Your convent lies
Far from the public road. Yonder are seen
The turrets of Madrid-just so-and there
The Mansanares flows. The scenery is
Exactly to my wish, and all around
Is calm and still as secrecy itself.
PRIOR.
Or as the entrance to another world.
CARLOS.
Most worthy sir, to your fidelity
And honor, have I now intrusted all
I hold most dear and sacred in the world.
No mortal man must know, or even suspect,
With whom I here hold secret assignation.
Most weighty reasons prompt me to deny,
To all the world, the friend whom I expect,
Therefore I choose this convent. Are we safe
From traitors and surprise? You recollect
What you have sworn.
PRIOR.
Good sir, rely on us.
A king's suspicion cannot pierce the grave,
And curious ears haunts only those resorts
Where wealth and passion dwell-but from these walls
The world's forever banished.
CARLOS.
You may think,
Perhaps, beneath this seeming fear and caution
There lies a guilty conscience?
PRIOR.
I think nothing.
CARLOS.
If you imagine this, most holy father,
You err-indeed you err. My secret shuns
The sight of man-but not the eye of God.
PRIOR.
Such things concern us little. This retreat
To guilt, and innocence alike, is open,
And whether thy designs be good or ill,
Thy purpose criminal or virtuous,-that
We leave to thee to settle with thy heart.
CARLOS (with warmth).
Our purpose never can disgrace your God.
'Tis his own noblest work. To you indeed,
I may reveal it.
PRIOR.
To what end, I pray?
Forego, dear prince, this needless explanation.
The world and all its troubles have been long
Shut from my thoughts-in preparation for
My last long journey. Why recall them to me
For the brief space that must precede my death?
'Tis little for salvation that we need-
But the bell rings, and summons me to prayer.
[Exit PRIOR.
SCENE XV.
DON CARLOS; the MARQUIS POSA enters.
CARLOS.
At length once more,-at length--
MARQUIS.
Oh, what a trial
For the impatience of a friend! The sun
Has risen twice-twice set-since Carlos' fate
Has been resolved, and am I only now
To learn it: speak,-you're reconciled!
CARLOS.
With whom?
MARQUIS.
The king! And Flanders, too,-its fate is settled!
CARLOS.
The duke sets out to-morrow. That is fixed.
MARQUIS.
That cannot be-it is not surely so.
Can all Madrid be so deceived? 'Tis said
You had a private audience, and the king--
CARLOS.
Remained inflexible, and we are now
Divided more than ever.
MARQUIS.
Do you go
To Flanders?
CARLOS.
No!
MARQUIS.
Alas! my blighted hopes!
CARLOS.
Of this hereafter. Oh, Roderigo! since
We parted last, what have I not endured?
But first thy counsel? I must speak with her!
MARQUIS.
Your mother? No! But wherefore?
CARLOS.
I have hopes-
But you turn pale! Be calm-I should be happy.
And I shall be so: but of this anon-
Advise me now, how I may speak with her.
MARQUIS.
What mean you? What new feverish dream is this?
CARLOS.
By the great God of wonders 'tis no dream!
'Tis truth, reality--
[Taking out the KING's letter to the PRINCESS EBOLI.
Contained in this
Important paper-yes, the queen is free,-
Free before men and in the eyes of heaven;
There read, and cease to wonder at my words.
MARQUIS (opening the letter).
What do I here behold? The king's own hand!
[After he has read it.
To whom addressed?
CARLOS.
To Princess Eboli.
Two days ago, a page who serves the queen,
Brought me, from unknown hands, a key and letter,
Which said that in the left wing of the palace,
Where the queen lodges, lay a cabinet,-
That there a lady whom I long had loved
Awaited me. I straight obeyed the summons.
MARQUIS.
Fool! madman! you obeyed it--
CARLOS.
Not that I
The writing knew; but there was only one
Such woman, who could think herself adored
By Carlos. With delight intoxicate
I hastened to the spot. A heavenly song,
Re-echoing from the innermost apartment,
Served me for guide. I reached the cabinet-
I entered and beheld-conceive my wonder!
MARQUIS.
I guess it all--
CARLOS.
I had been lost forever,
But that I fell into an angel's hands!
She, hapless chance, by my imprudent looks,
Deceived, had yielded to the sweet delusion
And deemed herself the idol of my soul.
Moved by the silent anguish of my breast,
With thoughtless generosity, her heart
Nobly determined to return my love;
Deeming respectful fear had caused my silence,
She dared to speak, and all her lovely soul
Laid bare before me.
MARQUIS.
And with calm composure,
You tell this tale! The Princess Eboli
Saw through your heart; and doubtless she has pierced
The inmost secret of your hidden love.
You've wronged her deeply, and she rules the king.
CARLOS (confidently).
But she is virtuous!
MARQUIS.
She may be so
From love's mere selfishness. But much I fear
Such virtue-well I know it: know how little
It hath the power to soar to that ideal,
Which, first conceived in sweet and stately grace,
From the pure soul's maternal soil, puts forth
Spontaneous shoots, nor asks the gardener's aid
To nurse its lavish blossoms into life.
'Tis but a foreign plant, with labor reared,
And warmth that poorly imitates the south,
In a cold soil and an unfriendly clime.
Call it what name you will-or education,
Or principle, or artificial virtue
Won from the heat of youth by art and cunning,
In conflicts manifold-all noted down
With scrupulous reckoning to that heaven's account,
Which is its aim, and will requite its pains.
Ask your own heart! Can she forgive the queen
That you should scorn her dearly-purchased virtue,
To pine in hopeless love for Philip's wife.
CARLOS.
Knowest thou the princess, then, so well?
MARQUIS.
Not I-
I've scarcely seen her twice. And yet thus much
I may remark. To me she still appears
To shun alone the nakedness of vice,
Too weakly proud of her imagined virtue.