing!
Where Albuquerque is, there the tender foot
Of mercy has no place.
Pedro. Yet by my soul
I almost longed to save him. Never knight,
Though a false traitor, was so proudly brave.
When all was lost, when thro' the breach my men
Stormed in behind my banner, like a flood,
He scorned to lift a hand in vain appeal.
He mad« no prayer for mercy; he was found
Bowing his haughty head before the Mass,
And asked no favour save a speedy death.
Maria. How royal look'st thou in thy pity, Pedro!
It well becomes thee.
Pedro. And how beautiful
Thy lips look when they flatter! Thou hast but to open them
And all thy thoughts are mine.
Maria. Am I a witch,then?
Pedro. The queen of Andalusian sorceresses!
Maria. And yet, my husband, yet that Coronel
Better deserved his fate than Garci Laso!
He who deserted in her utmost need
And hour of sorrow, Leonor,[1] his Lady,
Was false to manhood and his knighthood's faith.
Ne'er was he worthy of a Prince's trust.
Pedro. I was a boy then, but those days are o'er!
But lo, Maria, in the joy of meeting
I had forgot a strange perplexity
For which we must take counsel. Blanche of Bourbon
Has crossed the Pyrenees; my aunt and mother
Are gone to meet her.
Maria. Let me pity her
For loss of such a happiness. Ah, Pedro!
I robbed her e'er she knew her treasure's worth.
But we were wrong to let the time fly by
In that sweet thoughtlessness.
Pedro? The hour has come!
Now, now will I proclaim thee to Castille
As my true wedded queen.
Maria. Pedro, not so!
To do that now were now to lose Castille.
Thou must not yet in all the people's eyes
So shame thy father's crown.
Pedro. By Heaven, that man
Who dares to say my crown is shamed by thee,
Shall lose his lying tongue. I am the King,
And she I wed, whoe'er she be, is queen.
Let all Castille gainsay it, if it dare!
Maria. Ah, let me linger here a little longer,
Caged in the green bowers of this Paradise,
A little longer, ere thou lead'st me up
The proud stair of the throne. I am so happy!
I love to dream myself thy secret angel.
I do not want with jewelled royalty
To crown a scornful brow and tread Castille
Beneath a conqueror's foot.
Pedro. Scorn'st thou my crown?
It is the noblest thing I have to give thee.
Maria. What! nobler than thy heart? And does my husband
Think that his wedded wife disdains his crown,
That gracious diadem that flings its light
From stern Galicia's heights and fierce Biscay
To lordly Cordova and sweet Seville?
Let him not think so for his true wife's sake.
Pedro. Then wear it!
Maria.Nay, too much I honour it
To put it on ere I have learnt the lesson
How to become it gracefully and well.
Pedro. And Blanche of Bourbon? Wilt thou have me lead
Her to the altar before God and man,
When God and man have bound me unto thee?
Give me that ring; perchance 'twill fit her hand.
Maria. No, my sweet Pedro! Thou must take good counsel
How courteously and kingly to put by
The bride thy mother and thy tutor found thee—
But oh, what talk we? Are we not like children
Whom soon the rod will threaten back to duty?
Canst thou withstand thy master to his face?
Pedro. Now hush, Maria! Am I not the King?
And yet time was, he was my only friend.
He gave me royal nurture when my father
Forgot his heir—he gave my mother honour
When her own husband taught the world to scorn her.
He was my friend.
Maria.God gave thee better friends:
But thou hast suffered man to put them from thee.
Pedro. Whom speak'st thou of?
Maria.Thy brothers, oh my husband.
Alas, thy father's orphans have been wronged,
Because thy father loved them, and because
God hath exalted thee so far above them.
Pedro. So far as I was once abased beneath them.
I was my father's heir—they were his children.
They grew up in the sunshine—I in shadow.
My childhood's curse, my boyhood's bitterness,
Above all others was Enriquez' name.
Oft as my father showered fresh graces on him,
My mother tortured with her sighing pity,
And murmurs of despairing jealousy
The blushing agonies of my child's pride.
How would she prophesy o'er her victim boy
A thousand wrongs and perils from Enriquez,
And every lip around me echoed her.
If I offended in my waywardness,
I was chastised with mention of his name.
Failed I in any martial enterprise
Of sword or spear, or feat of horsemanship,
Still was I taunted with Enriquez' skill.
"How," would they ask, "wilt thou defend thy crown
From him hereafter who so far excels thee?
As sinners with the devils, so was I
Still threatened with Enriquez. Such the lesson
Burnt into me from my cradle.
Maria. Ah, unlearn it!
Now thou art raised so high, and they brought low.
Pedro. Maria, I will not sue to them again
To let me pardon them! They trust me not!
Like young wild hawks, amid the northern hills,
Cowering and fiercely shy, deaf to my voice,
In dangerous sullen silence still they watch me.
Maria. Their mother, Pedro! Oh, their murdered mother!
How should they trust thee? How should they come near thee?
Blessed be God, the crime was none of thine;
But he who did it is thy minister,
And stands so near thee that his guilt's vast shadow
Blots thy young royalty. What, must I kneel?
Pedro. Thou look'st so lovely so, I will not raise thee.
Speak thy petition.
Maria. Wilt thou say me no?
Pedro. Try me. What wilt thou?
Maria. May it please Don Pedro,
Recall thy brothers, banish Albuquerque.
Pedro. 'Tis granted, love, joyfully, fully, freely!
Already for thy sake I love my brothers;
Already in my heart I do embrace them;
Next to myself and thee they shall have worship,
And all Castille shall know them for my friends.
Maria. Now is my heart in tears with happiness.
Pedro. Risest thou not? What more dost thou require?
Maria. His suppliant further will entreat Don Pedro
That he will royally and reverently
Entreat the Lady Blanche in all things, saving
To take her for his queen.
Pedro. Granted as well.
What wilt thou more?
Maria. That it may please Don Pedro
To take the orphans of Don Juan de Lara,
Doña Juana and Doña Isabel,
Out of the hands of Juan de Albuquerque,
And give the eldest to her affianced lord,
Don Tello, brother to the said Don Pedro.
Pedro. Granted. What further?
Maria. May it please Don Pedro
To take no step rashly or hastily,
But first to take due counsel from those true
And sage advisers that his wife shall name,
To wit, her Uncle Juan Hinetrosa,
Don Simuel Levi, the King's treasurer,
Diego de Padilla, his wife's brother,
And lastly one Maria de Padilla,
His servant, friend, and wife unto all time.
Pedro. Granted, my love.
Maria. Now may I kiss thy hand,
And rise the happiest of all suppliants.
For happiness is hallowed by good deeds,
And flowers and fruit are mingled on one tree.
ACT II
Opens with a scene in the castle of Don Enriquez de Trastamara amidst the mountains of the Asturias, where, still mistrusting his royal brother, though nominally reconciled, he has taken refuge with his Countess and his young sister Juana. The Count is, after his wont, out hunting while the two ladies thus converse:
Juana. The music of Don Pedro's wedding-bells
Will not ascend to us from Valladolid.
All will be feasting and rejoicing there,
And here will all be solemn quietness.
But where will be Fadrique? . . . . Would he were here.
Countess. He would be wiser still to hold his post
As head of Santiago—at Llerena.
Amongst his knights he may abide his time,
As we in this dull stronghold abide ours.
Juana. I almost wonder that you find this life
So hard to bear, you a young wife still new
To happy marriage. We have had much sorrow;
But there is something in this mountain air
So fresh from the pure sky, that rings like hope,
Here Nature's beauty has a holiness—
The rain-clouds wrap her like a vestal veil,
And when she draws them back to see the sun,
She scatters round her, over chasm and rock,
Colours like floating rainbows without form.
The sable mountains that crowd round our windows
Seem to gaze in upon our solitude
With a wild, gloomy friendship.
Here safely we look down on those hot plains,
The glaring world that we have left behind,
Where over towns and courts and camps the sun,
Dragon-like, ever watches, brooding murder.
The sparkling green of the unthirsty trees,
That court the blaze and never sigh for streams,
Looks harsh and unalluring, seen beside
White towers and houses—white indeed without,
But inly red with crime.
Will not ascend to us from Valladolid.
All will be feasting and rejoicing there,
And here will all be solemn quietness.
But where will be Fadrique? . . . . Would he were here.
Countess. He would be wiser still to hold his post
As head of Santiago—at Llerena.
Amongst his knights he may abide his time,
As we in this dull stronghold abide ours.
Juana. I almost wonder that you find this life
So hard to bear, you a young wife still new
To happy marriage. We have had much sorrow;
But there is something in this mountain air
So fresh from the pure sky, that rings like hope,
Here Nature's beauty has a holiness—
The rain-clouds wrap her like a vestal veil,
And when she draws them back to see the sun,
She scatters round her, over chasm and rock,
Colours like floating rainbows without form.
The sable mountains that crowd round our windows
Seem to gaze in upon our solitude
With a wild, gloomy friendship.
Here safely we look down on those hot plains,
The glaring world that we have left behind,
Where over towns and courts and camps the sun,
Dragon-like, ever watches, brooding murder.
The sparkling green of the unthirsty trees,
That court the blaze and never sigh for streams,
Looks harsh and unalluring, seen beside
White towers and houses—white indeed without,
But inly red with crime.
Sir, the common people
Begin already to distinguish him.
They fancy that already they perceive
Advancing on the path which he ascends
The shadow of a hero.
Enri. And his tastes,
His fancies, day-dreams, what are they? which way
Point they? or have they any bent as yet?
Gon. I can judge little, yet thus much I gather
From what I see and hear; he is more learned
In Moorish chronicles and Arab tales
Than in church legends, takes much greater joy
In Simuel Levi's talk than in a bishop's:
Sings ballads of the Cid with kindling cheek,
Then curses him for a rebel; frankly jests
With artisan and peasant, and repays
Flattery of ricos-hombres with a sneer.
Begin already to distinguish him.
They fancy that already they perceive
Advancing on the path which he ascends
The shadow of a hero.
Enri. And his tastes,
His fancies, day-dreams, what are they? which way
Point they? or have they any bent as yet?
Gon. I can judge little, yet thus much I gather
From what I see and hear; he is more learned
In Moorish chronicles and Arab tales
Than in church legends, takes much greater joy
In Simuel Levi's talk than in a bishop's:
Sings ballads of the Cid with kindling cheek,
Then curses him for a rebel; frankly jests
With artisan and peasant, and repays
Flattery of ricos-hombres with a sneer.
We must pass over several scenes, and conclude with two which picture the state of things among these conflicting parties six years after, when Pedro had become an embittered and blood-stained tyrant, and Enriquez an open rebel. Pedro is at the same time at war with the King of Aragon, and Fadrique, who has retained his allegiance, takes part in his campaign.
SCENE 1
The tent of Fadrique. Fadrique and Enriquez
in disguise
in disguise
Enri. You know me now, I am no monk at all.
Fad. Enriquez!
Enri. Your twin brother. He—no other.
Fad. I cannot call you welcome.
Enri. Yet embrace me.
That was not spoken like my kind Fadrique.
Fad. My first care be your safety. How and when
Will you go hence?
Enri. This night, and as I came—
Furnished, moreover, with a pass from you.
Fad. It must be so; I'll write it now. Enriquez,
'Tis neither for your safety nor my honour
That you should cross our lines.
Enri. 'Twas rash, I own,
But less so than it seems. The fault was yours—
I grew impatient of your indecision.
So near, yet not to meet! First, here's a letter
I bring you from the King of Aragon.
Fad. Give it me. (He burns it.)
Enri. Madman! stay! what have you done?
If you so feared detection could you not
Have read the letter first?
Fad. I am not curious
To know what it contains.
Enri. What is your meaning?
You anger me, by Heaven, yet I've scarce time
To chide you for your strangeness. I must bring
Assurance to the Court of Aragon
That we may count on you, else get I naught
But the bare shelter to my head he grants me.
We do not ask you to throw off the mask—
You are more useful to us thus—but only
To let us know your plan and work with you.
Fad. Then let us talk of other things, my brother—
Tis long since we have met, and may be long
Before we meet again. And as for that
You came to talk of, let it be forgotten!
I mean no other than I seem to mean,
To serve the banner of my brother Pedro,
And Saint Iago.
Enri. Let me see your face!
No! the lamp tells me that you are not jesting.
You really then are wearing next your heart
Don Pedro's royal pardon? Really have
Forsworn rebellion 'gainst the Lord's anointed?
And—oh the virtue of a lawful title!—
Are now your youngest brother's well-paid lackey:
How little did I know you!
Fad. True—most true.
Enri. You'll scarce have credit for such honesty
On our side of the frontier. Aragon.
Army and Court, count on you.
Fad. I am sorry
Your friends count on your brother for a villain.
Enri. I'll not believe it yet. You are not mad—
You that refuse to plot against your tyrant,
Think you your tyrant does not plot 'gainst you?
Or that the tiger that has tasted blood—
Nay, I might rather say has lapped it up
By bucketsful at Toro and Toledo—
Will never thirst again? An ugly sight
For us who stand without the bars of his gate,
When crash! the fool's head of his keeper jumps
Into the very jaws he courted. Come!
I tell you, you are doomed.
Fad. What if I be?
I do not know why I should prize my life,
And I had rather die a traitor's death
Than be one.
Enri.
Oh, 'tis monstrous to be other
Than traitor in this cause. How shall I move you?
Must I go over with you, page by page,
All our sad history?
Fad. I have not forgotten it,
Enri. Oh, then more shame for you. Think, think, Fadrique,
How when my father died, who loved us so,
Whose last breath sighed away our royalty,
Whose corpse we dared not follow to its grave;
We, his best, first-born, dearest sons, shut out,
While common soldiers and the gaping rabble
Elbowed each other round his funeral vault,
And watched him into darkness. How the boy
Men had so long forgotten, from his nursery
Started upon a sudden to reign over us!
Then oh, what gnashing of the teeth were ours!
What scorn did grin, clap hands, and mock at us!
What deep-sworn friendship turned its back on us!
And what came next? Have you forgotten that¢
Fad. No more, Enriquez!
Enri. How the crowned she-devil
Did, for the dear love that she bore her imp—
Him that you kiss the feet of now, Fadrique—
Murder our mother—murder her, Fadrique!
By that cold violent edge of stabbing steel
Rude soldiers die by—with her poor cheeks still
Wet with the tears she wept within your arms
For hours long at Llerena—murdered her,
A woman, the most beautiful of women,
Her that, if love and faith make a true wife,
And nobleness of nature a true queen,
Was twenty thousand times more queen and wife
Than the curst thing our father called so. What?
Now you turn pale—you were her darling—Well?
Is that forgiven too?
Fab. Enough of this.
If for the desperate ends of your revenge,
And yet more your ambition, you can revel
In recollections scorching to the soul,
Enjoy the feast alone! My mother's murder
You know that neither God nor I have pardoned.
The deed was none of Pedro's.
Enri. No, sweet boy!
What should he know of killing?
Fad. All the hands
That dabbled in it, as you know, are dead.
As for the other shames and scorns you speak of,
Our honours were all shames and scorns to Pedro.
Boylike he pardoned all, to suffer after
Worse wrongs from us, my part in which have I,
Though never moved by hatred nor ambition,
Repented bitterly; and by my soul
I think I pity him.
Enri. Magnanimous!
Pity the foot upon your neck!
Fad. He 1s
Our father's son, and he may yet become
A King we should be proud to own for brother,
A brother we should love to own for King.
Enri. I own him for my King! I own him brother!
Can nature work so differently in twins,
That what I loathe like poison, pest, and death;
The thing whose life torments my very dreams,
The creature who so lords it in the place
God, Nature, and my father meant for me,
Should seem to you a something to be coaxed
With tender speech and kneeled unto, for love?
We live in different worlds.
Fad. None in past time
Did coax him with more tender speech than you.
It is my honesty offends you.
Enri. Oh,
My purpose can lie crouching in a corner
Year after year, nor ever close an eye.
I'd do the same now, could I gain by it.
Why must he be your King? Why more than I,
Because my father took an ugly fiend
From Portugal to wife? That you forsake me
Is a worse treason against nature, brother,
Than mine could be 'gainst Pedro.
Fab. Think not so.
Enri. But if you cannot hate, then you can love.
Come let a sweeter voice plead to you! Never
Tell me that Blanche was not the magnet charmed
Your breathless sword out of its sheath what time
That tender bridegroom locked her up in jail
To comfort his Padilla. There, poor child,
She weeps and waits for her deliverer still.
My own Fadrique, I am not so lost
In cares for my own aims, though you do think it,
But that I have your happiness at heart.
Oh, I have planned for you! Let me remind you
When graceless Pedro on her wedding-day
Flew home to kiss away Padilla's tears,
Men called on you to avenge her. Where is she now?
A prisoner still! Think of that fiery time
When we two, dear Fadrique, burst upon
The noon sleep of Toledo, filled its hot streets
With clamour and with swords, and hand to hand
Fought Pedro for her freedom—though in vain!—
Dare yet to strike another blow for her!
Dare but to wish for her—and she shall be yours!
The Pope abhors our brother, whose profaneness
Befriends us with the Church—let me be King,
And at my prayer he shall undo that marriage—
The mockery that it is—set you two free,
And place the white sweet hand of Blanche in yours,
Then shall your sickly conscience grow in health,
Braced with a manly love and manly hate.
Oh, I have moved you now! That trembling lip
Shows that your heart is human.
Fad. I will own
That you have moved me to the utmost. How
Could 1t be else, when you have mixed for me
In one cup all that's bitterest in my life?
I deny not that I love Blanche, nor yet
That for her sake this eve is as a saint's
Sacred to me.
Enri. How so?
Fad. It was this day
Six years ago, I gave my hand to her,
For Pedro at Narbonne knelt at her side
Prayed with her, vowed to her another's faith,
And seemed her husband, then, when we rose up,
I hailed her queen and sister. And that night
1 wandered 1n the dark aisles of the church
When all was over. 'Twas because I loved her
I flew into rebellion, not with hopes
Like those you seek to breathe in me, but moved
By all of nature that's most blind and tender
To rescue her from Pedro. How we failed
You know, and how much worse we left her fate.
I cannot serve her by those means again.
It may be gentler means shall one day prosper.
I have no more to say.
Enri. Adieu, Fadrique.
Cold lover, unkind brother, fare you well!
Fad. Enriquez!
Enri. Your twin brother. He—no other.
Fad. I cannot call you welcome.
Enri. Yet embrace me.
That was not spoken like my kind Fadrique.
Fad. My first care be your safety. How and when
Will you go hence?
Enri. This night, and as I came—
Furnished, moreover, with a pass from you.
Fad. It must be so; I'll write it now. Enriquez,
'Tis neither for your safety nor my honour
That you should cross our lines.
Enri. 'Twas rash, I own,
But less so than it seems. The fault was yours—
I grew impatient of your indecision.
So near, yet not to meet! First, here's a letter
I bring you from the King of Aragon.
Fad. Give it me. (He burns it.)
Enri. Madman! stay! what have you done?
If you so feared detection could you not
Have read the letter first?
Fad. I am not curious
To know what it contains.
Enri. What is your meaning?
You anger me, by Heaven, yet I've scarce time
To chide you for your strangeness. I must bring
Assurance to the Court of Aragon
That we may count on you, else get I naught
But the bare shelter to my head he grants me.
We do not ask you to throw off the mask—
You are more useful to us thus—but only
To let us know your plan and work with you.
Fad. Then let us talk of other things, my brother—
Tis long since we have met, and may be long
Before we meet again. And as for that
You came to talk of, let it be forgotten!
I mean no other than I seem to mean,
To serve the banner of my brother Pedro,
And Saint Iago.
Enri. Let me see your face!
No! the lamp tells me that you are not jesting.
You really then are wearing next your heart
Don Pedro's royal pardon? Really have
Forsworn rebellion 'gainst the Lord's anointed?
And—oh the virtue of a lawful title!—
Are now your youngest brother's well-paid lackey:
How little did I know you!
Fad. True—most true.
Enri. You'll scarce have credit for such honesty
On our side of the frontier. Aragon.
Army and Court, count on you.
Fad. I am sorry
Your friends count on your brother for a villain.
Enri. I'll not believe it yet. You are not mad—
You that refuse to plot against your tyrant,
Think you your tyrant does not plot 'gainst you?
Or that the tiger that has tasted blood—
Nay, I might rather say has lapped it up
By bucketsful at Toro and Toledo—
Will never thirst again? An ugly sight
For us who stand without the bars of his gate,
When crash! the fool's head of his keeper jumps
Into the very jaws he courted. Come!
I tell you, you are doomed.
Fad. What if I be?
I do not know why I should prize my life,
And I had rather die a traitor's death
Than be one.
Enri.
Oh, 'tis monstrous to be other
Than traitor in this cause. How shall I move you?
Must I go over with you, page by page,
All our sad history?
Fad. I have not forgotten it,
Enri. Oh, then more shame for you. Think, think, Fadrique,
How when my father died, who loved us so,
Whose last breath sighed away our royalty,
Whose corpse we dared not follow to its grave;
We, his best, first-born, dearest sons, shut out,
While common soldiers and the gaping rabble
Elbowed each other round his funeral vault,
And watched him into darkness. How the boy
Men had so long forgotten, from his nursery
Started upon a sudden to reign over us!
Then oh, what gnashing of the teeth were ours!
What scorn did grin, clap hands, and mock at us!
What deep-sworn friendship turned its back on us!
And what came next? Have you forgotten that¢
Fad. No more, Enriquez!
Enri. How the crowned she-devil
Did, for the dear love that she bore her imp—
Him that you kiss the feet of now, Fadrique—
Murder our mother—murder her, Fadrique!
By that cold violent edge of stabbing steel
Rude soldiers die by—with her poor cheeks still
Wet with the tears she wept within your arms
For hours long at Llerena—murdered her,
A woman, the most beautiful of women,
Her that, if love and faith make a true wife,
And nobleness of nature a true queen,
Was twenty thousand times more queen and wife
Than the curst thing our father called so. What?
Now you turn pale—you were her darling—Well?
Is that forgiven too?
Fab. Enough of this.
If for the desperate ends of your revenge,
And yet more your ambition, you can revel
In recollections scorching to the soul,
Enjoy the feast alone! My mother's murder
You know that neither God nor I have pardoned.
The deed was none of Pedro's.
Enri. No, sweet boy!
What should he know of killing?
Fad. All the hands
That dabbled in it, as you know, are dead.
As for the other shames and scorns you speak of,
Our honours were all shames and scorns to Pedro.
Boylike he pardoned all, to suffer after
Worse wrongs from us, my part in which have I,
Though never moved by hatred nor ambition,
Repented bitterly; and by my soul
I think I pity him.
Enri. Magnanimous!
Pity the foot upon your neck!
Fad. He 1s
Our father's son, and he may yet become
A King we should be proud to own for brother,
A brother we should love to own for King.
Enri. I own him for my King! I own him brother!
Can nature work so differently in twins,
That what I loathe like poison, pest, and death;
The thing whose life torments my very dreams,
The creature who so lords it in the place
God, Nature, and my father meant for me,
Should seem to you a something to be coaxed
With tender speech and kneeled unto, for love?
We live in different worlds.
Fad. None in past time
Did coax him with more tender speech than you.
It is my honesty offends you.
Enri. Oh,
My purpose can lie crouching in a corner
Year after year, nor ever close an eye.
I'd do the same now, could I gain by it.
Why must he be your King? Why more than I,
Because my father took an ugly fiend
From Portugal to wife? That you forsake me
Is a worse treason against nature, brother,
Than mine could be 'gainst Pedro.
Fab. Think not so.
Enri. But if you cannot hate, then you can love.
Come let a sweeter voice plead to you! Never
Tell me that Blanche was not the magnet charmed
Your breathless sword out of its sheath what time
That tender bridegroom locked her up in jail
To comfort his Padilla. There, poor child,
She weeps and waits for her deliverer still.
My own Fadrique, I am not so lost
In cares for my own aims, though you do think it,
But that I have your happiness at heart.
Oh, I have planned for you! Let me remind you
When graceless Pedro on her wedding-day
Flew home to kiss away Padilla's tears,
Men called on you to avenge her. Where is she now?
A prisoner still! Think of that fiery time
When we two, dear Fadrique, burst upon
The noon sleep of Toledo, filled its hot streets
With clamour and with swords, and hand to hand
Fought Pedro for her freedom—though in vain!—
Dare yet to strike another blow for her!
Dare but to wish for her—and she shall be yours!
The Pope abhors our brother, whose profaneness
Befriends us with the Church—let me be King,
And at my prayer he shall undo that marriage—
The mockery that it is—set you two free,
And place the white sweet hand of Blanche in yours,
Then shall your sickly conscience grow in health,
Braced with a manly love and manly hate.
Oh, I have moved you now! That trembling lip
Shows that your heart is human.
Fad. I will own
That you have moved me to the utmost. How
Could 1t be else, when you have mixed for me
In one cup all that's bitterest in my life?
I deny not that I love Blanche, nor yet
That for her sake this eve is as a saint's
Sacred to me.
Enri. How so?
Fad. It was this day
Six years ago, I gave my hand to her,
For Pedro at Narbonne knelt at her side
Prayed with her, vowed to her another's faith,
And seemed her husband, then, when we rose up,
I hailed her queen and sister. And that night
1 wandered 1n the dark aisles of the church
When all was over. 'Twas because I loved her
I flew into rebellion, not with hopes
Like those you seek to breathe in me, but moved
By all of nature that's most blind and tender
To rescue her from Pedro. How we failed
You know, and how much worse we left her fate.
I cannot serve her by those means again.
It may be gentler means shall one day prosper.
I have no more to say.
Enri. Adieu, Fadrique.
Cold lover, unkind brother, fare you well!
SCENE II
Dolores, Pedro's aged Nurse
Dol. So then, thou snake! 'tis here thou mak'st thy lair.
How cool and perfumed 1s this place, methinks
More bower than room. The plagues of Egypt catch her.
Must she be lodged more royally than a queen?
You might call this a hall of orange-trees,
Or birdcage barred with vines. She must have doves too,
To murmur 'mongst the leaves with tender voice
While she sits plotting crime, Why, these are toys
For innocent fingers——all these silken stitched
And delicate works. Nay then, but see, what's this?
Her gilded book of Hours. What, does she pray,
And will her prayers be heard? Oh, I can see her
Queening it like some infidel enchantress
That Moorish stories tell of, gliding in
'Twix yonder crimson hangings with soft feet
And waving hence with her profane fair hand
Pedro's despairing angel. Poor fond boy!
Thou wilt not thank me; yet indeed thou shouldst,
For what I mean to do—give death to her
Whose life makes Pedro hated. Aye, I mean it,
E'en if my soul should go to hell for that,
As surely I believe 'twill go to heaven
For doing God good service.
How cool and perfumed 1s this place, methinks
More bower than room. The plagues of Egypt catch her.
Must she be lodged more royally than a queen?
You might call this a hall of orange-trees,
Or birdcage barred with vines. She must have doves too,
To murmur 'mongst the leaves with tender voice
While she sits plotting crime, Why, these are toys
For innocent fingers——all these silken stitched
And delicate works. Nay then, but see, what's this?
Her gilded book of Hours. What, does she pray,
And will her prayers be heard? Oh, I can see her
Queening it like some infidel enchantress
That Moorish stories tell of, gliding in
'Twix yonder crimson hangings with soft feet
And waving hence with her profane fair hand
Pedro's despairing angel. Poor fond boy!
Thou wilt not thank me; yet indeed thou shouldst,
For what I mean to do—give death to her
Whose life makes Pedro hated. Aye, I mean it,
E'en if my soul should go to hell for that,
As surely I believe 'twill go to heaven
For doing God good service.
Enter Maria
Maria, My Pedro!—Ah!—
You have some petition doubtless. Pray you sit.
I think that you are weary,
Dol. I am sad,
And 'tis you make me so, you dangerous lady.
Maria. I see that you mistake me for some other.
Whom do you seek, then?
Dol. I mistake you? No!
Oh, think not but I knew you at a glance.
Maria. Tell me who are you, then?
Dol. I am Dolores.
Maria. Dolores, the King's nurse? Oh, welcome then.
Nay, now you shall be seated. My old friend,
This very day I do expect him home,
For he has left the camp. Sit down by me
And tell me of your journey.
Dot. I am come
Because that I am very near my death.
And wish to see my boy on earth once more.
Maria. And you shall see him; he will soon be here.
I wish that you could love me.
Dot. Love you! What!
There are fools enough that love you for your eyes,
And for the grace cunning that, witch, your glass
Taught you to wind about you in your veil.
And must I love you too? Aye, tell me then,
If you be like an angel in your looks,
Are your deeds like an angel's?
Maria. Dear Dolores,
Indeed I am no angel, yet I think
I am no devil neither, but a woman
That wishes harm to no one.—Stay, I have
A pretty nosegay for you that you'll own
Is made of most sweet flowers. [Claps her hands
You have some petition doubtless. Pray you sit.
I think that you are weary,
Dol. I am sad,
And 'tis you make me so, you dangerous lady.
Maria. I see that you mistake me for some other.
Whom do you seek, then?
Dol. I mistake you? No!
Oh, think not but I knew you at a glance.
Maria. Tell me who are you, then?
Dol. I am Dolores.
Maria. Dolores, the King's nurse? Oh, welcome then.
Nay, now you shall be seated. My old friend,
This very day I do expect him home,
For he has left the camp. Sit down by me
And tell me of your journey.
Dot. I am come
Because that I am very near my death.
And wish to see my boy on earth once more.
Maria. And you shall see him; he will soon be here.
I wish that you could love me.
Dot. Love you! What!
There are fools enough that love you for your eyes,
And for the grace cunning that, witch, your glass
Taught you to wind about you in your veil.
And must I love you too? Aye, tell me then,
If you be like an angel in your looks,
Are your deeds like an angel's?
Maria. Dear Dolores,
Indeed I am no angel, yet I think
I am no devil neither, but a woman
That wishes harm to no one.—Stay, I have
A pretty nosegay for you that you'll own
Is made of most sweet flowers. [Claps her hands
Enter a Servant
Bring in my children.
Dol. (To herself.) Those hands that with one light wave of her fan
Can summon Pedro's devil up from hell—.
That smile when good men weep—
Dol. (To herself.) Those hands that with one light wave of her fan
Can summon Pedro's devil up from hell—.
That smile when good men weep—
Enter Nurse and Children
Maria. Now what say you, Dolores? are the children
Of Pedro like him?
Dol. Oh, poor Blanche! Now God
Forgive thee, for, to look at them, these children
Should be a queen's. Is there grace in her, then!
Can those tears be true diamonds? Nurse, I pray thee
Give me the baby—this I guess the eldest—
What is thy name? By Heaven she holds to me
Her little hand to kiss.
Maria. Nay, she must not
Queen it to you. Embrace her, kind Dolores,
And she will tell her name.
Beatrice. I am Beatrice.
Dol. The very brow of good King Don Alonzo!
Maria. Some say she's like her uncle, Don Fadrique.
Dol. Let her not copy him; his mother did
Foul wrong to Pedro's—and there! her father's self!
Maria. Constancia.
Dol. Child! look up again. There! there!
'Tis Pedro's self. And this dumb little one?
Maria. That's Isabel. Some say she is like her mother.
Dol. And so she is. (Aside) A mother and her children!
And such a girl too! Can I do it? God!
I'll wait and watch her. Oh, you most rare creature,
That are so cruel and so beautiful,
How can you bear to purchase day by day
Your cup of golden pleasures with the tears
Of that poor girl that was anointed queen
To Pedro six long years ago—God help her—
Who wastes in prison now her innocent life?
Maria. Now witness heaven, if ever human words
Could wound a human heart, your words have done it.
You do not know how deeply, no one does,
Nor how unjustly—but I blame you not.
Hark, 'tis Don Pedro! Wait here, you shall see him.[Exit.
Dot. How light of foot! Were she as light of conscience!
Is that the King? No sure, and yet who else?
Maria. Enter sweet Cid, and you shall see the fairy
That's come so far to wish your children luck.
Dol. My son! my son! my own, own lord, my Pedro!
I know you now—the very smile I used
To say would make men fear you. Dear my lord!
You look from crest to spur just the great King
I prayed to see you.
Pedro. And father to the loveliest little queen
That e'er was born to see lovers fling crowns
Before her feet—am I not?
Dol. That you are!
Pedro. Wish her as many foes as she has charms
That she may smile upon the tears of all!
Maria. For shame, Sir King! My Beatrice will never
Say Amen to that prayer!
Of Pedro like him?
Dol. Oh, poor Blanche! Now God
Forgive thee, for, to look at them, these children
Should be a queen's. Is there grace in her, then!
Can those tears be true diamonds? Nurse, I pray thee
Give me the baby—this I guess the eldest—
What is thy name? By Heaven she holds to me
Her little hand to kiss.
Maria. Nay, she must not
Queen it to you. Embrace her, kind Dolores,
And she will tell her name.
Beatrice. I am Beatrice.
Dol. The very brow of good King Don Alonzo!
Maria. Some say she's like her uncle, Don Fadrique.
Dol. Let her not copy him; his mother did
Foul wrong to Pedro's—and there! her father's self!
Maria. Constancia.
Dol. Child! look up again. There! there!
'Tis Pedro's self. And this dumb little one?
Maria. That's Isabel. Some say she is like her mother.
Dol. And so she is. (Aside) A mother and her children!
And such a girl too! Can I do it? God!
I'll wait and watch her. Oh, you most rare creature,
That are so cruel and so beautiful,
How can you bear to purchase day by day
Your cup of golden pleasures with the tears
Of that poor girl that was anointed queen
To Pedro six long years ago—God help her—
Who wastes in prison now her innocent life?
Maria. Now witness heaven, if ever human words
Could wound a human heart, your words have done it.
You do not know how deeply, no one does,
Nor how unjustly—but I blame you not.
Hark, 'tis Don Pedro! Wait here, you shall see him.[Exit.
Dot. How light of foot! Were she as light of conscience!
Is that the King? No sure, and yet who else?
Maria. Enter sweet Cid, and you shall see the fairy
That's come so far to wish your children luck.
Dol. My son! my son! my own, own lord, my Pedro!
I know you now—the very smile I used
To say would make men fear you. Dear my lord!
You look from crest to spur just the great King
I prayed to see you.
Pedro. And father to the loveliest little queen
That e'er was born to see lovers fling crowns
Before her feet—am I not?
Dol. That you are!
Pedro. Wish her as many foes as she has charms
That she may smile upon the tears of all!
Maria. For shame, Sir King! My Beatrice will never
Say Amen to that prayer!
(UNFINISHED)
- ↑ Leonora de Tellez, mistress of King Alonzo, and brother of Pedro's half-brothers.