Henry Longfellow - The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

closes.)

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gate of Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A fountain. Evening, DON CARLOS and HYPOLITO meeting.

Don C. Hola! good evening, Don Hypolito.

Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos.

Some lucky star has led my steps this way.

I was in search of you.

Don. C. Command me always.

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams,

The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment,

Asks if his money-bags would rise?

Don C. I do;

But what of that?

Hyp. I am that wretched man.

Don C. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty?

Hyp. And amen! said my Cid the Campeador.

Don C. Pray, how much need you?

Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces,

Which, with due interest—

Don C. (giving his purse). What, am I a Jew

To put my moneys out at usury?

Here is my purse.

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse.

Made by the hand of some fair Madrilena;

Perhaps a keepsake.

Don C. No, 't is at your service.

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom,

And with thy golden mouth remind me often,

I am the debtor of my friend.

Don C. But tell me,

Come you to-day from Alcala?

Hyp. This moment.

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Victorian?

Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, not well.

A damsel has ensnared him with the glances

Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch

A steer of Andalusia with a lazo.

He is in love.

Don C. And is it faring ill

To be in love?

Hyp. In his case very ill.

Don C. Why so?

Hyp. For many reasons. First and foremost,

Because he is in love with an ideal;

A creature of his own imagination;

A child of air; an echo of his heart;

And, like a lily on a river floating,

She floats upon the river of his thoughts!

Don C. A common thing with poets. But who is

This floating lily? For, in fine, some woman,

Some living woman—not a mere ideal—

Must wear the outward semblance of his thought.

Who is it? Tell me.

Hyp. Well, it is a woman!

But, look you, from the coffer of his heart

He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her,

As pious priests adorn some favorite saint

With gems and gold, until at length she gleams

One blaze of glory. Without these, you know,

And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll.

Don C. Well, well! who is this doll?

Hyp. Why, who do you think?

Don C. His cousin Violante.

Hyp. Guess again.

To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm

He threw her overboard, with all her ingots.

Don C. I cannot guess; so tell me who it is.

Hyp. Not I.

Don. C. Why not?

Hyp. (mysteriously). Why? Because Mari Franca

Was married four leagues out of Salamanca!

Don C. Jesting aside, who is it?

Hyp. Preciosa.

Don C. Impossible! The Count of Lara tells me

She is not virtuous.

Hyp. Did I say she was?

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife

Whose name was Messalina, as I think;

Valeria Messalina was her name.

But hist! I see him yonder through the trees,

Walking as in a dream.

Don C. He comes this way.

Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man,

That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden.

(Enter VICTORIAN in front.)

Vict. Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground!

These groves are sacred! I behold thee walking

Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked

At evening, and I feel thy presence now;

Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee,

And is forever hallowed.

Hyp. Mark him well!

See how he strides away with lordly air,

Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander

Who comes to sup with Juan in the play.

Don C. What ho! Victorian!

Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us?

Vict. Hola! amigos! Faith, I did not see you.

How fares Don Carlos?

Don C. At your service ever.

Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana

That you both wot of?

Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes!

She has gone back to Cadiz.

Hyp. Ay de mi!

Vict. You are much to blame for letting her go back.

A pretty girl; and in her tender eyes

Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see

In evening skies.

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes,

Are thine green?

Vict. Not a whit. Why so?

Hyp. I think

The slightest shade of green would be becoming,

For thou art jealous.

Vid. No, I am not jealous.

Hyp. Thou shouldst be.

Vict. Why?

Hyp. Because thou art in love.

And they who are in love are always jealous.

Therefore thou shouldst be.

Vict. Marry, is that all?

Farewell; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos.

Thou sayest I should be jealous?

Hyp. Ay, in truth

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard.

I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara

Lays siege to the same citadel.

Vict. Indeed!

Then he will have his labor for his pains.

Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me

He boasts of his success.

Vict. How's this, Don Carlos?

Don. C. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips.

He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue,

As a gay man might speak.

Vict. Death and damnation!

I'll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth,

And throw it to my dog! But no, no, no!

This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest.

Trifle with me no more. For otherwise

We are no longer friends. And so, fare well!

[Exit.

Hyp. Now what a coil is here! The Avenging Child

Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death,

And the Moor Calaynos, when he rode

To Paris for the ears of Oliver,

Were nothing to him! O hot-headed youth!

But come; we will not follow. Let us join

The crowd that pours into the Prado. There

We shall find merrier company; I see

The Marialonzos and the Almavivas,

And fifty fans, that beckon me already.

[Exeunt.

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her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. The COUNT OF LARA enters behind unperceived.

Prec. (reads).

All are sleeping, weary heart!

Thou, thou only sleepless art!

Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. I know not what it is makes me so restless!

(The bird sings.)

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day!

All are sleeping, weary heart!

Thou, thou only sleepless art!

All this throbbing, all this aching,

Evermore shall keep thee waking,

For a heart in sorrow breaking

Thinketh ever of its smart!

Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish. Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? Or who takes note of every flower that dies? Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. Dolores!

(Turns to lay down her boot and perceives the COUNT.)

Ha!

Lara. Senora, pardon me.

Prec. How's this? Dolores!

Lara. Pardon me—

Prec. Dolores!

Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting.

If I have been too bold—

Prec. (turning her back upon him). You are too bold!

Retire! retire, and leave me!