The Spanish Student: Act I

Prec. I am so frightened! 'T is for thee I tremble!I hate to have thee climb that wall by night!Did no one see thee?Vict. None, my love, but thou.

Prec. 'T is very dangerous; and when thou art goneI chide myself for letting thee come hereThus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been?Since yesterday I have no news from thee.

Vict. Since yesterday I have been in Alcala.Erelong the time will come, sweet Preciosa,When that dull distance shall no more divide us;And I no more shall scale thy wall by nightTo steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.

Vict. And we shall sit together unmolested,And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue,As singing birds from one bough to another.

Prec. That were a life to make time envious!I knew that thou wouldst come to me to-night.I saw thee at the play.

Vict. Sweet child of air!Never did I behold thee so attiredAnd garmented in beauty as to-night!What hast thou done to make thee look so fair?Prec. Am I not always fair?

Vict. Ay, and so fairThat I am jealous of all eyes that see thee,And wish that they were blind.

Prec. I heed them not;When thou art present, I see none but thee!

Vict. There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takesSomething from thee, that makes it beautiful.

Vict. Thou comest between me and those books too often!I see thy face in everything I see!The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks,The canticles are changed to sarabands,And with the leaned doctors of the schoolsI see thee dance cachuchas.

Prec. In good sooth,I dance with learned doctors of the schoolsTo-morrow morning.Vict. And with whom, I pray?

Prec. A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his GraceThe Archbishop of Toledo.

Vict. What mad jestIs this?Prec. It is no jest; indeed it is not.

Vict. Prithee, explain thyself.

Prec. Why, simply thus.Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into SpainTo put a stop to dances on the stage.

Vict. I have heard it whispered.

Prec. Now the Cardinal,Who for this purpose comes, would fain beholdWith his own eyes these dances; and the ArchbishopHas sent for me--

Vict. That thou mayst dance before them!Now viva la cachucha! It will breatheThe fire of youth into these gray old men!'T will be thy proudest conquest!

Prec. Saving one.And yet I fear these dances will be stopped,And Preciosa be once more a beggar.

Vict. The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for alms;With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw theeI gave my heart away!

Prec. Dost thou rememberWhen first we met?

Vict. It was at Cordova,In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sittingUnder the orange-trees, beside a fountain.

Prec. 'T was Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed treesFilled 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.Vict. Thou blessed angel!

Prec. And when thou wast goneI felt an acting here. I did not speakTo any one that day. But from that dayBartolome grew hateful unto me.

Vict. Remember him no more. Let not his shadowCome between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa!I loved thee even then, though I was silent!

Prec. I thought I ne'er should see thy face again.Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it.

Vict. 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 stringsOf that mysterious instrument, the soul,And play the prelude of our fate. We hearThe voice prophetic, and are not alone.

Prec. That is my faith. Dust thou believe these warnings?

Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughtsTend 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.

Prec. I have felt it so, but found no words to say it!I cannot reason; I can only feel!But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings.Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I thinkWe cannot walk together in this world!The distance that divides us is too great!Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars;I must not hold thee back.

Vict. Thou little sceptic!Dost thou still doubt? What I most prize in womanIs her affections, not her intellect!The intellect is finite; but the affectionsAre infinite, and cannot be exhausted.Compare me with the great men of the earth;What am I? Why, a pygmy among giants!But if thou lovest,--mark me! I say lovest,The greatest of thy sex excels thee not!The world of the affections is thy world,Not that of man's ambition. In that stillnessWhich most becomes a woman, calm and holy,Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart,Feeding its flame. The element of fireIs pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature,But burns as brightly in a Gypsy campAs in a palace hall. Art thou convinced?

Prec. Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven;But not that I am worthy of that heaven.How shall I more deserve it?Vict. Loving more.

Prec. I cannot love thee more; my heart is full.

Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will drink it,As in the summer-time the thirsty sandsDrink the swift waters of the Manzanares,And still do thirst for more.

A Watchman (in the street). Ave MariaPurissima! 'T is midnight and serene!Vict. Hear'st thou that cry?

Prec. It is a hateful sound,To scare thee from me!

Vict. As the hunter's hornDoth scare the timid stag, or bark of houndsThe moor-fowl from his mate.

Prec. Pray, do not go!

Vict. I must away to Alcala to-night.Think of me when I am away.

Prec. Fear not!I have no thoughts that do not think of thee.

Vict. (giving her a ring).And to remind thee of my love, take this;A serpent, emblem of Eternity;A ruby,--say, a drop of my heart's blood.

Prec. It is an ancient saying, that the rubyBrings gladness to the wearer, and preservesThe heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow,Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas!It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin.

Vict. What convent of barefooted CarmelitesTaught thee so much theology?

Prec. (laying her hand upon his mouth). Hush! hush!Good night! and may all holy angels guard thee!

Vict. Good night! good night! Thou art my guardian angel!I have no other saint than thou to pray to!Prec. Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe?

Vict. (from the garden).Safe as my love for thee! But art thou safe?Others can climb a balcony by moonlightAs well as I. Pray shut thy window close;I am jealous of the perfumed air of nightThat from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips.

Prec. (throwing down her handkerchief).Thou silly child! Take this to blind thine eyes.It is my benison!

Vict. And brings to meSweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft windWafts to the out-bound mariner the breathOf the beloved land he leaves behind.Prec. Make not thy voyage long.

Vict. To-morrow nightShall see me safe returned. Thou art the starTo guide me to an anchorage. Good night!My beauteous star! My star of love, good night!

Scene IV. -- An inn on the road to Alcala.BALTASAR asleep on a bench. Enter CHISPA.

Chispa (drinking). Ancient Baltasar, amigo! You know how tocry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but VinoTinto of La Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin.Chispa. And more noise than nuts.

Bal. Ha! ha! ha! You must have your joke, Master Chispa. Butshall I not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of the PedroXimenes?

Vict. (without). Chispa!

Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing.

Hyp. I must have been asleep! ay, sound asleep!And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleepWhatever form thou takest, thou art fair,Holding unto our lips thy goblet filledOut of Oblivion's well, a healing draught!The candles have burned low; it must be late.Where can Victorian be? Like Fray Carrillo,The only place in which one cannot find himIs his own cell. Here's his guitar, that seldomFeels the caresses of its master's hand.Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument!And make dull midnight merry with a song.

Padre Francisco!Padre Francisco!What do you want of Padre Francisco?Here is a pretty young maidenWho wants to confess her sins!Open the door and let her come in,I will shrive her from every sin.

Vict. Come, shrive me straight; for, if love be a sin,I am the greatest sinner that doth live.I will confess the sweetest of all crimes,A maiden wooed and won.

Hyp. The same old taleOf the old woman in the chimney-corner,Who, while the pot boils, says, "Come here, my child;I'll tell thee a story of my wedding-day."

Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so fullThat I must speak.

Hyp. Alas! that heart of thineIs like a scene in the old play; the curtainRises to solemn music, and lo! enterThe eleven thousand virgins of Cologne!

Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, thou shouldst say;Those that remained, after the six were burned,Being held more precious than the nine together.But listen to my tale. Dost thou rememberThe Gypsy girl we saw at CordovaDance the Romalis in the market-place?Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa.

Vict. Ay, the same.Thou knowest how her image haunted meLong after we returned to Alcala.She's in Madrid.

Hyp. I know it.

Vict. And I'm in love.

Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst beIn Alcala.

Vict. O pardon me, my friend,If I so long have kept this secret from thee;But silence is the charm that guards such treasures,And, if a word be spoken ere the time,They sink again, they were not meant for us.

Hyp. Alas! alas! I see thou art in love.Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.It serves for food and raiment. Give a SpaniardHis mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa--Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover,How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy?Write her a song, beginning with an Ave;Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary,

Ave! cujus calcem clareNec centenni commendareSciret Seraph studio!

Vict. Pray, do not jest! This is no time for it!I am in earnest!

Hyp. Seriously enamored?What, ho! The Primus of great AlcalaEnamored of a Gypsy? Tell me frankly,How meanest thou?

Vict. I mean it honestly.

Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry her!

Vict. Why not?

Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bartolome,If I remember rightly, a young GypsyWho danced with her at Cordova.

Vict. They quarrelled,And so the matter ended.

Hyp. But in truthThou wilt not marry her.

Vict. In truth I will.The angels sang in heaven when she was born!She is a precious jewel I have foundAmong the filth and rubbish of the world.I'll stoop for it; but when I wear it here,Set on my forehead like the morning star,The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.

Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead,'T will be indeed a wonder.

Vict. Out upon theeWith thy unseasonable jests! Pray tell me,Is there no virtue in the world?

Hyp. Not much.What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment;Now, while we speak of her?

Vict. She lies asleep,And from her parted lips her gentle breathComes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers.Her tender limbs are still, and on her breastThe cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep,Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams,Like a light barge safe moored.

Hyp. Which means, in prose,She's sleeping with her mouth a little open!

Vict. O, would I had the old magician's glassTo see her as she lies in childlike sleep!Hyp. And wouldst thou venture?

Vict. Ay, indeed I would!

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflectedHow much lies hidden in that one word, NOW?

Vict. Yes; all the awful mystery of Life!I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito,That could we, by some spell of magic, changeThe world and its inhabitants to stone,In the same attitudes they now are in,What fearful glances downward might we castInto the hollow chasms of human life!What groups should we behold about the death-bed,Putting to shame the group of Niobe!What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells!What stony tears in those congealed eyes!What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks!What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows!What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling!What lovers with their marble lips together!

Hyp. Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love,That is the very point I most should dread.This magic glass, these magic spells of thine,Might tell a tale were better left untold.For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin,The Lady Violante, bathed in tearsOf love and anger, like the maid of Colchis,Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut,Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love,Desertest for this Glauce.

Vict. Hold thy peace!She cares not for me. She may wed another,Or go into a convent, and, thus dying,Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields.

Hyp. (rising). And so, good night! Good morning, I should say.

Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace of TimeKnocks at the golden portals of the day!And so, once more, good night! We'll speak more largelyOf Preciosa when we meet again.Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep,Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass,In all her loveliness. Good night!

Vict. Good night!But not to bed; for I must read awhile.

Must read, or sit in revery and watchThe changing color of the waves that breakUpon the idle sea-shore of the mind!Visions of Fame! that once did visit me,Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye?O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone,Juices of those immortal plants that bloomUpon Olympus, making us immortal?Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake growsWhose magic root, torn from the earth with groans,At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away,And make the mind prolific in its fancies!I have the wish, but want the will, to act!Souls of great men departed! Ye whose wordsHave come to light from the swift river of Time,Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed,Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore?From the barred visor of AntiquityReflected shines the eternal light of Truth,As from a mirror! All the means of action--The shapeless masses, the materials--Lie everywhere about us. What we needIs the celestial fire to change the flintInto transparent crystal, bright and clear.That fire is genius! The rude peasant sitsAt evening in his smoky cot, and drawsWith charcoal uncouth figures on the wall.The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel,And begs a shelter from the inclement night.He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand,And, by the magic of his touch at onceTransfigured, all its hidden virtues shine,And, in the eyes of the astonished clown,It gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed,Rude popular traditions and old talesShine as immortal poems, at the touchOf some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard,Who had but a night's lodging for his pains.But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame,Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heartRises the bright ideal of these dreams,As from some woodland fount a spirit risesAnd sinks again into its silent deeps,Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe!'T is this ideal that the soul of man,Like the enamored knight beside the fountain,Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream;Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters,Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how manyMust wait in vain! The stream flows evermore,But from its silent deeps no spirit rises!Yet I, born under a propitious star,Have found the bright ideal of my dreams.Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel,Here, as I sit at midnight and alone,Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feelThe pressure of her head! God's benisonRest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes,Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at nightWith balmy lips breathe in her ears my name!