Kitabı oku: «The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06», sayfa 25

ACT IV

A large room with a throne in the foreground to the right. Next to the throne, and running in a straight row to the left, several chairs upon which eight or ten Castilian grandees are sitting. Close to the throne, MANRIQUE DE LARA, who has arisen.

 
MANRIQUE. In sadness we are now assembled here,
             But few of us, whom close proximity
             Allowed to gather in so short a time.
             There will be more to join us presently.
             Stern, universal need, delaying not,
             Commands us count ourselves as competent.
             Before all others, in our earnest group,
             Is missing he to whom belongs the right
             To call this parliament and here preside;
             We then are half illegal at the start.
             And so, my noble lords, I took the care
             To ask her royal majesty, the Queen,
             Although our business much concerns herself,
             Here to convene with us and take her place,
             That we may know we are not masterless,
             Nor feel 'tis usurpation brought us here.
             The subject of our council at this time
             I hope—I fear—is known to all too well.
             The King, our mighty sov'reign—not alone
             In rank, estate, and dignity he's high,
             But, too, in natural gifts, that when we gaze
             Behind us in the past's wide-open book,
             We scarce again can find his equal there—
             Except that strength, the lever of all good,
             When wandered from her wonted path of good,
             Wills e'er to do her will with equal strength—
             The King, I say, withdraws himself from court,
             Lured by a woman's too lascivious charm,
             A thing in no wise seeming us to judge—
             The Queen!
 

The QUEEN, accompanied by DOÑA CLARA and several ladies, enters from the right, and seats herself on the throne, after she has indicated to the grandees who have arisen that they are to resume their seats.

MANRIQUE. Have I permission, Majesty?

QUEEN. Proceed.

 
MANRIQUE. What I just said, I shall repeat
             "A thing in no wise seeming us to judge."
             But at the bound'ries arms him now the Moor,
             And threats with war the hard-oppressed land;
             So now the right and duty of the King
             Is straight to ward this danger from us all,
             With forces he has called and raised himself.
             But see, the King is missing! He will come,
             I know, if only angry that we called
             Of our own power and will this parliament.
             But if the cause remains that keeps him hence,
             Unto his former bonds he will return,
             And, first as last, we be an orphan land.
             Your pardon?
 

[The QUEEN signs him to continue.]

 
                          First of all, the girl must go.
             Full many propositions are at hand.
             Some are there here who wish to buy her off,
             And others wish to send her from the land,
             A prisoner in some far distant clime.
             The King has money, too, and though she's far,
             You know that power can find whate'er it seeks.
             A third proposal—
 

[The QUEEN, at these words, has arisen.]

 
                                 Pardon, noble Queen!
             You are too mild for this our business drear!
             Your very kindness, lacking vigorous will
             From which to draw renewal of its strength,
             Has most of all, perhaps, estranged our King.
             I blame you not, I say but what is true.
             I pray you, then, to waive your own desire,
             But if it please you otherwise, then speak!
             What flow'ry fate, what flatt'ring punishment,
             Is suited to the sin this drab has done?
 
 
QUEEN (softly).
             Death.
 

MANRIQUE. In truth?

QUEEN (more firmly).

Yes, death.

 
MANRIQUE. Ye hear, my lords!
             This was the third proposal, which, although
             A man, I did not earlier dare to speak.
 
 
QUEEN. Is marriage not the very holiest,
             Since it makes right what else forbidden is,
             And that, which horrible to all the chaste,
             Exalts to duty, pleasing unto God?
             Other commandments of our God most high
             Give added strength to our regard for right,
             But what so strong that it ennobles sin
             Must be the strongest of commandments all.
             Against that law this woman now has sinned.
             But if my husband's wrong continueth,
             Then I myself, in all my married years,
             A sinner was and not a wife, our son
             Is but a misborn bastard-spawn, a shame
             Unto himself, and sore disgrace to us.
             If ye in me see guilt, then kill me, pray!
             I will not live if I be flecked with sin.
             Then may he from the princesses about
             A spouse him choose, since only his caprice,
             And not what is allowed, can govern him.
             But if she is the vilest of this earth,
             Then purify your King and all his land.
             I am ashamed to speak like this to men,
             It scarce becomes me, but I needs must speak.
 

MANRIQUE. But will the King endure this? If so, how?

 
QUEEN. He will, indeed, because he ought and must.
             Then on the murd'rers he can take revenge,
             And first of all strike me and this, my breast.
 

[She sits down.]

 
MANRIQUE. There is no hope of any other way.
             The noblest in the battle meet their doom—
             To die a bitter, yea, a cruel death—
             Tortured with thirst, and under horses' hoofs,
             A doubler, sharper, bitt'rer meed of pain
             Than ever, sinner on the gallows-tree,
             And sickness daily takes our best away;
             For God is prodigal with human life;
             Should we be timid, then, where his command,
             His holy law, which he himself has giv'n,
             Demands, as here, that he who sins shall die?
             Together then, we will request the King
             To move from out his path this stumbling-block
             Which keeps him from his own, his own from him.
             If he refuse, blood's law be on the land,
             Until the law and prince be one again,
             And we may serve them both by serving one.
 

A servant comes.

SERVANT. Don Garceran!

 
MANRIQUE. And does the traitor dare?
             Tell him—
 

SERVANT. The message is his Majesty's.

 
MANRIQUE. That's diff'rent. An' he were my deadly foe,
             He has my ear, when speaks he for the King.
 

_Enter _GARCERAN.

MANRIQUE. At once your message give us; then, farewell.

 
GARCERAN. O Queen, sublime, and thou my father, too,
             And ye besides, the best of all the land!
             I feel today, as ne'er before I felt,
             That to be trusted is the highest good,
             And that frivolity, though free of guilt,
             Destroys and paralyzes more than sin
             Itself. One error is condoned at last,
             Frivolity is ever prone to err.
             And so, today, though conscious of no fault,
             I stand before you sullied, and atone
             For youthful heedlessness that passed for wrong.
 

MANRIQUE. Of that, another time! Your message now!

GARCERAN. The King through me dissolves this parliament.

 
  MANRIQUE. And since he sent frivolity itself
             He surely gave some token from his hand,
             Some written word as pledge and surety?
 

GARCERAN. Hot-foot he followeth.

 
MANRIQUE. That is enough!
             So in the royal name I now dissolve
             This parliament. Ye are dismissed. But list
             Ye to my wish and my advice: Return
             Ye not at once unto your homes, but wait
             Ye rather, round about, till it appears
             Whether the King will take the task we leave,
             Or we must still perform it in his name.
 

(To GARCERAN.)

 
             However, you, in princely service skilled,
             If spying be your office 'mongst us here,
             I beg you tell your King what I advised,
             And that th' estates in truth have been dissolved,
             But yet are ready to unite for deeds.
 
 
GARCERAN. Then once again, before you all, I say
             No tort have I in this mad escapade.
             As it was chance that brought me from the camp,
             So chanced it that the King selected me
             To guard this maiden from the people's rage;
             And what with warning, reason, argument,
             A man may do to ward off ill, although
             'Twas fruitless, I admit,—that have I tried.
             I should deserve your scorn were this not so.
             And Doña Clara, doubly destined mine,
             By parents both and by my wish as well,
             You need not hang your noble head, for though
             Unworthy of you—never worthy,—I
             Not less am worthy now than e'er before.
             I stand before you here and swear: 'Tis so.
 
 
MANRIQUE. If this is so, and thou art still a man,
             Be a Castilian now and join with us
             To serve thy country's cause as we it serve.
             Thou art acquainted in the castle there;
             The captain opes the gates if thou demand.
             Perhaps we soon shall need to enter thus,
             If deaf the King, our noble lord.
 
 
GARCERAN. No word
             Against the King, my master!
 
 
MANRIQUE. Thine the choice!
             But follow for the nonce these other lords,
             The outcome may be better than we think.
 

[Servant entering from the left.]

SERVANT. His Majesty, the King!

 
MANRIQUE (to the estates, pointing to the middle door).
This way—withdraw!
 

(To the servants.)

 
             And ye, arrange these chairs along the wall.
             Naught shall remind him that we gathered here
 

QUEEN (who has stepped down from the throne).

My knees are trembling, yet there's none to aid.

 
MANRIQUE. Virtue abode with strength in days of yore,
             But latterly, estranged, they separate.
             Strength stayed with youth—where she was wont to be—
             And virtue fled to gray and ancient heads.
             Here, take my arm! Though tottering the step,
             And strength be lacking,—virtue still abides.
 

[_He leads the _QUEEN _off at the right. The estates, with GARCERAN, have gone out through the centre door. The_ KING comes from the left, behind him his page.]

 
KING. The sorrel, say you, limps? The pace was fast,
             But I no further need shall have of him.
             So to Toledo, pray you, have him led,
             Where rest will soon restore him. I, myself,
             Will at my spouse's side, in her own coach
             Return from here, in sight of all the folk,
             That what they see they may believe, and know
             That discord and dissension are removed.
 

[The page goes.]

 
             I am alone. Does no one come to meet?
             Naught but bare walls and silent furniture!
             It is but recently that they have met.
             And oh, these empty chairs much louder speak
             Than those who sat upon them e'er have done!
             What use to chew the bitter cud of thought?
             I must begin to remedy the ill.
             Here goes the way to where my wife doth dwell.—
             I'll enter on this most unwelcome path.
 

[He approaches the side door at the right.]

 
             What, barred the door? Hallo, in there! The King
             It is, who's master in this house! For me
             There is no lock, no door to shut me out.
 

[A waiting-woman enters through the door.]

KING. Ye bar yourselves?

WAITING WOMAN. The Queen, your Majesty—

(_As the _KING is about to enter rapidly.)

The inner door she, too, herself, has locked.

 
KING. I will not force my way. Announce to her
             That I am back, and this my summons is—
             Say, rather, my request—as now I say.
 

[Exit waiting-woman.]

 
KING (standing opposite the throne).
             Thou lofty seat, o'ertopping others all,
             Grant that we may no lower be than thou,
             And even unexalted by these steps
             We yet may hold just measure of the good.
 

_Enter the _QUEEN.

KING (going toward her with outstretched hands).

I greet thee, Leonore!

QUEEN. Be welcome, thou!

KING. And not thy hand?

QUEEN. I'm glad to see thee here.

KING. And not thy hand?

QUEEN (bursting into tears).

O help me, gracious God!

 
KING. This hand is not pest-stricken, Leonore,
             Go I to battle, as I ought and must,
             It will be smeared and drenched with hostile blood;
             Pure water will remove the noisome slime,
             And for thy "welcome" I shall bring it pure.
             Like water for the gross and earthly stain
             There is a cleanser for our sullied souls.
             Thou art, as Christian, strong enough in faith
             To know repentance hath a such-like might.
             We others, wont to live a life of deeds,
             Are not inclined to modest means like this,
             Which takes the guilt away, but not the harm—
             Yes, half but is the fear of some new sin.
             If wishing better things, if glad resolve
             Are any hostage-bond for now and then,
             Take it—as I do give it—true and whole!
 

QUEEN (holding out both hands).

O God, how gladly!

 
KING. No, not both thy hands!
             The right alone, though farther from the heart,
             Is giv'n as pledge of contract and of bond,
             Perhaps to indicate that not alone
             Emotion, which is rooted in our hearts,
             But reason, too, the person's whole intent,
             Must give endurance to the plighted word.
             Emotion's tide is swift of change as time;
             That which is pondered, has abiding strength.
 

QUEEN (offering him her right hand).

That too! Myself entire!

 
KING. Trembleth thy hand!
 

(Dropping her hand.)

 
             O noble wife, I would not treat thee ill.
             Believe not that, because I speak less mild,
             I know less well how great has been my fault,
             Nor honor less the kindness of thy heart.
 
 
QUEEN. 'Tis easy to forgive; to comprehend
             Is much more difficult. How it could be,
             I understand it not!
 
 
KING. My wife and queen,
             We lived as children till but recently.
             As such our hands were joined in marriage vows,
             And then as guileless children lived we on.
             But children grow, with the increase of years,
             And ev'ry stage of our development
             By some discomfort doth proclaim itself.
             Often it is a sickness, warning us
             That we are diff'rent—other, though the same,
             And other things are fitting in the same.
             So is it with our inmost soul as well—
             It stretches out, a wider orbit gains,
             Described about the selfsame centre still.
             Such sickness have we, then, but now passed through;
             And saying we, I mean that thou as well
             Art not a stranger to such inner growth.
             Let's not, unheeding, pass the warning by!
             In future let us live as kings should live—
             For kings we are. Nor let us shut ourselves
             From out this world, and all that's good and great;
             And like the bees which, at each close of day,
             Return unto their hives with lading sweet,
             So much the richer by their daily gain,
             We'll find within the circle of our home,
             Through hours of deprivation, added sweets.
 

QUEEN. If thou desirest, yes; for me, I miss them not.

 
KING. But thou wilt miss them then in retrospect,
             When thou hast that whereby one judges worth.
             But let us now forget what's past and gone!
             I like it not, when starting on a course,
             By any hindrance thus to bar the way
             With rubbish from an earlier estate.
             I do absolve myself from all my sins.
             Thou hast no need—thou, in thy purity!
 
 
QUEEN. Not so! Not so! My husband, if thou knew'st
             What black and mischief-bringing thoughts have found
             Their way into my sad and trembling heart!
 
 
KING. Perhaps of vengeance? Why, so much the better!
             Thou feel'st the human duty to forgive,
             And know'st that e'en the best of us may err.
             We will not punish, nor avenge ourselves;
             For she, believe me, she is guiltless quite,
             As common grossness or vain weakness is,
             Which merely struggles not, but limply yields.
             I only bear the guilt, myself alone.
 
 
QUEEN. Let me believe what keeps and comforts me
             The Moorish folk, and all that like them are,
             Do practise secret and nefarious arts,
             With pictures, signs and sayings, evil draughts,
             Which turn a mortal's heart within his breast,
             And make his will obedient to their own.
 
 
KING. Magic devices round about us are,
             But we are the magicians, we ourselves.
             That which is far removed, a thought brings near;
             What we have scorned, another time seems fair;
             And in this world so full of miracles,
             We are the greatest miracle ourselves!
 

QUEEN. She has thy picture!

 
KING. And she shall return 't,
             In full view I shall nail it to the wall,
             And for my children's children write beneath:
             A King, who, not so evil in himself,
             Hath once forgot his office and his duty.
             Thank God that he did find himself again.
 

QUEEN. But thou, thyself, dost wear about thy neck—

 
KING. Oh yes! Her picture? So you knew that, too?
 

[He takes the picture with the chain from his neck, and lays it on the table in the foreground to the right.]

 
             So then I lay it down, and may it lie—
             A bolt not harmful, now the thunder's past.
             The girl herself—let her be ta'en away!
             She then may have a man from out her race—
 

[Walking fitfully back and forth from the rear to the front of the stage, and stopping short now and then.]

 
             But no, not that!—The women of this race
             Are passable, good even, but the men
             With dirty hands and narrow greed of gain—
             This girl shall not be touched by such a one.
             Indeed, she has to better ones belonged.
             But then, what's that to me?—If thus or thus,
             If near or far—they may look after that!
 

QUEEN. Wilt thou, then, Don Alfonso, stay thus strong?

 
KING (standing still).
             Forsooth, thou ne'er hast known or seen this girl!
             Take all the faults that on this broad earth dwell,
             Folly and vanity, and weakness, too,
             Cunning and boldness, coquetry and greed—
             Put them together and thou hast this woman;
             And if, enigma thou, not magic art,
             Shouldst call her power to charm me, I'll agree,
             And were ashamed, were't not but natural, too!
 

QUEEN (walks up and down).

Believe me, husband, 'twas not natural!

 
KING (standing still).
             Magic there is, in truth. Its name is custom,
             Which first not potent, later holds us fast;
             So that which at the outset shocked, appalled,
             Sloughs off the first impression of disgust,
             And grows, a thing continued, to a need—
             Is this not of our very bodies true?
             This chain I wore—which now here idly lies,
             Ta'en off forever—breast and neck alike,
             To this impression have become so used—
 

(Shaking himself.)

 
             The empty spaces make me shake with cold.
             I'll choose myself another chain forthwith;
             The body jests not when it warning sends.
             And now enough of this!
                                     But that you could
             Avenge yourselves in blood on this poor fool—
             That was not well!
 

(Stepping to the table.)

 
                                For do but see these eyes—
             Yes, see the eyes, the body, neck, and form!
             God made them verily with master hand;
             'Twas she herself the image did distort.
             Let us revere in her, then, God's own work,
             And not destroy what he so wisely built.
 

QUEEN. Oh, touch it not!

 
KING. This nonsense now again!
             And if I really take it in my hand,
 

(He has taken the picture in his hand)

 
             Am I another, then? I wind the chain
             In jest, to mock you, thus about my neck,
 

(Doing it.)

 
             The face that 'frights you in my bosom hide—
             Am I the less Alfonso, who doth see
             That he has err'd, and who the fault condemns?
             Then of your nonsense let this be enough!
 

[He draws away from the table.]

QUEEN. Only—

KING (wildly looking at her).

What is 't?

QUEEN. O God in heav'n!

 
KING. Be frighted not, good wife! Be sensible!
             Repeat not evermore the selfsame thing!
             It doth remind me of the difference.
 

(Pointing to the table, then to his breast.)

 
             This girl there—no, of course now she is here—
             If she was foolish, foolish she would be,
             Nor claimed that she was pious, chaste, and wise.
             And this is ever virtuous women's way—
             They reckon always with their virtue thus;
             If you are sad, with virtue comfort they,
             If joyous is your mood, virtue again,
             To take your cheerfulness at last away,
             And show you as your sole salvation, sin.
             Virtue's a name for virtues manifold,
             And diff'rent, as occasion doth demand—
             It is no empty image without fault,
             And therefore, too, without all excellence.
             I will just doff the chain now from my neck,
             For it reminds me—
                                 And, then, Leonore,
             That with the vassals thou didst join thyself—
             That was not well, was neither wise nor just.
             If thou art angry with me, thou art right;
             But these men, my dependents, subjects all—
             What want they, then? Am I a child, a boy,
             Who not yet knows the compass of his place?
             They share with me the kingdom's care and toil,
             And equal care is duty, too, for me.
             But I the man Alfonso, not the King,
             Within my house, my person, and my life—
             Must I accounting render to these men?
             Not so! And gave I ear but to my wrath,
             I quickly would return from whence I came,
             To show that they with neither blame nor praise
             Shall dare to sit in judgment over me.
 

[Stepping forward and stamping on the floor.]

 
             And finally this dotard, Don Manrique,
             If he was once my guardian, is he still?
 

[DON MANRIQUE appears at the centre door. The QUEEN points to the KING, and wrings her hand. MANRIQUE withdraws with a reassuring gesture.]

 
KING. Presumes he to his sov'reign to prescribe
             The rustic precepts of senility?
             Would he with secret, rash, and desp'rate deed—
 

(Walking back and forth diagonally across the stage)

 
             I will investigate this case as judge;
             And if there be a trace here of offense,
             Of insolent intent or wrongful act,
             The nearer that the guilty stand to me,
             The more shall boldness pay the penalty.
             Not thou, Leonore, no, thou art excused!
 

[During the last speech, the QUEEN has quietly withdrawn through the door at the right.]

 
             Whither, then, went she? Leave they me alone?
             Am I a fool within mine own abode?
 

[He approaches the door at the right.]

 
I'll go to her—What, is it bolted, barred?
 

[Bursting open the door with a kick.]

 
I'll take by storm, then, my domestic bliss.
 

[He goes in.]

[DON MANRIQUE and GARCERAN appear at the centre door. The latter takes a step across the threshold.]

MANRIQUE. Wilt thou with, us?

GARCERAN. My father!

 
MANRIQUE. Wilt thou not?
             The rest are gone—wilt follow them?
 

GARCERAN. I will.

[They withdraw, the door closes. Pause. The KING returns. In the attitude of one listening intently.]

 
KING. Listen again!—'Tis nothing, quiet all!—
             Empty, forlorn, the chambers of the Queen.
             But, on returning, in the turret room,
             I heard the noise of carriages and steeds,
             In rushing gallop, hurrying away.
             Am I alone? Ramiro! Garceran!
 

[The page, comes from the door at the right.]

KING. Report! What goes on here?

 
PAGE. Illustrious Sire,
             The castle is deserted; you and I
             Are at this hour its sole inhabitants.
 

KING. The Queen?

PAGE. The castle in her carriage left.

KING. Back to Toledo then?

 
PAGE. I know not, Sire.
             The lords, howe'er—
 

KING. What lords?

 
PAGE. Sire, the estates,
             Who all upon their horses swung themselves;
             They did not to Toledo take their way—
             Rather the way which you yourself did come.
 
 
KING. What! To Retiro? Ah, now fall the scales
             From these my seeing and yet blinded eyes!
             Murder this is. They go to slay her there!
             My horse! My horse!
 
 
PAGE. Your horse, illustrious Sire,
             Was lame, and, as you know, at your command—
 

KING. Well, then, another—Garceran's, or yours!

 
PAGE. They've taken every horse from here away,
             Perhaps with them, perhaps but driv'n afar;
             As empty as the castle are the stalls.
 
 
KING. They think they will outstrip me. But away!
             Get me a horse, were't only some old nag;
             Revenge shall lend him wings, that he may fly.
             And if 'tis done? Then, God above, then grant
             That as a man, not as a tyrant, I
             May punish both the guilty and the guilt.
             Get me a horse! Else art thou in their league,
             And payest with thy head, as all shall—
 

(Standing at the door, with a gesture of violence.)

 
All!
 

[He hastens away.]