Act 1

Scene 1

Moncade, Don Alvar

Alone at last! That overbearing mob
That plagues me like a swarm of moths, has been,
Dear Don Alvar, so well-behaved this morning
That I can slip away for just a moment.
Let us spend this time honouring my flame.
Lindamire lives on this very terrace—
Let’s try and see her.

        If that is your goal,
I fear that we will see her fast asleep.

Yes but I had to take pains so early
To get one over on the flatterers—
I’m the King’s favourite, they obsess over me,
So when I manage to go out unseen,
Given they all know my daily routine,
When I can find a time to be alone,
To cover my tracks and breathe on my own,
It takes hard work or blessings from the gods.

You still despise your royal-given fortune?
Embarrassed by your status with the King?
You see yourself so great, admired, and loved,
And still you don’t want to be favourite?

I don’t get much from having this high title,
And so ‘tis hard discerning shame from honour.
The joy of being in glorious service
Unto the State, my friends, and to my King,
Receiving gifts from our kind Sovereign,
Does humble me, just as you’d think it would—
But I can’t taste the fruit of all that joy
When I recall the trouble that it brings;
If I could just begin to let you know
Exactly what the masses think of me
And all the traps that plague my every step,
You would not be surprised by my disdain.
Whoever finds himself the King’s right hand
Can trust nobody, least of all himself.
One may think this position is easy,
But that can only breed complacency.
Instead of wisely sampling every dish,
You lose yourself and gorge on just desserts
And think you’re doing what the King desires
While you become the lord of luxury.
Ah! My friend, soon you learn that sovereigns
Consider certain simple acts as crimes,
And some things, far from being criminal,
Are good as stabbing the King in the back.
Monarchs receive their power from the gods,
They’re gifted with the right to rule from birth;
But the smooth manners of a gentleman,
The lover’s gift of speaking from the heart:
Princes want these things far more than their crown.
So this is where a clever favourite
Must careful be lest he become a foe:
I’m always looking over my shoulder,
In case his Majesty should take offence,
I must be cautious of each little thing,
For fear of provoking a jealous King.

I’m sure it can’t be all that bad, Moncade;
You’re far above this existential dread.
Your cares of State, your virtue, and your blood
All make you worthy of your high station.
The Fates have given you all you deserve,
Not just from sheer luck or from happenstance—
They ought to give you more for all you’ve done.
We all know Moncade’s ancestors are kings,
And since the current one has reigned in Barcelona,
Your hand has guided his in everything.
And if you think his lavish gifts and praise
Are more about your title than yourself,
Allow me now to kindly soothe your fears:
Don’t labour Heaven with your sad complaints;
Recognize the value of your favours,
And do not push away these things in spite.
You do so far too much, if you must know.
The perfect friendship that has bound us two
Compels me to speak honestly on this.
The court has taken notice how you act
With coldness when you greet our noble King,
Receive his gifts and honours, go to parties.
It seems there’s not a thing that he could give
To do away with that profound ennui
Now settled permanently on your face,
Marked with such ugly and unjust sorrow.
His Majesty is in your confidence,
He has what may disperse your discontent,
Else what you sigh for he can get for you,
What more can he do, this Prince whom you love,
Than come to entertain you here himself,
Than bring the courtiers and elites to you:
Amidst the crowd, the object of your love.
You are in a place where art and nature
Have fought to outdo the other in beauty;
The King, in granting you this prized estate,
Has given you the richest gift by far:
This stretch of hills and woods and valleys, and
The gardens, marbles, fountains, caves and all,
These sacred spots to hide from darkness, these
Fertile deserts...

      Alas! Are these for me,
These sacred dens that do enchant you so,
And all the other gifts you praise so well?
‘Tis true that looking at this place, you’d think
That ancient demi-gods live here; no man
Could ever hope to dream up such a place:
The splendour, pomp, and beauty of these fields,
Each place has its particular delights,
A different one each hour of the day.
But, Don Alvar, what good is this good luck
If I cannot enjoy these wondrous things?
I’ve heard of the attractive qualities
Of those nice fertile deserts you so love;
There is no cave so dark, no den so deep
That I’m not suffocated by the court.
Silence is a god that I do not know.
Don’t tell me all about the charming woods,
Since all the endless number of courtiers
Keep me from resting in its cool shade,
From the blow of the winds, from babbling brooks,
From the smell of spring and the song of birds—
If I can manage to hear an echo
Rise above the din, ‘tis a lucky day—
The air that fate has so far let me feel...
But here at last comes cruelty again,
I was beginning to miss Prince Clotaire.

Scene 2

[Enter Clotaire]

Aha, I’ve found you, our dear lonesome one,
The court is waiting for you to wake up,
But here you are, risen before the Sun;
So you are ready for the hunt, I guess.

No, that’s not it, my lord.

           What cruelty!
So you won’t come? Oh gods! What great despair!
What? Will you make me spend the day without you?
That cannot be, it will not do!

            What a suck-up.

I cannot leave you, Sir, I’d rather be
Detached from myself! I will tell the King,
If you will not come, he can count me out.

Hold on, Clotaire….

         He’ll order you to come!
Yes, he must come and order you himself!
I’ll run to get him now.

[Exit]

Scene 3

         No need for that,
My lord, since.... Damn! He’s gone away already.
See what a state Clotaire has put me in,
I wanted to devote this day to her,
My love, and took great pains to make this work,
Which he will ruin with his wicked help!
Of all my doters, he’s the most inane.

‘Tis true his eagerness to please is misplaced.
I do not know how you have charmed him so.
But having to spend a day without you,
You must admit, is a terrible loss.

Ah yes! Laugh at my unending torment.

No, see, he irks you since he loves you so.

Loves me, eh? Gods! That worm is my rival,
The eyes of Lindamire have caught his soul:
But he dares not admit he loves my love,
For fear that he might fall from out of favour
And lose my patronage within the court.
Such terror has so strong a hold on him
That he cedes ground to me with Lindamire,
And suffocates me with his cloying zeal
While working against me behind my back.

A man like him cannot be such a threat.
His love and falsehood don’t compare to you:
He is a fugitive, defeated, lost,
Come seeking sanctuary in our realm.
What can he hope from such a pointless love?

He is a prince and lover, and I fear
That Lindamire is but a woman yet;
The members of that fair sex can deceive.
If I may speak to you with honesty,
I fear that Clotaire’s interest might block
Me from the Hymen that I do desire.
Since Lindamire might like a nice pretense,
Another artful reason to break off.
My slight suspicion of her secrecy,
Her grief, with which she guards against my charms,
Have kept her from my reaches until now.
But from a lover’s eyes one cannot hide;
She waits, she waits to hear about the war.
A royal title has so many charms;
If Clotaire can regain his former seat,
Then she might well forget about Moncade:
And there you have the full extent of it.

Do not believe she would be so untrue.
You know her better, and you do her wrong.

Alas! No one can know what fate will bring:
The winds of change do blow for everyone,
And love and fortune’s wheels run parallel.
But Lindamire comes, you must leave us; love,   [Exit Don Alvar]
Now vanquish my suspicions, or my life.

Scene 4

[Enter Lindamire, reading]

LINDAMIRE

    These fields, these woods, these clouds above;
    The beast most wild,
    The bird most mild,
    All in nature is love.

She reads.

    Since love can set aflame
    The most unlikely object,
    If our hearts become her subject,
    Alas! Must we them blame?

     That sigh does make me understand,
Oh! so happy would I be to feel that breeze:
She sees me. Here, Madame, and at this time,
I doubted what I saw with mine own eyes.
What mystery has brought you out of bed?

A mystery, Seigneur, most commonplace;
Each morning I take an unmatched delight
And watch the sun rise over these fine fields.
He mixes with Aurora to refine
With filigree of light each place he rests,
And in these moments you can see the winds
Puffing their thousand sighs amidst the flowers,
Their perfumes wafting up into the air,
While dew does ornament the fountains’ grass.
For you, Seigneur, I paint this pretty scene,
For I suppose it must be new to you.
A man who must support the crown knows not
The pleasures offered by the countryside.

‘Tis true the tasks the gods have set for me
Do block mine eyes from seeing these delights.
But if my heart rebels against these chores,
It does so not for nature’s benefit.
If I should never see the break of day
And could instead devote my time to love,
If I might in a thousand little ways
Impart to you how much my heart is yours,
If something were to interrupt my duties
And let me see you for a moment more,
And if...

   In love we each have our own ways;
The favourite’s must be singular indeed.
That overbearing zeal, those sugared words,
And all the vulgar lovers’ false pretense
Must be, Seigneur, forbidden from your style.
Their wild devotion to a tender love,
Their tears and sighs and vows to love forever
Are gestures that won’t last a change of weather.

Some find more love in changeable lovers
Than those whose work does overburden them:
Love does not care for the affairs of state,
Cupid prefers love notes to policy.

Do you notice love frowns on those like you?

Ah! We don’t know what others think of us,
And for the favourite ‘tis the greatest pain.
Since he is decked with such fine privileges,
His glory often has more friends than he,
And sometimes hate and love are bound together;
Among those most attracted, it is hard
To separate the strangers from the friends,
And those that love him for the things around,
Who never would have given him a thought.

You spend a lot of time on this one point.
‘Tis right that you be jealous of your title,
Not knowing if ‘tis you or it they like;
But if one melds the two, what does it matter?
As long as you are happy, I believe,
That you don’t have to be obsessed with why.

That principle is good and sound, ‘tis true;
But love, Madame, does not allow for reason;
Love is itself its own object and goal,
It is and makes the cause and its effect.
And once its burning heat has touched a soul,
If other things do muddle with that flame
Which do attract the object of the love
Away from that first soul, then love burns up;
Judge then if my uncertainty’s extreme,
I who am caged by these attractive things.
Although perhaps my honour, love, and faith
Are small appealing things...

Scene 5

[Enter Don Alvar]

               The King is here.

The King!

     Yes.

       Oh great sky!

             I have to go.   [Exit Lindamire]

Annoyed and alone.

         Go find Lindamire,
And ask her where she wants to meet again.   [Exit Don Alvar]
I do love’s bidding most uneasily,
And in my tender heart I find a weakness
In serving both my master and my mistress.

Scene 6

[Enter The King]

It seems that but to nourish thine ennui
Thou hast dispensed me from thy company.
Thy rude chagrin, thy melancholic dreams
Do make thee shun the public court affair
And thou prefer’st to be alone than share
In all the glories of thy loving King.
This does surprise me, and since thou must know,
This sulking humour starts to wear on me,
I do not like to see that all my favour
Has yet not thawed thy most disturbing coldness.
Mankind whom gods have given shape unto,
His happiness cannot be touched by Kings,
Since I, with all my royal potency
Still cannot make mine own creation smile.
Demand, ask, beg me prove my worth
In any way a subject can so do.
Hide not from me a thing, open thy heart;
Speak, what ails thee?

           Oh pardon me, my lord,
If on this point I know not what to say.
These gifts in excess overwhelm me so
That I did not, great King, believe me worthy.
You license me with such great liberty
That I was bound to use, not hold it in;
I must now beg my pardon at your knees,
I swear that both mine eyes have wronged my heart
If they have not expressed my gratitude.
Why yes, I...

      Stop, or be thou more sincere,
These high-flown words will but inflame me more.
With freedom speak and know this just as well:
Thy misdirections will not save thee here.
Thy hundred sighs, thy hundred secret gripes
Have told me much about thine attitude.
I do not care to hear thine opinion,
Cease thou these overbearing words;
This is my wish from thine obedience
Which I have earned with my goodwill and joy,
And know if thou should’st keep defying me,
Today for all time thou dost lose my favour.

My Lord, what doom!

           It is irrevocable.

What have you made of me, awesome monarch?
Great skies, what do you ask of me, and how
Dare I to make my King my confidante?
O gods! To that name only can I turn,
I cannot do it...

       Then I order thee.

Oh well, my lord! Well then, I must obey.
To satisfy you, I betray myself;
You do command it.

         And you take too long.
Speak.

   I am jealous of my own good fortune.
It is not me they love, but your favours,
And your gifts, my Lord, take their hearts from me.
In this same circumstance my soul would leap
If fate would leave me but my lady’s heart.
I know that it is right and just for me
To owe my friendships to a kindly King.
This zealous fervour that inspires me now
Does wish that all this air was owed to you;
I cannot act nor live except by you,
And being bound in such a life seems good.
But, Lordship, ‘tis a lover’s greatest pleasure
To owe to no one their beloved’s heart.
And I would die a thousandfold if she
Confounded my love with the favourite.

Is’t so that this is all thy sorrow’s cause?

To one who does not love, it may seem nothing,
Mirages, interest’s fantasy, no more.
The faintest looks are magnified by love,
And since I must here tell you all my weakness,
If my position shared my mistress’ heart
Then though I should pronounce my wedding vows,
My secret soul would be in misery.
A hopeless lover sees in all things doom,
And love that’s shared is just as soon destroyed.

Is’t so that all my benefit and favour
Could not a lover move from ardent folly?
Then I have not the goods to please this heart,
And thou with all my gifts art miserable;
When I do shower thee with benefits
What lacks, thou ingrate, from thy selfish hopes?
Is’t so that I give all myself to him,
And I to him am but a faint mirage,
A fantasy, a vapour, cloud of love?

My lord, my lord! But you have never loved.

Never, ‘tis true! except for loving you!
But since my tenderness does you no good,
Since being everything to me, you whine,
I leave you all to your unworthy flame.
I soon will pick another grateful soul
More careful of the value of my favour,
That I shall be their every pain and humour.   [Exit]

Please, lord! But gods, after that royal threat,
I’m left in ruined anguish and disgrace,
I’ll after him and try to calm him down,
To quench the fury of an angry crown.   [Exit]

End of Act 1

Act 2