The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sorceress, by Victorien Sardou This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Sorceress A Drama in Five Acts Author: Victorien Sardou Translator: Charles A. Weissert Release Date: May 11, 2017 [EBook #54705] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS *** Produced by David Thomas THE SORCERESS A Drama in Five Acts BY VICTORIEN SARDOU Authorized Translation from the French by CHARLES A. WEISSERT With an Introduction by the Translator BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY RICHARD G. BADGER All Rights, including those of Presentation, Reserved The Gorham Press, Boston, U.S.A. Printed in the United States of America PREPARER’S NOTES This book was originally digitized by Google and is intended for personal, non-commercial use only. Alterations from the original text: Rename Act Four/Scene 8 to “Scene 7”. Spelling correction: change “Calabazos” to “Calabazas”. DEDICATION TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON SOUTH, JR. SARDOU AND HIS WORK I Victorien Sardou was born in Paris on September 7, 1831. His father, a native of the vicinity of Cannes on the Mediterranean, came to Paris in 1819 and followed a variety of scholastic pursuits. His mother was a resident of the ancient city of Troyes. Victorien’s father finally engaged in literary work, edited text books and taught in schools. His interesting personality made for him many friends. He never became well-to-do; on the contrary, he became so entangled in indebtedness that he gave up Paris and returned to his olive groves in the south with the hope of being able to satisfy his creditors. He left behind him Victorien, aged twenty-two, who was struggling to displace with studies in surgery and medicine his dreams of becoming a poet and dramatist. But he could not change his gods. A youth who had read before he was twelve years old the works of Molière, who had enthusiastically studied archæology and important periods of the world’s history and who had delved deeply into all literature, especially into the works of master poets and playwrights, was not made of stuff moldable into something other than his true self. Saddened by the death of two sisters and left alone by his father, Sardou continued his medical studies, meanwhile residing in a garret. His existence would have been extremely miserable had he not been able to see an occasional play by Hugo, and to satisfy infrequently his great passion for the opera. In referring to those days of struggle, he said: “Ah, don’t talk to me of music; that is one of my passions. I remember a long time ago when I went to the opera—not in a box of stalls, but right up in the gallery—to hear ‘Les Huguenots’ or ‘Le Prophèté’—I delighted in Meyerbeer—the seats were four francs apiece. I had probably pawned my best coat to get there; but there I was, and I never think of those costly evenings without remembering how I enjoyed them, and felt a certain sense of gratification that I have never experienced since.” Sardou’s inspiration to follow literature began with an incident which has often been related. In a mood of wretchedness caused by poverty and the caging of his ambitious soul in a bleak garret, he stood in a doorway near the College of Medicine to escape the rain and his thoughts turned to suicide. Obsessed with this desire, he walked into the storm. A water-carrier, who instantly took his place of shelter, exclaimed: “Ah, my friend, you do not know when you are well off.” An instant later a block of granite fell from the building—which was under construction—and killed the water carrier. Sardou accepted his escape from death as an omen that he was destined to live and to become great. Immediately he began those several years of desperately hard work in which he served apprenticeship for his future career. Of this period of Sardou’s life a writer who knew him well said: “Only those who have known the sting of bitter want can fully appreciate the agony of the intellectual student’s career. The eager brain, the famished body, the long night-watches and hideous nightmares, the struggle to make both ends meet, to keep body and soul together, the continual battle with poverty, pride, ambition, hope and despair. Sardou’s young life was such a struggle. He possessed a valiant soul, and he did not give way; the more he had to work against, the harder he worked, and every new trial fell like a pointless dart against the steel armor of his resistance. He determined to become some one, and he realized that the bridge which spans greatness and nothingness is knowledge.” Desperate but enthusiastic, Sardou toiled with his pen upon articles for a great variety of publications, receiving poor pay, which he supplemented with fees received for tutoring. He was a tireless student. When he wrote upon topics pertaining to history or to literature, he spoke with authority. The Middle Ages, the Reformation and the great events of the past which made and unmade nations and their policies appealed to his poetic temperament. He toiled day and night, and amassed an amount of erudition seldom possessed by any but scholars of renown. In the meantime he was working upon his first plays. “These were the occasions when I could not afford sardines and dry bread,” said Sardou, “and I had to go to bed supperless.” On April 1, 1854, the manager of the Odéon Théâtre attempted to produce Sardou’s play Le Taverne des Étudients, which the crowd hissed from the stage without witnessing it, and brought disappointment and sorrow to the young author. With the year 1857 came the earliest rewards for Sardou’s long years of labor: marriage and the route to success. Poverty, lonesomeness, the cramped quarters of a gloomy garret and the accompanying misery and hopelessness of an unrealized ambition were not enough: an illness of typhoid fever must bring despair as a climax. On another floor in the house resided Mlle. de Brécourt, an actress, and her mother. When the young woman heard that the quiet, studious young man whom she had often seen was likely to die, her pity was roused and she became his faithful nurse. In addition to saving Sardou’s life, she was the means of introducing him to Madame Déjazet, who established the Théâtre-Déjazet. In 1858 Sardou and Mlle. de Brécourt were married. Sardou’s plays found favor with Déjazet, whose talents proved adaptable for portraying his characters, and success followed success. In 1861 he was decorated with the Legion of Honor. Nine years after she had married Sardou—during which time she had seen her husband attain fame and wealth—Madame Sardou died. Sardou continued to work and his fame became international. Europe’s greatest theaters were producing his plays. In 1872 he was united in marriage with Mlle. Anna Soulié, daughter of the curator of the museum in Versailles. The marriage was extremely happy and the dramatist’s success continued. In 1877 Sardou was elected a member of the French Academy. Though immensely wealthy, Sardou resided simply at his villa in Marley-le-Roi near Versailles. He also had two country homes near Cannes, where his forefathers lived, and a residence in Paris, which he occupied principally for business purposes. Like Scott, Sardou had a great passion for books upon every subject, and his home at Marley, like Abbotsford, contained thousands of volumes. Honors from literary and art societies throughout Europe came to him. In making appointments to posts in which a knowledge of literature and the fine arts were important qualifications, the French government consulted with Sardou, who was considered an authority. The productive years of his life were serene ones. He was very generous, always ready to encourage the aspirant, and had no jealousies. His was a remarkable personality. The late Edmondo de Amicis thus describes him: “Sardou looked a little like Napoleon, a little like Voltaire and a little like the smiling portrait of a malicious actress which I had seen in a shop window on the previous day. He wore a large black velvet cap, below which fell long waving gray locks. He had a silk hankerchief round his neck and was wrapped in a wide dark-colored jacket, which looked like a demi-dressing gown. My attention was riveted by his strange face, without beard and colorless, with a long nose and pointed chin and irregular and strongly marked features, lighted up by two keenly sparkling gray eyes, full of thought, the glances of which correspond with the rapid motion of the thin and flexible lips, and the acute yet kindly expression of the whole face, sometimes illumined by a bright, slightly mocking smile, like that of a quite young man. He did not look more than 70 years of age, and when he spoke he seemed still younger. He spoke with the fluency of an actor who abuses that power. It was not necessary to question Sardou. He began to converse with a fluency, an ease and a vivacity of accent and gesture which forestalled all my questions and satisfied my curiosity with such an appearance of intimacy and confidence that I was at first quite stunned, uncertain whether I was in the presence of the most expansive and frankest man I had ever met or of the profoundest and cleverest actor that the human mind can imagine.” In his seventy-eighth year, at the time when he received the news of the success of his last play, L’Affaire des Poisons, Sardou, who had been convalescing from an illness of pulmonary congestion, became suddenly worse and died in Paris on November 8, 1908. His funeral was held on November 11 in the Church of St. François de Sales. The obsequies were national in character. Like all those who had received the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor, Sardou was given a military burial. Previous to the removal of the body from the house to the church, eulogies were delivered before Sardou’s intimate friends and members of the Academy. Those present were Frenchmen distinguished in art, literature, science and politics. Thousands of persons representing every class of Parisian life—for Sardou’s name was known alike in mansion and tenement—stood with lifted hats as the funeral procession passed on its way to Marley, and thousands followed the hearse to the family burial place. From all parts of the world telegrams of condolence were received by M. Sardou’s family. From Cairo Madame Sarah Bernhardt, whose fame resulted from her interpretations of the characters in Sardou’s plays, cabled: “France loses one of its glories, Paris a friend, all the unhappy a protector, and we artists our beloved master, Victorien Sardou.” II Among those who discuss the drama there is a tendency to depreciate Sardou’s work. Such an attitude is probably only natural during a time when homage is so universally directed to such realists and dissectors of modern social life as Ibsen, Pinero, Brieux, Hervieu and Shaw. The principal complaint brought against Sardou is the charge that he made mechanical plays in which all material was subordinated to the plot, that his characters are like marionettes made vocal and that he “manufactured” theatrical pieces to portray the talents of certain histrionic “stars.” If these qualities alone are the basis for condemnation of Sardou’s plays, something more must be offered to convince the public that he is not fit to stand among the modern master dramatists. If they are requirements necessary for a playwright to attain a world-wide reputation, to become a member of the celebrated Academy and of numerous other societies in which high scholarship is demanded for admission, one questions the consistency of the statements of the critics; if plays containing these qualities, presented by actors and actresses of international fame in the world’s principal centers of culture—where a play by Sardou was an important public event—realized for their creator during several decades the goal of every playrwright: success, fame and the accompanying financial reward, then one not only questions the consistency of the critics but also their qualifications for posing as “authorities” on the drama. It is popular to depreciate Sardou, but much of this depreciation would become admiration were it not for the fact that for those who do not read French only a few of his plays are available in translations. Students of the drama, therefore, are compelled to accept the opinions of others instead of basing their knowledge upon a first-hand acquaintance with Sardou’s work. His high position among the dramatists of France alone would demand an explanation of the reasons why his productions appealed to cultured and cosmopolitan audiences, which included scholars, diplomats, royalty—persons not likely to waste time in flocking to see the work of a mediocrist. No one in the world ever understood better the technique of playwriting than did Sardou. Both he and Ibsen recognized Scribe’s genius for technique: Sardou acquired Scribe’s craftsmanship, developed it and improved upon it; Ibsen used of it what he could in his clinical excursions into the whys and wherefores of Life—the one reflected the French spirit, the heritage of the epic and romantic past, the social life preceding the fall of the Second Empire and the national life since then; the other, grimly Teutonic in temperament, mined to the roots of human life and ironically upheld the mirror to all classes revealing the secrets of their souls. Into lighted streets, into halls and mansions, into courts and capitols, into palaces and into throne-rooms, Sardou passed studying minutely the movements of his personages; Ibsen, with the attentive scrutiny of a hospital aide seeking the wounded, turned his flash-light—a flash-light with microscopic power—into dark corners, into alleys, into humanity’s every haunt. The great Frenchman and the great Norwegian both studied medicine and gave it up before becoming playwrights. Their selections of working materials were truly characteristic of their national temperaments. Both have had an inestimable influence upon the drama of all nations. Sardou was structural in his craftsmanship in the sense that he created his plays with the skill of an artisan working with steel and stone, and eliminated everything unnecessary in making his production symmetrical. He was a realist in the sense that he never hesitated to portray what he thought would convey his idea complete to the audience. If a thrill of horror would effectively drive home a point, he used it. In his satirical plays he was merciless in handling the vanities and vagaries of society. While Sardou aspired to become a playwright, he studied Shakespeare and regarded verse as the best medium for presenting lofty themes, but after he studied the stage he changed this view and wrote his principal plays in prose, though the material is often admirably adapted for metrical expression. Sardou’s historical dramas are lofty in theme. They are true to their times, and appeal universally to those interested in life outcropping from mighty changes of conditions in the past. His deep knowledge of history, art and archæology is evident in historical dramas in which costumes, decorations, interior details, furniture and other properties used for the setting compositely reproduce the atmosphere of the period depicted by the action. None knew better than Sardou the life about him. He studied personalities in their intricate relationship in society. He never preached. He never sacrificed plot in order to prove a thesis, thereby escaping the prolixity of which some of the “realists” are often guilty. His plays have morals, but they are skillfully hidden behind his technique, which supplements a natural gift of analysis and an intuitive power for recognizing and selecting subject matter pleasing to cosmopolitan Parisian audiences. His comedies portraying contemporary life were, with a few exceptions, enthusiastically received, and were the stepping stones by which actors and actresses rose to world-wide celebrity. For impressive compositions Verdi and Offenbach found inspiration in Sardou’s creations. The result of Sardou’s long years of hard work was a prolific production of comedies and dramas. The principal ones and the dates of their production were as follows: La Taverne des Étudiants, 1854; Les Premières Armes de Figaro, 1859; Les Pattes de Mouche, 1860; Nos Intimes, 1861; La Papillonne, 1862; Les Vieux Garçons, 1865; Patrie!, 1869; Fernande, 1870; Andréa, 1873; La Haine, 1874; Daniel Rochat, 1880; Divorçons, 1880; Theodora, 1884; La Tosca, 1887; Cléopâtre, 1890; Thermidor, 1891; Madame Sans-Gene, 1893; Gismonda, 1894; Paméla, 1898; Robespierre, 1899; Dante, 1903; La Sorcière, 1903; L’Affaire des Poisons, 1907. III Sardou’s marvelous theatrical technique is nowhere better exemplified than in La Sorcière, one of his last tragedies. Bigotry, love, superstition and persecution are the predominating elements of the action, which is laid in Granada immediately after the conquest by the Spaniards. What better material for romance? The principal figures are a Castilian officer and a cultured Moorish woman, who, ignoring an edict of the Inquisition inflicting the death penalty upon alliances between Christians and unconverted Moslems, have the strength to assert their rights as normal human beings—and to suffer the inevitable consequences. It is the depiction of a struggle for individual freedom in which the common truths of the human heart beat hopelessly for expression against the bigotry of the masses and the bigotry of those who not only know better but who also use it as an agency in strengthening their own power. The result is the old struggle between knowledge and ignorance, between love for one’s religion and country and for the satisfaction of the soul’s desire regardless of traditions discarded and of idols knocked down in the accomplishment of that desire. In this process of emerging, of transition, in this sudden seizure by unknown forces upon new combinations of circumstances, in this bidding farewell to the old while hailing with allegiance that of which we are unaware until the clarifying moment arrives, lies the essence of tragedy. “It is possible,” said the late William James, “that Being may be a great sea of consciousness, some of the fag ends of which are human minds.” It is in the interplay, in the constant weaving and raveling of that cosmic pattern which we call life that the dramatist finds the few wisps of experience suitable for interpreting his own understanding of a certain phase of existence. “The representation of a great misfortune alone is essential to tragedy,” declared Schopenhauer. “Characters of ordinary morality, under circumstances such as often occur, are so situated with regard to each other that their position compels them, knowingly and with their eyes open, to do each other the greatest injury without any of them being entirely in the wrong.” Under this definition, La Socrière qualifies exactly as a tragedy. In creating his plays Sardou did not attempt to conform to any particular definition. He was independent in choice of materials and in method of handling: the purpose justified the treatment. In La Sorcière he showed his hatred of tyranny, and he puts into the mouth of Zoraya, the Moorish woman, in that powerful seventh scene of Act IV, one of the bitterest denunciations of the Inquisition ever made through the drama. Sardou studied historic events with the eyes of a scientist. He was interested in hypnotism and in spiritualism. While studying the Middle Ages he concluded that the so-called sorcery of that time was nothing else but hypnotism, long known to the Orientals and introduced by them among the Moors. It was only natural that an age, so reeking with superstition that it persecuted the man who declared that the earth revolves around the sun, should brand as an agent of the devil any one familiar with hypnotic power. Through a feminine character in whom were combined the best qualities of Mohammedanism and the gift of healing, Sardou was able to throw the strongest light upon superstition in the Middle Ages. The plot of La Sorcière is the work of a master craftsman. In motivation and in development of situation the play is so well rounded that no part can be removed without spoiling the whole. The action opens with a humorous scene in which a petty officer vested with authority is bullying a crowd of peasants, among whom is supposed to be the culprit who stole the corpse of an executed criminal publicly exposed—the body being that of an unconverted Moor who had loved a Christian girl. In this scene Sardou begins to draw his background of superstition by means of the words of the ignorant natives, who jump at a suggestion of one of their number, and denounce as the thief Zoraya, the “Sorceress.” In a scene poetic with romance and beauty Don Enrique and Zoraya, whom he wishes to arrest, drift into the same relation which resulted in the death of the young Moor, whose body had been stolen. This act is the great corner-stone of the drama. Sardou’s skillful motivation prepares the reader for developments in the coming four acts, but this craftsmanship is so carefully hidden that the relations of incidents are so natural that they come in the form of surprises. The sequence of the events is perfect. The transition from the first to the second act, in which develop Don Enrique’s dangerous secret relationship with Zoraya and his inexplicable reason for discontinuing his visits to her, is perfectly natural, and the last scene of the act, consisting of only a few phrases of explanation, suddenly reveals such an astonishing complication that the effect is nothing short of tremendous. With a climax so effective the entire foundation of the action is laid. We have learned that the Christian girl whom Zoraya has begun to cure with hypnotic power is to become the bride of Don Enrique, a fact which she did not know before the girl was taken away happy with the thought that she should now be more acceptable to her lover. In the third act Don Enrique’s character is tested in a struggle which he loses with overpowering circumstances. Gossips open the action with a frivolous discussion of the marriage of Don Enrique and the governor’s daughter. They satisfactorily explain that the parents of the couple years before had arranged the marriage. They also gossip about sorcerers and sorceresses. From suggestions we learn that Zoraya is in danger, and that her relations with Enrique are known. Close by the nuptial chamber begins the clash of fateful circumstances, which decide within a short time the destinies of Don Enrique and Zoraya. Near the conclusion of this act we have the purest essence of tragedy, if we accept Aristotle’s statement that tragedy is an imitation of actions which are terrible and piteous. Enrique, after nobly refusing to renounce his country and his religion and to flee with Zoraya to Morocco, is forced to become with her a fugitive after he unintentionally kills an agent of the Inquisition who suddenly detects them and attempts to arrest Zoraya. Flight and pursuit of Don Enrique and Zoraya close the act. This scene is one of gripping intensity. The merciless execution of power, the intolerance and tyranny of the Holy Inquisition are portrayed in an exemplification of a session of that body in the fourth act. Again the action to be developed is disclosed by the conversation of monks waiting for the council to convene. We learn that Zoraya and Don Enrique have been captured. We know the penalty likely to be pronounced upon them, but we remember that it is Zoraya alone who has the power of restoring to consciousness the daughter of the governor and bride of Enrique, who is deeply sleeping on her nuptial night. The unrelenting cruelty used by the Inquisition in making the captive hag and the unfortunate young girl testify against Zoraya, from whom they wring a confession to sorcery in order to free Don Enrique, rouses pity and indignation, which increase to highest pitch when her lover, who stands at the side unobserved by her until she has told all, is deceived into believing that she is a sorceress and that he has been victimized. But this has not been done without bringing upon the members of the Inquisition Zoraya’s storm of righteous denunciation. There is anguish unutterable when Don Enrique, who does not know that Zoraya has made the greatest sacrifice that a human being can make, accuses her of being false. To this injustice is added the climax of the act which closes with this awful sentence: “We shall burn her after vespers.” The final act is short and intense. Zoraya has been sentenced to death, but we know that she still holds the possible price of her freedom. The final setting of the play is magnificent: it is characteristic of Sardou. Here is a street scene in front of a great cathedral near which is a pyre ready for burning Zoraya. Into this act are packed all of the color, the pomp and the pageantry of the church and chivalry of the heroic age in Spain. There is a wonderful procession, a stirring mob scene, intensified with the solemn sounds of religious chanting, the roll of organ music and the resonant boom of tower bells. Don Enrique learns of Zoraya’s sacrifice. As we expected, she is given her liberty on condition that she restore to consciousness the governor’s daughter, a performance that causes the mob, already incensed by fanatical monks, to demand her death immediately after receiving the liberty which she deserves. Don Enrique nobly chooses death with her. The conclusion of the action shows Sardou’s wonderful technique at its best. The sequence of events is natural and the transition from situation to situation is motivated so realistically that the threads of the structure cannot be detected. Wide passages cross and recross until they become intricately involved in mazes which ultimately lead to the foot of an unscalable blind-arcade. Then suddenly there come from an unexpected place a glimmer of light, a swift opening of doors, and all is seen at a flash. This is not ordinary stagecraft—it is the necromancy of stagecraft! * * * * * * * The translator has endeavored to follow as closely as possible La Sorcière as Sardou wrote it, remembering that Browning said in the introduction to his translation of the Agememnon of Æschylus: “I should require him [the translator] to be literal at every cost save that of absolute violence of our language.” Charles A. Weissert. CHARACTERS. Cardinal Ximénès, Archbishop of Toledo and Grand Inquisitor. Don Enrique de Palacios. Lopez de Padilla, Governor of Toledo. Cardenos, an agent of the Holy-Office. Cleofas, physician of the Holy-Office. Oliveira, surgeon of the Holy-Office. Ramiro, esquire of Palacios. Fray Eugenio Calabazas, Fray Teofilo Ibarra, Fray Miguel Molina, Fray Hernando Albornos, Inquisitors. Farez, a Moorish muleteer. D’Aguilar, notary, and recorder of the Tribunal. Torillo, an executioner. Don Antonio, Rioubos, Velasco, Cristobol, Gentlemen. A Goatherd. Gil Andrès, Guard. Ginès. A Friar. First Peasant. Second Peasant. Zoraya, a Moorish woman. Afrida, an aged peasant woman. Manuela, a young peasant woman. Fatoum, a converted Moorish woman and governess of Joana. Aisha, one of Zoraya’s servants. Joana, daughter of Padilla. Zaguir, a young boy in Zoraya’s service. Doña Rufina. Doña Syrena. Doña Serafina. Doña Fabia. A Peasant Woman. Peasant men and women, archers, people of all classes, gaolers, monks, etc. The action takes place in Toledo in 1507. THE SORCERESS was presented for the first time in the Théâtre Sarah-Bernhardt, in Paris, on December 15, 1903 THE SORCERESS ACT ONE Scene.—On the heights overlooking the left bank of the River Tagus. In the foreground is a road. Flinty rocks, plants and shrubs rise from right to left towards higher rocks above which they disappear in a gap. From the gap to the foreground a stony pathway descends in a curve. At the foot of the scene, below, is the Tagus lying deep between its banks, and the Bridge of San Martino. On the heights beyond are the city, the Mirador and the cathedral of San Juan del Rey in construction. The night is clear and starry. A crescent-shaped moon gradually disappears to the right behind the rocks near the end of the act. Scene One Ramiro, Arias, Farez, peasant men and women, three archers Arias and the Archers are clutching and dragging towards the right peasant men and women, whom they have come to arrest. All of the prisoners are loudly protesting, except Farez, who is silent all the time. RAMIRO. Go, march on, there! (To the archers) Arrest those laggards and keep them for me! (The peasants protest) Silence, there! You will explain to the governor in Toledo. The archers again begin to drive before them the prisoners, who renew their protests and lamentations. ENRIQUE. (In a loud voice at the right behind the scene) Hold on! Wait! What is that noise? All stop and listen. Arias goes to the right of the declivity and looks down. RAMIRO. (To Arias) Those shouts! Go and see who is uttering them. ARIAS. Some cavaliers passing along the road. ENRIQUE. (Behind the scene) Do you hear me? Who is there? ARIAS. (To Ramiro) It is our commander, Don Enrique Palacios, who is returning home from the chase. RAMIRO. (Running to the right) He arrives opportunely. (Addressing respectfully, hat in hand, Enrique behind the scene.) My lord, it is I, your esquire, Ramiro. ENRIQUE. (Behind the scene) What are you doing there? RAMIRO. Making arrests, my lord. And, may I venture to pray Your Honor to dismount and climb up this rough path? We have warrants which are very important. ENRIQUE. (Outside) Very good!—I will come. (Murmurs of satisfaction from the captives.) RAMIRO. Here is our general, Don Enrique Palacios, commander of the archers and cross-bowmen of the city. He will examine you on the spot. THE PEASANTS. (Together, each saying a phrase) Good!—Good!—He is a good man!—He will listen to us and set us at liberty! RAMIRO. (He goes to meet Enrique at right) Up this side, my lord, if you please! Scene Two Those in the preceding scene, Enrique, two valets of the hunt ENRIQUE. (Looking at the captives) Oh, ho! This is a fine catch with one stroke of the hand! RAMIRO. I was going to conduct these people to Toledo to be examined. Your Honor may spare me the pain. THE PEASANTS. (All speaking at the same time) Mercy, Excellency!—Pity!—Pity!—We are innocent!—We did not do it! RAMIRO. (Exasperated) Peace! Keep quiet, there, brawlers! Do not bewilder his lordship with your croakings! ENRIQUE. Be considerate, Ramiro. They have the right to speak in their own defence. (He is assisted in stepping upon a piece of rock at the right of the scene. He seats himself on a boulder after giving his cross-bow to Arias.) What has caused this disturbance? RAMIRO. Your lordship has not forgotten a young Moorish armourer employed on his estate, named Kalem? ENRIQUE. Kalem? Yes! a clever artisan and also a handsome lad, who worked for me. RAMIRO. Unfortunately one of those black, obstinate rebels, who will not admit since the conquest of Granada by our glorious sire (he uncovers his head and bows) that the dominion of the Moors and the cult of their great devil Mohammed have ended in Spain. ENRIQUE. Yes. Whenever I urged Kalem to become converted he always refused. RAMIRO. He went from bad to worse—defying a royal edict, which forbids all intimacy between an unconverted Moor and a Christian, he betrayed the daughter of a neighbor, a good Catholic. For that offence the two culprits, in conformance with the law, have been punished during your lordship’s absence: the girl thrown into solitude for life in the convent of Mercy!—and Kalem, stoned to death! ENRIQUE. Ah! the poor boy! RAMIRO. Yesterday at sunset, up there at the foot of an elm!—After which I left the body fastened to the tree-trunk, according to custom, to serve as a warning to these accursed heathen. But, no! They are enraged! The body has disappeared! ENRIQUE. When was it removed? RAMIRO. Last night. ENRIQUE. By whom? RAMIRO. I do not know. The news was slow in coming and I was ordered to go out during the night and surprise the residents of this vicinity in their beds and bring them to an inquest. ENRIQUE. And the result? ARIAS. Nothing!—They have nothing to say! THE PEASANTS. (All together) We know nothing, your lordship, nothing! So truly as there is a God, we are innocent. (Arias hushes them with a gesture.) ENRIQUE. Is there among them a relative or friend of Kalem? ALL. Not one, your lordship. A PEASANT. None, my lord! ENRIQUE. No one who would have a reason for stealing his body? ALL. (All at the same time) Not one, my lord!—Far from here!—A dog of a Mussulman!—We are good Christians! A WOMAN. We should have stoned him to death a second time! (They hear voices outside, at left.) RAMIRO. Keep quiet, there!—Listen! ARIAS. (Looking) Here is something more to please us. Scene Three The same, the goatherd, an archer. They enter at left AN ARCHER. (Dragging the goatherd) Go in! you beggar! THE GOATHERD. (Obeying) Lord! have mercy! THE ARCHER. (To Arias, out of breath) He attempted to flee, the fool! He ran faster than his goats. ENRIQUE. Is he a goatherd? THE ARCHER. So he says. RAMIRO. (Taking the goatherd by the collar and compelling him to fall upon his knees before Enrique) Answer, villain, Don Enrique Palacios! ENRIQUE. It is you, then, who stole the body? THE GOATHERD. Me! my Sweet Deliverer!—touch a corpse! ENRIQUE. Then why did you run? THE GOATHERD. (Lowering his voice) For not speaking—and for fear she would revenge herself upon me for exposing her! ENRIQUE. And who—is she? THE GOATHERD. (Looking nervously about) She who took the body. ENRIQUE. A woman? THE GOATHERD. (Half aloud) The Moorish woman! THE OTHERS. (Seconding him) The Sorceress!—Yes!—Yes!—It was she!—It was she! ENRIQUE. The Sorceress? THE GOATHERD. Certainly, my lord. I have often seen her at night wandering on the heights and making conjurations to the moon, so I was not surprised to see her up there at daybreak this morning making curious gestures, in this way—I hurried my flock to avoid her—when two nigger devils approached her along that path! I was seized with a foolish fancy to know what these three were charming, and I clambered and crawled over the rocks toward them. But she pricked up her ears, the magician, and scrutinized the slope where I was lying with such a terrible gaze that I rolled down and scampered away, saying to myself: “I hope that her eyes have not changed me into a brown owl, or into a bad beast!” ENRIQUE. Then she is the guilty one? THE PEASANTS. (Eagerly) It is she, your lordship; it is the Sorceress, without a doubt. ENRIQUE. And who among you believe she is a sorceress? THE PEASANTS. Oh, all! FIRST MAN. It is believed everywhere. A WOMAN. She has caused enough misfortune with her deviltries! SECOND MAN. It has been proved that words from her will give rot to the sheep. A PEASANT. And sickness to men. (Murmurs of approbation.) THE WOMAN. Listen to the testimony of the wife of Zuniga, a wet-nurse, whose milk supply she caused to go dry. FIRST MAN. And to José Barilla on whose barn she caused lightning to descend. THE WOMAN. Oh! the wicked she-goat! ANOTHER WOMAN. She is the plague of this community! SECOND MAN. Arrest her, my lord!—It is she who stole the body! THE GOATHERD. To make magic powders of the bones! ALL. Yes! Yes! THE GOATHERD. (To Farez, who shrugs his shoulders) It is well for you to shrug your shoulders, you! FAREZ. (Coldly) Me? THE GOATHERD. Yes. You who act so cunningly. THE WOMAN. Yes. He laughs at all we say. FAREZ. At all of your stupidities! (All protest) ENRIQUE. Come forward. Pay no attention to them. What is your name? FAREZ. Farez. ENRIQUE. A Moor? THE GOATHERD. (Maliciously) But converted. ENRIQUE. What is your trade? FAREZ. Muleteer. ENRIQUE. Then, according to your opinion, these people are wrong? FAREZ. This is all idle talk, my lord—the ravings of old women. (Cries from the peasants, whom Ramiro silences.) ENRIQUE. Do you know this Moorish woman? FAREZ. Zoraya? ENRIQUE. Is her name Zoraya? FAREZ. Yes, my lord; that is to say, in the Arabic tongue, “The Star of the Morning.” I have long known her. I was in Granada before the conquest, employed as a servant by her father, Abou-Abassa, a scholar and physician of the last King Boabdil. ENRIQUE. Maiden, woman or widow—this Zoraya? FAREZ. Widow, my lord!—Sometime before the siege she was married to a very valiant Moor, who was killed in a sortie. ENRIQUE. Being now a Granadan, does she reside in Toledo? FAREZ. After the capture of Toledo, the wise Bishop Talavera, Governor of our city, took a strong fancy to Abou-Abassa because of his great knowledge and made him come here to reside. The daughter, of course, lived with him. The mother is no longer of this earth. ENRIQUE. Does she reside in Toledo? FAREZ. No, my lord; but near here on this mountain-slope in a house built by her father, who died in the past year. She lives there alone with her old servants and her few surviving friends. Her door is always open to those of her race and her religion who appeal to her in need or in sickness. ENRIQUE. Ah! She likewise practises healing? FAREZ. Free of charge! Her father left her great wealth and the knowledge of his art. Those of her own race are not the only ones who have sought her aid. (Addressing the peasants) More than one Christian who has secretly begged gold and medicines from her now shows his ingratitude by accusing her of causing hail to fall upon the fields. (The peasants protest.) ENRIQUE. (Silencing them) That is enough! (To Ramiro) Keep the muleteer. Release the others. (Exclamations of joy.) THE PEASANTS. Ah, thanks! your lordship! God will reward you! Long live His Excellency! ARIAS. (Pushing them along) Go! Go! Disperse without noise! (They leave from both sides of the scene.) Scene Four Enrique, Ramiro, Arias, Farez, later Zoraya ENRIQUE. (To Farez, rising) You say that she resides near here? FAREZ. (Pointing to the left, below) On this hillside—a white house, half way up the slope, with beautiful gardens and a terrace mirrored in the waters of the Tagus. ENRIQUE. You may conduct me there. (To the archers and valets) Go! (They go out.) FAREZ. If Your Grace will follow me—But she is not far—There she is! ENRIQUE. The Moorish woman? FAREZ. It is she herself—I see her coming up the slope. ENRIQUE. (To Farez) You may return home. (To Ramiro and Arias) You, here, step to one side and keep quiet. And observe her practicing her black art. Farez disappears at right, Enrique and Arias going to the left, where, screened by rocks and bushes from Zoraya’s view, they watch her. Zoraya appears near the gap, coming slowly up the path into the clear moonlight as she reaches the summit. She carries a silver sickle in her hand; on her arm a sheaf of wild flowers. She descends the pathway slowly, gathering flowers as she passes. ENRIQUE. (To Ramiro behind him) That is a strange task! ARIAS. (Behind Enrique and Ramiro, rising to see) See, my lord, in her hand? ENRIQUE. (In a low voice) That silver sickle? ARIAS. Which shines like the crescent moon. RAMIRO. The crescent of Mohammed—the moon is a Saracen and a sorceress! ENRIQUE. Speak lower!—What curious harvest brings her into the midst of these rocks? RAMIRO. She is gathering bad herbs for her philters and poisons. ENRIQUE. A beautiful creature, truly. See the grace and suppleness in her movements. RAMIRO. One might say as much of a serpent. ENRIQUE. For shame! RAMIRO. Your Honor should be careful or this she-devil may throw over him the same charm that Circe of yore threw over Ulysses. ENRIQUE. (Joking) Am I like the goatherd to believe that she will change me into a beast? RAMIRO. No! But through love—it is the same! ENRIQUE. (Quickly) Enough!—I must speak to her! (He advances into the full moonlight.) Zoraya! ZORAYA. Who is calling me? ENRIQUE. I, Enrique Palacios, commander of the archers of the city. ZORAYA. What does his lordship desire? ENRIQUE. The truth!—It was you and two accomplices who took down and carried away Kalem’s body? ZORAYA. It was, my lord. ENRIQUE. For use in some conjurations—for you are a magician, it appears? ZORAYA. (Quickly) Me? ENRIQUE. So it is said. ZORAYA. By those who hate me because I am Moorish and faithful to the law of the Koran. (Murmurs from Arias and Ramiro.) ENRIQUE. Peace, there. (To Zoraya) So you have not come here to work some magic in the moonlight, or to meet an accomplice in your sorceries? ZORAYA. I come to gather herbs in the night and to be alone; and in moonlight because it is easier to recognize them. ENRIQUE. What do you do with them? ZORAYA. From the hearts of these flowers, my lord, I extract essences and perfumes for myself and ointments, elixirs and powders for curing diseases. ENRIQUE. Are these remedies, these poisonous herbs? ZORAYA. Yes; wholesome and healing. The vermilion fruit of the black henbane and that of the deadly nightshade or belladonna cure delirium and insanity. They also put sufferers to sleep. Also these others. They are like all things of the world, in love the same: according to the case and the dose, cure or kill. ENRIQUE. Oh! by that I understand that you deal in love philters. ZORAYA. What need of them, my dear lord?—Love is born of a smile, rather than of a philter. ENRIQUE. (Jesting) Do you often make that test? ZORAYA. Never! ENRIQUE. (The same) Oh!—so chaste—in spite of those eyes, there? ZORAYA. Through pride! It is not necessary to search for dignity in me! ENRIQUE. Bless me! the beautiful! You are very difficult.—But let that pass!—If it were not for some evil work why did you steal Kalem’s body? ZORAYA. The human flesh is not made to feed ravens and wolves. ENRIQUE. You have buried it? ZORAYA. In a crevice in the rocks—you may assure yourself. ENRIQUE. A criminal. ZORAYA. To me he was not a criminal, whose only crime was to have loved. ENRIQUE. A Christian!—in spite of the law which forbids love between your race and mine. ZORAYA. It is love, however, which will reconcile them in the long run. ENRIQUE. Ah, well! to justify that you shall explain to His Eminence the Cardinal Ximénès. ZORAYA. (Frightened) The Inquisitor! ENRIQUE. It is to him that I must take you. ZORAYA. (The same) Oh, no, my dear lord! No! You must not say that. ENRIQUE. Why not? ZORAYA. You know that the high priest detests us and persecutes us. You do not want to injure me; for you are good—— ENRIQUE. How do you know that? ZORAYA. Oh, I see it! ENRIQUE. In truth, what indications do you see? ZORAYA. Those which my father revealed to me. ENRIQUE. Of the nature of men? ZORAYA. And their destinies. ENRIQUE. Do you read this in the stars? ZORAYA. My knowledge does not come from them.—But through the crystal, the mirror, the silver disc and the lines of the hands. ENRIQUE. Ah! By God!—I am curious to see what you read in mine!—Come here! (He seats himself on a large stone at the foot of the path, Zoraya goes down to him after putting down her bouquet of flowers and plants.) RAMIRO. (Low to Arias during this part of the scene) Ah! the bewitcher!—See how she takes him little by little into her coils in order to escape punishment. ZORAYA. (Stands near Enrique, who holds out his left hand for her inspection) You are loyal, my lord, and brave—but your will is feeble and unsteady. ENRIQUE. Where do you see that? ZORAYA. In the shape of your head and the first phalange of your thumb, which is short—I see here that you are subject to sudden and terrible bursts of anger. ENRIQUE. (Smiling) It is true! (To Ramiro, without turning round) Is it not, Ramiro? RAMIRO. (Grumbling in a low voice) Rain of Heaven! Why has he not strangled this accursed woman? ZORAYA. (In the same vein) The life-line, beautiful at the beginning—stops short—danger of death—struck as with lightning! ENRIQUE. (Gaily) A soldier’s death—so much the better! Seat yourself; you will be more at ease. (He makes room for her to sit on the stone.) ZORAYA. (Seating herself, continues in the same vein) These wrinkles which cross at the base of the thumb show an inclination very—very amorous! ENRIQUE. Oh! as to that—Yes! ZORAYA. This deep red line, which connects the thumb with the life-line—a passion! Oh!—that! Like she who possesses you!—It will end only with your life! ENRIQUE. Then it is to be returned? ZORAYA. I do not know—why should one be troubled about that? While looking at his hand, Zoraya leans more and more against Enrique, who is intoxicated by the nearness of their persons, by the Arabian perfume on her hair and by the warmth of her hand. ENRIQUE. (Rising in order to lean over Zoraya’s neck) What flower have you robbed of this perfume? ZORAYA. The golden cassie! ENRIQUE. It is exquisite!—You who read the future so well in the hand—(She attempts to withdraw her hand) No! No! Do not take away your hand!—do you also know how to read the present in my thoughts? (He turns Zoraya’s face gently towards his own.) ZORAYA. (Returning his ardent gaze) Yes! (In a low voice) You think that I am beautiful and desirable! ENRIQUE. (Quickly) Yes. ZORAYA. (The same) But I am a Saracen, a pagan, an outcast! I am one whom you have not the right to love! ENRIQUE. Therefore, you are more desirable! ZORAYA. (The same) Don’t you find the royal edict which would punish us very severe: I thrown into the oubliette—you sent to the galleys or to the stake? ENRIQUE. Too severe—certainly! ZORAYA. Wasn’t Kalem excusable for risking such a cruel fate? ENRIQUE. Yes. ZORAYA. And doesn’t she, this unfortunate girl who had not the strength to resist the madness of a similar love, deserve pity? ENRIQUE. The Christian girl! ZORAYA. Ah! I understand why she forgot that she was a Spaniard and a Catholic and became only a woman, simply a woman!—O Nature! the victory was thine!—I envy her for having been given a body to be loved and adored without fear of the torture which menaces this world—and the damnation promised in the next! ENRIQUE. You could be so brave as she? ZORAYA. (Rising) Ah! certainly, yes!—who could be braver than she!—Can your race produce a Kalem? If so, he is worthy of me! I promise hours of beauty and rapture to him who does not fear the executioner and who will brave the flames at the stake for that which the sun of Africa has set burning in my veins!—— ENRIQUE. (Taking her in his arms) I shall be that man! (She pushes him gently away. He recovers his presence of mind and quickly withdraws) Ah! demon! You have intoxicated me! Go away from me! ZORAYA. Adieu, then, my dear lord. ENRIQUE. (Turning) Adieu!—Yes, adieu!—It is better so! (To Ramiro and Arias) Let that woman go! (Picking up her flowers, she slowly reascends the slope) What creature is that!—her hand burned in mine and her gaze set my brain awhirl! RAMIRO. I have a remedy, my lord! Say a pater quickly and repeat an ave twice to break the charm! ARIAS. (Preparing to shoot an arrow from his cross-bow at Zoraya) I have a better one!—Kill the beast, kill—— ENRIQUE. (Seizing his arm) Ah! brute!—Stop! (He passes the cross-bow to Ramiro, then crosses the scene to the right to Zoraya, who has returned on hearing the disturbance) Go! Go! He will not make another attempt. But, I want never again to find you in my path! ZORAYA. (Standing in the middle of the path) “No one,” says an Arabic proverb,—“no one in the world today has seen the dawn of tomorrow.” ENRIQUE. (To his men, who have rejoined him at right, while he still watches Zoraya) Let us hasten away from here! (Curtain) ACT TWO Scene—A Moorish chamber with three arches. Beyond is seen a garden similar to that of the Generalife of Granada, with a fountain and a narrow canal bordered with trimmed yew trees and pots of red sandstone containing flowers. The arch at the right gives access to a terrace beyond which Toledo rises in the distance beneath a burning sunlight. At the right of the arcade is the entrance to Zoraya’s sleeping chamber. On the same side is a small door. In contrast with the spreading blue of the heavens and the great heat on the fields and garden, the room conveys an impression of coolness. On the floor are tiles laid in mosaic. In the center of the scene is an elaborate fountain basin surrounded with cushions. On the ceiling are beams and panels of cedar. To a height of about six feet, an ivory-colored border surmounted with a blue earthenware moulding extends about the room. The three arches are closed at will with heavy and rich portières. To the right is a little low table inlaid with ivory and nacre. There are several cushions on it. Against the wall stands an Arabian coffer. Here and there are large Moresque vases containing palms and bouquets of flowers. It is morning. There are sounds of distant bells, which shortly cease to ring. Scene One Aisha, Zaguir Aisha draws open the curtains in the right arch. Zaguir appears at the foot in the garden and cautiously calls Aisha. ZAGUIR. My aunt!—My aunt! AISHA. (In an undertone, turning) What?—Who?—Who is calling me out there? ZAGUIR. (In the same voice) I have something important to tell you while the mistress is still here. AISHA. Something serious? ZAGUIR. Yes. AIS...