SCENE III.—_An Apartment in DON ALONSO’S House.

_Enter CLARA and EUGENIA._

_Clara._ Is ’t not a pretty house, Eugenia, And all about it?

_Eug._ I dare say you think so.

_Clara._ But do not you then?

_Eug._ No—to me it seems A sort of out-court and repository, Fit but for old Hidalgos and Duennas, Too stale and wither’d for the blooming world, To wear away in.

_Clara._ I like its quietude; This pretty garden too.

_Eug._ A pretty thing To come for to Madrid—a pretty garden! I tell you were it fuller of all flowers Than is a Dutchman’s in his tulip-time, I want the lively street whose flowers are shops, Carriages, soldiers, ladies, cavaliers, Plenty of dust in summer, dirt in winter, And where a woman sitting at her blind Sees all that passes. Then this furniture!

_Clara._ Well—surely velvet curtains, sofas, chairs, Rich Indian carpets, beds of Damascene, Chandeliers, gilded mirrors, pictures too— What would you have, Eugenia?

_Eug._ All very well, But, after all, no marvellous result Of ten years spent in golden India. Why, one has heard how fine a thing it is To be my Lord Mayor’s daughter; what must be, Methought, to own a dowry from Peru! And when you talk about the furniture, Pictures, chairs, carpets, mirrors, and all that— The best of all is wanting.

_Clara._ What is that?

_Eug._ Why, a coach, woman! Heaven and earth, a coach! What use is all the money-bonds and gold He has been boasting of in all his letters, Unless, now come at last, he plays the part We’ve heard so long rehearsing?

_Clara._ Not to spare Your father even, Eugenia! For shame! ’Tis time to tie your roving tongue indeed. Consider, too, we are not in the country, Where tongue and eyes, Eugenia, may run wild Without offence to uncensorious woods; But in a city, with its myriad eyes Inquisitively turn’d to watch, and tongues As free and more malicious than yours To tell—where honour’s monument is wax, And shame’s of brass. I know, Eugenia, High spirits are not in themselves a crime; But if to men they _seem_ so?—that’s the question. For it is almost better to do ill With a good outward grace than well without; Especially a woman; most of all One not yet married; whose reputation One breath of scandal, like a flake of snow, May melt away; one of those tenderest flowers Whose leaves ev’n the warm breath of flattery Withers as fast as envy’s bitterest wind, That surely follows short-lived summer praise. Ev’n those who praise your beauty, grace, or wit, Will be the first, if you presume on them, To pull the idol down themselves set up, Beginning with malicious whispers first, Until they join the storm themselves have raised. And most if one be given oneself to laugh And to make laugh: the world will doubly yearn To turn one’s idle giggle into tears. I say this all by way of warning, sister, Now we are launcht upon this dangerous sea. Consider of it.

_Eug._ ‘Which that all may do May Heaven—’ Come, Clara, if the sermon’s done, Pray finish it officially at once, And let us out of church. These homilies In favour of defunct proprieties, Remind one of old ruff and armour worn By Don Punctilio and Lady Etiquette A hundred years ago, and past with them And all their tedious ancestors for ever. I am alive, young, handsome, witty, rich, And come to town, and mean to have my fling, Not caring what malicious people say, If nothing true to say against my honour. And so with all sail set, and streamers flying, (A coach shall be my ship, and I will have it!) I mean to glide along the glittering streets And down the Prado, as I go along Capturing what eyes and hearts I find by the way, Heedless of every little breath of scandal That such as you turn back affrighted by. I’ll know the saints’ days better than the saints Themselves; the holidays and festivals Better than over-done apprentices. If a true lover comes whom I can like As he loves me, I shall not turn away: As for the rest who flutter round in love, Not with myself, but with my father’s wealth, Or with themselves, or any thing but me, You shall see, Clara, how I’ll play with them, Till, having kept them on my string awhile For my own sport, I’ll e’en turn them adrift And let them go, the laugh all on my side. And therefore when you see—

_Clara._ How shall I dare To see what even now I quake to hear!

_Enter ALONSO._

_Alon._ Clara! Eugenia!

_Both._ Sir?

_Alon._ Good news, good news, my girls! What think you? My nephew, Don Torribio Cuadradillos, my elder brother’s elder son, head of our family and inheritor of the estate, is coming to visit me; will be here indeed almost directly. What think you now?

_Eug._ (_aside_). One might have thought, from such a flourish of trumpets, the king was coming at least.

_Alon._ Mari Nuño!

_Mari_ (_entering_). Sir?

_Alon._ Let a chamber be got ready for my nephew, Don Torribio, directly. Brigida!

_Brig._ (_entering_). Sir?

_Alon._ See that linen be taken up into Don Torribio’s room. Otañez, have dinner ready for my nephew, Don Torribio, directly he arrives. And you two, (_to his daughters_,) I expect you will pay him all attention; as head of the family, consider. Ay, and if he _should_ take a fancy to one of you—I know not he will—but if he should, I say, whichever it be, she will take precedence of her sister for ever. (_Aside._) This I throw out as a bait for Eugenia.

_Eug._ It must be Clara, then, sir, for she is oldest you know.

_Clara._ Not in discretion and all wife-like qualities, Eugenia.

_Eug._ Clara!

_Alon._ Hark! in the court!

_Don Torribio_ (_speaking loud within_). Hoy! good man there! Can you tell me if my uncle lives hereabout?

_Alon._ ’Tis my nephew, surely!

_Torr._ (_within_). Why, fellow, I mean of course Don Alonso—who has two daughters, by the token I’m to marry one of ’em.

_Alon._ ’Tis he! I will go and receive him.

[_Exit._

_Torr._ (_within_). Very well then. Hold my stirrup, Lorenzo.

_Eug._ What a figure!

_Enter ALONSO and TORRIBIO._

_Alon._ My nephew, Don Torribio, giving thanks to Heaven for your safe arrival at my house, I hasten to welcome you as its head.

_Torr._ Ay, uncle, and a head taller, I promise you, than almost any body in the parish.

_Alon._ Let me introduce your cousins to you, who are so anxious for your acquaintance.

_Torr._ Ah, that’s proper of ’em, isn’t it?

_Both._ Welcome, sir.

_Alon._ And how are you, nephew?

_Torr._ Very tired, I promise you: for the way is long and my horse a rough goer, so as I’ve lost leather.

_Alon._ Sit down, and rest till they bring dinner.

_Torr._ Sitting an’t the way to mend it. But, however——(_Sits._) Nay, though I be head of the house, I an’t proud—you can all of you sit down too.

_Clara_ (_aside_). Amiable humility!

_Eug._ (_aside_). No wonder the house is crazy if this be its head!

_Torr._ Well, now I come to look at you, cousins, I may say you are both of you handsome girls, indeed; which’ll put me to some trouble.

_Clara._ How so, cousin?

_Torr._ Why, didn’t you ever hear that if you put an ass between two bundles of hay, he’ll die without knowing which to begin on, eh?

_Alon._ His father’s pleasant humour!

_Clara._ A courteous comparison!

_Eug._ (_aside_). Which holds as far as the ass at least.

_Torr._ Well, there’s a remedy. I say, uncle, mustn’t cousins get a dispensation before they marry?

_Alon._ Yes, nephew.

_Torr._ Well then, when you’re about it, you can get two dispensations, and I can marry both my cousins. Aha! Well, but, uncle, how are you? I had forgot to ask you that.

_Alon._ Quite well, in seeing you in my house at last, and to reap, I trust, the fruits of all my travel.

_Torr._ Ah, you may say that. Oh, cousins, if you could only see my pedigree and patent, in a crimson velvet case; and all my forefathers painted in a row—I have it in my saddle bags, and if you’ll wait a minute—

_Enter MARI NUÑO._

_Mari._ Dinner’s ready.

_Torr._ (_looking at MARI_). Lord a’mercy, uncle, what’s this? something you brought from India, belike; does it speak?

_Alon._ Nay, nephew, ’tis our Duenna.

_Torr._ A what?

_Alon._ A Duenna.

_Torr._ A tame one?

_Alon._ Come, come, she tells us dinner’s ready.

_Torr._ Yes, if you believe her; but I’ve heard say, Duennas always lie. However, I’ll go and see for myself.

[_Exit._

_Clara._ What a cousin!

_Eug._ What a lover!

_Mari._ Foh! I wonder how the watch came to let the plague into the city!

[_Exit._

_Alon._ You are silent, both of you?

_Both._ Not I, sir.

_Alon._ I understand you; Don Torribio Pleases you not—Well, he’s a little rough; But wait a little; see what a town life Will do for him; all come up so at first, The finest diamonds, you know, the roughest— Oh, I rejoice my ancestor’s estate Shall to my grandchildren revert again! For this I tell you—one, I care not which, But one of you, shall marry Don Torribio: And let not her your cousin does not choose, For one more courtly think herself reserved; By Heaven she shall marry, if e’er marry, One to the full as rough and country-like. What, I to see my wealth, so hardly won, Squander’d away by some fine town gallant, In silks and satins! see my son-in-law Spend an estate upon a hat and feather! I tell you I’ll not have it. One of you Must marry Don Torribio.

[_Exit._

_Clara._ I’ll die first.

_Eug._ And I’ll live an old maid—which much is worst.