The Spanish Student: Act II

Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle,Is ever weaving into life's dull warpBright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian;Hanging our gloomy prison-house aboutWith tapestries, that make its walls dilateIn never-ending vistas of delight.

Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures,Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall.

Thy deceitsGive us clearly to comprehend,Whither tendAll thy pleasures, all thy sweets!They are cheats,Thorns below and flowers above.Ah, Love!Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Vict. Indeed, I think it does.What wise man wrote it?

Hyp. With much truth in it.I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnestTry to forget this lady of thy love.

Vict. I will forget her! All dear recollectionsPressed in my heart, like flowers within a book,Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds!I will forget her! But perhaps hereafter,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!"O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar,That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums,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 foreverTo the upbraidings of this foolish heart!

Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more!To conquer love, one need but will to conquer.

Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vainI throw into Oblivion's sea the swordThat pierces me; for, like Excalibar,With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink.There rises from below a hand that grasp it,And waves it in the air; and wailing voicesAre heard along the shore.

Hyp. And yet at lastDown sank Excalibar to rise no more.This is not well. In truth, it vexes me.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 healthTo talk of dying.

Vict. Yet I fain would die!To go through life, unloving and unloved;To feel that thirst and hunger of the soulWe cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse,And struggle after something we have notAnd cannot have; the effort to be strongAnd, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile,While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaksAll 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 wearyOf 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 chaseSome form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons,And cheats us with fair words, only to leave usA 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,Nor strive to look beneath it.

Vict. I confess,That were the wiser part. But Hope no longerComforts my soul. I am a wretched man,Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner,Who, struggling to climb up into the boat,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 shinesA glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star!

Vict. Ave Maria! I hear the sacristanRinging the chimes from yonder village belfry!A solemn sound, that echoes far and wideOver the red roofs of the cottages,And bids the laboring hind a-field, 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 henceThe village lies.

Vict. This path will lead us to it,Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sailAcross the running sea, now green, now blue,And, like an idle mariner on the main,Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on.

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 hereFrom our most gracious lord, the King of Spain,Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands,Which I shall publish in the market-place.Open your ears and listen!

Padre Cura,Good day! and, pray you, hear this edict read.

Pedro C. (reads). "I hereby order and command,That the Egyptian an Chaldean strangers,Known by the name of Gypsies, shall henceforthBe banished from the realm, as vagabondsAnd 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;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,Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.

Padre C. A righteous law! A very righteous law!Pray you, sit down.

A very righteous judgment, as you say.Now tell me, Padre Cura,--you know all things,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,There are a hundred marks to prove a MoorIs 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--

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 bunt.Padre C. And pray, whom have we here?

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,You must be he.Padre C. I am. Pray, what's your pleasure?

Hyp. We are poor students, traveling in vacation.You know this mark?

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.

Hyp. Padre Cura,Front 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,--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!"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 airWas not so full of dignity and graceAs 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.

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 happyTo have such guests beneath my humble roof.It is not often that I have occasionTo speak with scholars; and Emollit mores,Nec sinit esse feros, Cicero says.

Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not?