191 FRAGMENT FROM THE FATAL CURSE, (AN UNFINISHED TRAGEDY.) Аст 1. SCENE I. Before Pedro's cottage. Enter PEDRO AND WIFE. PEDRO. But, wife, I say it is four years, five months and five days, come next Michaelmas, exact, since he left ns; for that day, wife, we were to celebrate our marriage, and Sancho-poor boy—(wipes his eyes)—going from us spoil'd it all. So I know I'm right. WIFE. But I tell you Michaelmas comes Friday fortnight-so there's a mistake of a week. PEDRO. Well, but wife WIFE. Well, but husband, I say it is so. Did'nt father Aselmo say so when he came here Thursday se'night? and hav'nt I a better memory than you? and hav'nt I remember'd it because I got me a new gown? and hav'nt I PEDRO. Well, well, wife, have it as you will. But it was a very sad time though for us, wife. Ah, poor boy-(wipes his eyes.) WIFE. Heigho! and we loved him so, Pedro. (Wipes her eyes.) (Cries.) WIFE. Heigho! and our only boy too. PEDRO. Well, well, wife, cheer up. is I know't he's honest, and he loves us. and we shall be happy again. Come, cheer up! WIFE. I hope he may. If we'd only kept that orphan now, we should'nt be lonely even if he did go. By the by, why did'nt we keep her? Sancho was a good boy, and wherever he PEDRO. Why, wife, the poor child was a gentlewoman-you would'nt have me wrong her! WIFE. Ah, but I doubt if we did'nt wrong her, sending her up to the Castle here after all. I don't like Father Aselmo. PEDRO. Don't like him! And why, pray? WIFE. Why, I—I don't like him because-because-why, because I don't like him, that's why. PEDRO. Aha! a woman's reason after all, and I thought so. man. But he's a good WIFE. But he scowls so, husband. O, mercy! when I see him, I always think of the devil. And his voice is sometimes so loud and so fierce-I don't think he's much better than he should be. PEDRO. Wife, wife, you're always full of your suspicions. I tell you, we had no business to keep the poor girl. When we found her at our door that stormy night, was'nt there a letter and some jewels; and think you, when good Don Guzman here offered to take her and bring her up as his daughter, we ought to bring her up a poor peasant? Nonsense, wife! you were wont to think wiser. For my part, I'm glad I did so-glad I gave up basket, letter, jewels, all—all up to him. My sleep has been always sweet for it, and I'd do it again. WIFE. But you kept the picture. PEDRO. Aye, so I did-but you know it was'nt for money. I've got it now where I always keep it, and mean to find out her parents by it one of these days; (takes a picture out of his vest) see, wife. WIFE. O, my! what a beauty little body it is, ai'nt it? just such eyes as the girl herself and when Donna Inez (that's her name, now, you know) was here the other day and smiled, she had just such a mouth exactly. PEDRO. It was her mother doubtless. Poor lady, she was murder'd probably, or some such thing; and they did'nt dare to kill the daughter, and so they carried her off and left her at our door-poor, poor girl. WIFE. How many years is it, husband? PEDRO. Thirteen last spring. But she's well off. Don Guzman's son-Don Juan-who's gone to the wars, is betrothed to her, and they'll be married when he comes home. WIFE. Indeed! that'll be soon then, for father Aselmo told me, they expected him every day. PEDRO. He's been gone ever since-since WIFE. Ever since our Sancho-O if our boy could come home too- PEDRO. Well, well, wife, let's hope for the best. Providence always takes care of the honest; and if we are so it will take care of us. But come, I'm to cut sticks in the forest to-day, so I should'nt stand talking here—the sun will be up before me-come(Exil into the cottage.) SCENE II. Streets of Madrid. (Enter Juan and Raymond.) JUAN, (speaking as he enters.) And yet it follows not, good Raymond, no! RAYMOND. When that feather is A thing the world asks-thirsts for-fights for-aye, JUAN. Smiles! Smiles, and no more, good Raymond, nothing more: May find the crowd will bow-aye, let him plant Well, upon that day High as my station was-the noble duke As my proud steed bore me so gallantly, Mid shouts, and tossing helms, and spears and plumes, My heart went off unto my father's castle, And to my native hills; and their sweet melodies, Brothers for years-have drank at the same board- Thy knighthood-ne'er on braver shoulders fell Beats the blue air with less majestic wing, Than those of higher eyrie! One's their nature- Or sports it with the daring thunder-cloud! I tell thee, And such a jewel is thy fine free nature. I found it, wore it on my heart, will wear it— RAYMOND. My dearest lord JUAN. Lord me no lords! I'd have thee call me, Juan. Then lord me if thou wilt, it is the fashion. All's hollow there, and friends may have such seemingYet, 'scaped its forms, I'd 'scape its follies too. RAYMOND. Well-Juan-wait for me to break our faith, JUAN. Then we are friends. Friendship! 'it is life's solder.' Heart to heart, Alone upon the Guadelquiver's side? Thou may'st remember it. The day was done; And that so soft and gentle that we scarce Dared lift our voices, all so holy seemed. The evening bird we heard not. The shrill note That too was silent. Low and spiritual The evening wind still titter'd in the tops Of the tall trees, yet in a tone so low The stillness was made more still. Then the moon, The beautiful moon, hung off in the clear heaven; And stem the tide together. We did so : And thou rememberest, when the duke was down, O, name it not. RAYMOND. JUAN. Aye! but I will do so; And make a shift to free the obligation. Thou'rt poor. RAYMOND. Aye, Juan, save thy friendship, poor, As when, thy squire in rank, I mounted first, And followed to the wars. I've gain'd some credit; JUAN. Aye, that is true. A single tap gives knighthood—but the lands, The spreading lands that keep that rank in countenance, The duke forgot to give thee. |