Act 3

Scene 1

Lindamire, Don Alvar

What you have told me I dare not believe,
Is this for certain Moncade’s only crime?
His exile from the court, the King’s dismay,
Have not more cause than this effect of love?

No more, Madame.

        I think the reason’s weak
And monarchs are enraged most easily.

Kings are delicate when it comes to favour,
Which held but scant appeal to our Moncade.
His coldness to those gifts, disdain of fame,
Can look to some like criminal contempt;
Princes are jealous of their own power
And want to be their subjects’ everything.

I had not thought that absolute power
Enchained one’s heart unto the diadem;
I knew that one should follow and obey,
But as for freely loving and hating,
I thought that Kings left that up to our souls,
And only Cupid managed those affairs.
That error dissipates, and now I see
A King can do whatever he should wish,
And royal wishes compass everything.
Though I do wonder how, without distress
He loses such a strong, important man:
His heart should fight a little for Moncade,
These past ten years he’s been the State’s support;
Twice we have seen a troubled Barcelona,
Her troubled crown kept safe by him alone.
He has so many exploits to his name,
So much respect, fidelity, such fervour,
His good, his public vows, his credit, birth,
Nothing has swayed his heart in any way,
He always followed orders from his King,
And made the Sovereign’s every whim his guide.
And is it now this Prince does not recall
Such great exploits, such merit and glory?

Whatever subjects do, their King owes nothing,
Our good works are always a gift to him;
And short of risking life and limb, we can’t
Expect a prize for doing what’s ordained.
Cut off this talk then, and now let me know
If Moncade might come have a word with you.

Yes, I await him here, here may he come,
We might be interrupted in my rooms,
And here can better spy out enemies.

Stay where you are, I’ll run to let him know.   [Exit]

Scene 2

Back, pride, to whom I’ve paid heed far too long,
Your force is in an instant overcome;
Suspicion, ego, coldness, vanity,
Depart forever from my timid heart,
You have for too long tyrannized my soul.
Now rise, rise, rise, my pure and secret flame,
You strong and noble love which I have fought,
Misfortuned servant of austere virtue,
Hide not your fire from him who kindled it,
Speak, simple love, the time has come at last!
Moncade is unhappy, in this extreme,
You’ll be more generosity than love;
Make known yourself in full, for pity’s sake,
To down-turned eyes... Oh! Were it not so!

Scene 3

[Enter Clotaire]

Madame, I, having heard that long exile
Should here today relieve you of a lover,
Have come to put this cruel loss to rights.
I lay a tender heart down at your feet,
A feeble heart run through with your sharp looks,
Which ne’er had sighed before, not before you.

Oh Gods, what baseness! Ample offer, and
Arriving at such a convenient time.
A heart that flies from hate, or royal rage
Would be an honest, worthy gift to me;
And such a one that’s bound with honest friends
Will sway with ease a maiden’s spirit; now
I must make certain of your passion’s strength,
By knowing how you feel for sad Moncade.

In fact, Madame, my hatred for Moncade
Has spurred me to confess, and prove my flame:
If my heart can so strongly hate my foe,
It must possess a strength as great to love.
And you can judge how much Clotaire loves you
By knowing my hatred’s intensity.

This secret flame has been most secret kept,
If not faithful, at least it is discreet;
You’re passionate, though you are not sincere,
And know well how to posture, if not please.

‘Tis true a mask contrary to my love
Has too long guarded my flame well from view.
I hid my sighs, held back my sad refrains,
But now my love grows stronger than my fear;
It must be known, it is for you I die.
At this, now arm yourself with all your wiles,
It matters not, I die but suffer less
From your disdain than silence so long kept.

The King’s a great physician for your pains,
An endless silence would have been your fate,
Except a diagnosis of disgrace
Has remedied your timid attitude.
What luck, when fortune knows a thousand ways
To stretch the days of lovers too discrete.

What! Jest you to my face so openly?
Ah! Show me rather all antagony!
Fury is less a pain in love than this......

Ah! You wish that I should be more serious?
With pleasure I do grant this plea of yours,
And wish to show you my true soul in full.
How dare you proudly bear your noble name,
And lay before me all your wickedness?
Unworthy Prince, the slave of destiny,
How dare you offer me your vows of love?
Go, loathsome courtier, court chameleon,
Go make your flame and nerve a gift to some
More baser soul than mine, and ne’er return,
Learn how....

   ‘Tis too much, this extreme fury
Stretching to spite, surpassing modesty,
It carries you to such a violence.
You give my honour cause to take revenge,
The which I can exact in several ways.
I’ll say no more and let you think on this.   [Exit]

Hatred or friendship from a man like you…
Oh-ah! Here is Elvire.

Scene 4

[Enter Elvire]

          What passion’s this?

I find our world has been infected deep
With so much treachery, such baseness, see
So few true friends, and see that every man
Does make a god out of intrigue and fame.

From all that I can see, your pain doth lie
In that you have too much a love for others.
Does some bad that’s to come affect you so?
And do the gods attend to public scandals?

No. But if this our world were generous,
We would not punish the unfortunate.
Clotaire betrays Moncade in his disgrace,
But if this were taboo he wouldn’t dare,
For fear the name of false friend would him stain,
And honourable people him avoid.
And yet his soul thinks not twice of this crime,
Nay, many would agree he had done well.

‘Tis done quite well, and I myself believe
The burden of a King’s contempt is hard,
And should be skirted with great prejudice.
Besides, one’s greatest love should be oneself.

You love yourself so?

         Do you not yourself?
My happiness is my topmost concern.
On Earth, good sense does teach us to be happy.

Why, I did think your soul most generous?
And knowing how Moncade is dear to you,
I thought his fate would surely touch your heart.

You judge my inner feelings by your own?

His misery affects me, yes, I weep
Most deeply for the state I see him in.

The gods have made your heart feel more than mine?

Your heart is made so very like Clotaire’s,
The gods must have intended you for him;
I find your attitudes in harmony,
Both following fortune’s inconstancy,
And your sincerity is matched in his;
A perfect couple, that must go together.

Your spirit is inflamed and with just cause,
A favourite’s eyes have been stolen from you;
Moan all you need to mourn this tragic loss,
I am your friend, so tell me everything.

You dare so, without blushing?

            Oh, good gods!
See now what comes when one has lost their lover!
I knew not that such violence would entail,
Not having such experience myself,
Though I had heard that the distress was strong.
I had some verses for a lover lost,
Where are they?

      Heavens!

         Ah, here! Elegy:
O, Fates, which rob me of one half my life—
Yes these are they, no doubt. Listen.

               Great gods!

O, sky, which bids a heart live from itself—
A lovely style.

      You fickle, two-faced beast!

Well that has just inflamed you all the more.
I know of nothing more to calm you down,
And see that you should be alone today.

You gods that reigned when this woman was born!
That her heart may....

        Farewell, unlucky lover.   [Exit]

Scene 5

If you knew just how odious it is
To basely jeer at those less fortunate!
Whatever pain torments my soul and heart;
Between us two, you’d think yourself worse off.
Moncade has come.

Scene 6

[Enter MONCADE]

       Oh, woe is me, Seigneur!
So true it is that all on Earth doth change,
You, to mine eyes appear the self-same man
I saw at dawn in perfect happiness,
And all this trouble, when it pleases Fate,
Does come and go as quickly as the dew.
How can I make myself believe and see
You so unhappy now, yet still Moncade?

It is a fate whose torments I adore,
Since they have paired us both in their affect.
Madame, ‘tis true, the gods shine not on me,
Except in granting one small recompense:
This turmoil, slander, all this tragedy
Has starved me of the faintest taste of joy.
The only thing on Earth to make one great
Is leaving everything for one’s true love.
Such perfect happiness I now do taste,
And I am, here by you, most satisfied.

Be so, Seigneur, such glory and such joy
Go not amiss, I will remember them;
And in my memory is where Fortune,
With all her efforts, shall not steal them back.
They will be there encarved despite her rage,
And make of what I owe a bright portrait.
That image setting all ablaze, my heart
Must then commit, Seigneur, to loving you.
If you would lose such influence for me,
You will not lose me so to faithlessness;
And so here to console you, I give you
A heart that none can take from you, save Death.

Ah! Noble recompense, ah! matchless glory!
How then when I am hated of the world,
When fear of drawing fury from the King
Scatters my friends, you give yourself to me?
Has being miserable made me more fair?
And do my senses give me true report?

Yes, yes, my love is won by your disgrace!
Before today, Seigneur, you were not mine,
The State’s affairs made use of all your time,
And you were its, more than your mistress’s.
Your heart, possessed of diverse troubles so,
Confounded me with all the universe;
In love, confusion such as this is dire.
I thank you, banishment, you’ve slain my foe;
Today I rise as it from favour falls,
Moncade can give me now his heart entire;
What innocent delights this exile gives.
Seigneur, most strange and nervous Fortune throws
Tumultuous labours upon some souls,
Which chase away both love and its warm flames.
Disgrace, meanwhile, the sympathetic maid,
Prepares an easy, simple way of life
Which better fits our hearts to be in love
Than all the bustle of a busy court.

Oh gods! What pleasure and what flame
Doth grip my soul to hear this loving speech!
What, love you me? Oh gods! What happiness!
But is’t, Madame, aye love, or charity?
I tremble; after all, this tenderness
Was hidden from mine eyes so carefully,
And you did let me doubt so long a time,
My heart dares not begin to so believe.
I know not what instinct within my breast
Warns me that love comes on without our leave,
And that we can’t so master our desires
That not a sigh of love escapes our lips;
And yet the effort of my faithful soul
Discovered in you no more than regard.
That which two years of effort won from you,
Was the vain hope of making you my wife.
Your faith, accepted with such speed and ease
Is not the strongest evidence of love,
And I was full of doubt, until this hour,
Having but meagre basis for my hope.

Why then, doubt you no more, and cease your pains.
‘Tis true that my surplus judiciousness
Did make me worried to offend my love,
Confounding his desires with those of court.
I worried that my soul would seem too base,
That you’d accuse me of loving your fame.
Your exile rids me of this obstacle;
I love you, true, believe it, I pray do.

Why then, Madame, why then I dare believe
This precious love that is my every glory!
But, gods, in my despair I think it all too late,
The hour of banishment is almost here.

For but a few days will we be apart:
I have a house, Seigneur, quite near to yours.
Go rest you there, I will retire myself
When I may do so without whisperings.
Let me give homage to propriety,
And for the rest..

Great gods! After these vows,
What can I ask, but fall down at your knees
My peaceful, loving heart....

           Seigneur, stand up,
If you were seen, alas, what do you think...

                Madame,
In what a rapture you have charmed my soul.

I fear we have been seen, let’s fly from here.
Adieu, Moncade..

       Adieu, Madame, adieu.

End of Act 3

Act 4