SCENE I.—_A Room in the Palace.
_Enter the PRINCE ALEXANDER, and DON ARIAS._
_Prince._ I saw her from her carriage, Arias, As from her East, alight, another sun New ris’n, or doubling him whose envious ray Seem’d as I watch’d her down the corridor, To swoon about her as she moved along; Until, descending tow’rd my sister’s room, She set, and left me hesitating like Some traveller who with the setting sun Doth fear to lose his way; her image still, Lost from without, dazzling my inner eye— Can this be love, Don Arias? if not, What is it? something much akin to love.
_Ar._ But had you not, my lord, often before Seen Donna Anna?
_Prince._ Often.
_Ar._ Yet till now Never thus smitten! how comes that, my lord?
_Prince._ Well askt—though ignorantly. Know you not That not an atom in the universe Moves without some particular impulse Of heaven? What yesterday I might abhor, To-day I may delight in: what to-day Delight in, may as much to-morrow hate. All changes; ’tis the element the world, And we who live there, move in. Thus with me; This lady I have often seen before, And, as you say, was ne’er a sigh the worse, Until to-day; when, whether she more fair, Or I less blind, I know not—only know That she has slain me; though to you alone Of all my friends I would my passion own.
_Ar._ Much thanks; yet I must wonder, good my lord, First, that in all your commerce with Don Cupid You never, I think, dealt seriously till now.
_Prince._ Perhaps: but if Don Cupid, Arias, Never yet tempted me with such an offer? Besides, men alter; princes who are born To greater things than love, nevertheless May at his feet their sovereignty lay down Once in their lives; as said the ancient sage— ‘He were a fool who had not done so once, Though he who does so twice is twice a fool.’
_Ar._ So much for that. My second wonder is, That you commit this secret to _my_ keeping; An honour that, surpassing my desert, Yea, and ambition, frights me. Good my lord, Your secretary, Don Cesar,— To whom you almost trust the government Of your dominions,—whom you wholly love, I also love, and would not steal from him A confidence that is by right his own; Call him, my lord: into his trusty heart Pour out your own; let not my loyalty To you endanger what I owe to him; For if you lay ’t on me—
_Prince._ Don Arias, I love Don Cesar with as whole a heart As ever. He and I from infancy Have grown together; as one single soul Our joys and sorrows shared; till finding him So wise and true, as to another self Myself, and my dominion to boot, I did intrust: you are his friend, and surely In honouring you I honour him as well. Besides, Arias, I know not how it is, For some while past a change has come on him; I know not what the cause: he is grown sad, Neglects his business—if I call to him, He hears me not, or answers from the purpose, Or in mid answer stops. And, by the way, We being on this subject, I would fain, Being so much his friend, for both our sakes, You would find out what ails and occupies him; Tell him from me to use my power as ever, Absolute still: that, loving him so well, I’d know what makes him so unlike himself; That, knowing what it is, I may at least, If not relieve his sorrow, share with him.
_Ar._ Oh, not unjustly do you bear the name Of Alexander, greater than the great In true deserts!
_Enter LAZARO (with a letter)._
_Laz._ Not here? my usual luck; had I bad news to tell my master, such as would earn me a broken head, I should find him fast enough; but now when I have such a letter for him as must bring me a handsome largess, oh, to be sure he’s no where to be found. But I’ll find him if I go to—
_Prince._ How now? Who’s there?
_Laz._ The Prince!—Mum! (_hides the letter and turns to go_).
_Prince._ Who is it, I say?
_Ar._ A servant, my lord, of Don Cesar’s, looking for his master, I suppose.
_Prince._ Call him back; perhaps he can tell us something of his master’s melancholy.
_Ar._ True, my lord. Lazaro!
_Laz._ Eh?
_Ar._ His Highness would speak with you.
_Prince._ Come hither, sir.
_Laz._ Oh, my lord, I do well enough here: if I were once to kiss your Highness’ feet, I could not endure common shoe-leather for a month to come.
_Ar._ His humour must excuse him.
_Prince._ You are Don Cesar’s servant, are you?
_Laz._ Yes, one of your trinity; so please you.
_Prince._ Of my trinity, how so?
_Laz._ As thus; your Highness is one with Don Cesar; I am one with him; ergo—
_Prince._ Well, you are a droll knave. But stop, stop: whither away so fast?
_Laz._ Oh, my lord, I am sure you will have none of so poor an article as myself, who am already the property of another too.
_Prince._ Nay, I like your humour, so it be in season. But there is a time for all things. I want you now to answer me seriously and not in jest; and tell me the secret of your master’s melancholy, which I feel as my own. But perhaps he is foolish who looks for truth in the well of a jester’s mouth.
_Laz._ But not so foolish as he who should throw it there. And therefore since my master is no fool, it is unlikely he should have committed his mystery to me. However, in my capacity of _Criado_, whose first commandment it is, ‘Thou shalt reveal thy master’s weakness as thy own,’ I will tell you what I have gathered from stray sighs and interjections of his on the subject. There has lately come over from Spain a certain game of great fashion and credit called Ombre. This game Don Cesar learned; and, playing at it one day, and happening to hold Basto, Malilla, Spadille, and Ace of Trumps in his hand, stood for the game; and lost. On which he calls out ‘foul play,’ leaves the party, and goes home. Well, at night, I being fast asleep in my room, comes he to me in his shirt, wakes me up, and, dealing cards as it were with his hands, says, ‘If I let this trick go, I am embeasted for that, and besides put the lead into the enemy’s hand; therefore I trump with one of my matadores, and then I have four hearts, of which the ten-ace _must_ make, or else let them give me back my nine cards as I had them before discarding.’ And this I take it is the cause of his dejection.[1]
_Prince._ The folly of asking you has been properly chastised by the folly of your answer. You are right; Don Cesar would never have intrusted with a grave secret one only fit for idle jest.
_Laz._ Ah, they are always importing some nonsense or other from Spain. God keep your Highness; I will take warning not to intrude my folly upon you any more (until you try again to worm some truth out of me).
[_Aside and exit._
_Prince._ A droll fellow! Were one in the humour, he might amuse.
_Ar._ Oh, you will always find him in the same, whenever you are in the mood. He cannot be sad.
_Prince._ He cannot be very wise then.
_Ar._ He is as God made him. Did you never hear any of his stories?
_Prince._ I think not.
_Ar._ He will hardly tell you one of himself that yet might amuse you. He was one day playing at dice with me; lost all his money; and at last pawned his very sword, which I would not return him, wishing to see how he got on without. What does he but finds him up an old hilt, and clapping on a piece of lath to that, sticks it in the scabbard. And so wears it now.
_Prince._ We will have some amusement of him by and by.
Alas! in vain I hope with idle jest To cool the flame that rages in my breast. Go to Don Cesar: get him to reveal The sorrows that he feeling I too feel. I’ll to my sister; since, whether away, Or present, Donna Anna needs must slay, I will not starve with absence, but e’en die Burn’d in the sovereign splendour of her eye.
[_Exeunt severally._