LITMIR.BIZ

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      The candles have burned low; it must be late.

      Where can Victorian be? Like Fray Carrillo,

      The only place in which one cannot find him

      Is his own cell. Here's his guitar, that seldom

      Feels the caresses of its master's hand.

      Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument!

      And make dull midnight merry with a song.

       (He plays and sings.)

      Padre Francisco! Padre Francisco! What do you want of Padre Francisco? Here is a pretty young maiden Who wants to confess her sins! Open the door and let her come in, I will shrive her from every sin.

      (Enter VICTORIAN.)

      Vict. Padre Hypolito! Padre Hypolito!

       Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hypolito?

       Vict. Come, shrive me straight; for, if love be a sin,

      I am the greatest sinner that doth live.

      I will confess the sweetest of all crimes,

      A maiden wooed and won.

       Hyp. The same old tale

      Of the old woman in the chimney-corner,

      Who, while the pot boils, says, "Come here, my child;

      I'll tell thee a story of my wedding-day."

       Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full

      That I must speak.

       Hyp. Alas! that heart of thine

      Is like a scene in the old play; the curtain

      Rises to solemn music, and lo! enter

      The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne!

       Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, thou shouldst say;

      Those that remained, after the six were burned,

      Being held more precious than the nine together.

      But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember

      The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova

      Dance the Romalis in the market-place?

       Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa.

       Vict. Ay, the same.

      Thou knowest how her image haunted me

      Long after we returned to Alcala.

      She's in Madrid.

       Hyp. I know it.

       Vict. And I'm in love.

       Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be

      In Alcala.

       Vict. O pardon me, my friend,

      If I so long have kept this secret from thee;

      But silence is the charm that guards such treasures,

      And, if a word be spoken ere the time,

      They sink again, they were not meant for us.

       Hyp. Alas! alas! I see thou art in love.

      Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.

      It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard

      His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa—

      Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover,

      How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy?

      Write her a song, beginning with an Ave;

      Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary,

       Ave! cujus calcem clare

       Nec centenni commendare

       Sciret Seraph studio!

       Vict. Pray, do not jest! This is no time for it!

      I am in earnest!

       Hyp. Seriously enamored?

      What, ho! The Primus of great Alcala

      Enamored of a Gypsy? Tell me frankly,

      How meanest thou?

       Vict. I mean it honestly.

       Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry her!

       Vict. Why not?

       Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bartolome,

      If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy

      Who danced with her at Cordova.

       Vict. They quarrelled,

      And so the matter ended.

       Hyp. But in truth

      Thou wilt not marry her.

       Vict. In truth I will.

      The angels sang in heaven when she was born!

      She is a precious jewel I have found

      Among the filth and rubbish of the world.

      I'll stoop for it; but when I wear it here,

      Set on my forehead like the morning star,

      The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.

       Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead,

      'T will be indeed a wonder.

       Vict. Out upon thee

      With thy unseasonable jests! Pray tell me,

      Is there no virtue in the world?

       Hyp. Not much.

      What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment;

      Now, while we speak of her?

       Vict. She lies asleep,

      And from her parted lips her gentle breath

      Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers.

      Her tender limbs are still, and on her breast

      The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep,

      Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams,

      Like a light barge safe moored.

       Hyp. Which means, in prose,

      She's sleeping with her mouth a little open!

       Vict. O, would I had the old magician's glass

      To see her as she lies in childlike sleep!

       Hyp. And wouldst thou venture?

       Vict. Ay, indeed I would!

       Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected

      How much lies hidden in that one word, NOW?

       Vict. Yes; all the awful mystery of Life!

      I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito,

      That could we, by some spell of magic, change

      The world and its inhabitants to stone,

      In the same attitudes they now are in,

      What fearful glances downward might we cast

      Into the hollow chasms of human life!

      What groups should we behold about the death-bed,

      Putting to shame the group of Niobe!

      What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells!

      What stony tears in those congealed eyes!

      What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks!

      What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows!

      What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling!

      What lovers with their marble lips together!

       Hyp. Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love,

      That is the very point I most should dread.

      This magic glass, these magic spells

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