Le Cid

by Corneille Pierre

  Don Fernando. Don Sancho, be silent; and be warned that he who takes his part renders himself criminal.

  Don Sancho. I obey, and am silent; but in pity, sire, (permit) two words in his defence.

  Don Fernando. And what can you say?

  Don Sancho. That a soul accustomed to noble actions cannot lower itself to apologies. It does not imagine any which can be expressed without shame; and it is that word alone that the Count resists. He finds in his duty a little too much severity, and he would obey you if he had less heart. Command that his arm, trained in war's dangers, repair this injury at the point of the sword: he will give satisfaction, sire; and, come what may, until he has been made aware of your decision, here am I to answer for him.

  Don Fernando. You fail (lit. you are losing) in respect; but I pardon youth, and I excuse enthusiasm in a young, courageous heart. A king, whose prudence has better objects in view (than such quarrels), is more sparing of the blood of his subjects. I watch over mine; my (watchful) care protects them, as the head takes care of the limbs which serve it. Thus your reasoning is not reasoning for me. You speak as a soldier—I must act as a king; and whatever others may wish to say, or he may presume to think, the Count will not part with (lit. cannot lose) his glory by obeying me. Besides, the insult affects myself: he has dishonored him whom I have made the instructor of my son. To impugn my choice is to challenge me, and to make an attempt upon the supreme power. Let us speak of it no more. And now, ten vessels of our old enemies have been seen to hoist their flags; near the mouth of the river they have dared to appear.

  Don Arias. The Moors have by force (of arms) learned to know you, and, so often vanquished, they have lost heart to risk their lives (lit. themselves) any more against so great a conqueror.

  Don Fernando. They will never, without a certain amount of jealousy, behold my sceptre, in spite of them, ruling over Andalusia; and this country, so beautiful, which they too long enjoyed, is always regarded by them with an envious eye. This is the sole reason which has caused us, for the last ten years, to place the Castilian throne in Seville, in order to watch them more closely, and, by more prompt action, immediately to overthrow whatever (design) they might undertake.

  Don Arias. They know, at the cost of their noblest leaders (lit. most worthy heads), how much your presence secures your conquests; you have nothing to fear.

  Don Fernando. And nothing to neglect—too much confidence brings on danger; and you are not ignorant that, with very little difficulty, the rising tide brings them hither. However, I should be wrong to cause a panic in the hearts (of the citizens), the news being uncertain. The dismay which this useless alarm might produce in the night, which is approaching, might agitate the town too much. Cause the guards to be doubled on the walls and at the fort; for this evening that is sufficient.

  Scene VII.—DON FERNANDO, DON ALONZO, DON SANCHO, and DON ARIAS.

  Don Alonzo. Sire, the Count is dead. Don Diego, by his son, has avenged his wrong.

  Don Fernando. As soon as I knew of the insult I foresaw the vengeance, and from that moment I wished to avert this misfortune.

  Don Alonzo. Chimène approaches to lay her grief at your feet (lit. brings to your knees her grief); she comes all in tears to sue for justice from you.

  Don Fernando. Much though my soul compassionates her sorrows, what the Count has done seems to have deserved this just punishment of his rashness. Yet, however just his penalty may be, I cannot lose such a warrior without regret. After long service rendered to my state, after his blood has been shed for me a thousand times, to whatever thoughts his (stubborn) pride compels me, his loss enfeebles me, and his death afflicts me.

  Scene VIII.—DON FERNANDO, DON DIEGO, CHIMÈNE, DON SANCHO, DON ARIAS, and DON ALONZO.

  Chimène. Sire, sire, justice!

  Don Diego. Ah, sire, hear us!

  Chimène. I cast myself at your feet!

  Don Diego. I embrace your knees!

  Chimène. I demand justice.

  Don Diego. Hear my defence.

  Chimène. Punish the presumption of an audacious youth: he has struck down the support of your sceptre—he has slain my father!

  Don Diego. He has avenged his own.

  Chimène. To the blood of his subjects a king owes justice.

  Don Diego. For just vengeance there is no punishment.

  Don Fernando. Rise, both of you, and speak at leisure. Chimène, I sympathize with your sorrow; with an equal grief I feel my own soul afflicted. (To Don Diego.) You shall speak afterwards; do not interrupt her complaint.

  Chimène. Sire, my father is dead! My eyes have seen his blood gush forth from his noble breast—that blood which has so often secured your walls—that blood which has so often won your battles—that blood which, though all outpoured, still fumes with rage at seeing itself shed for any other than for you! Rodrigo, before your very palace, has just dyed (lit. covered) the earth with that (blood) which in the midst of dangers war did not dare to shed! Faint and pallid, I ran to the spot, and I found him bereft of life. Pardon my grief, sire, but my voice fails me at this terrible recital; my tears and my sighs will better tell you the rest!

  Don Fernando. Take courage, my daughter, and know that from to-day thy king will serve thee as a father instead of him.

  Chimène. Sire, my anguish is attended with too much (unavailing) horror! I found him, I have already said, bereft of life; his breast was pierced (lit. open), and his blood upon the (surrounding) dust dictated (lit. wrote) my duty; or rather his valor, reduced to this condition, spoke to me through his wound, and urged me to claim redress; and to make itself heard by the most just of kings, by these sad lips, it borrowed my voice. Sire, do not permit that, under your sway, such license should reign before your (very) eyes; that the most valiant with impunity should be exposed to the thrusts of rashness; that a presumptuous youth should triumph over their glory, should imbrue himself with their blood, and scoff at their memory! If the valiant warrior who has just been torn from you be not avenged, the ardor for serving you becomes extinguished. In fine, my father is dead, and I demand vengeance more for your interest than for my consolation. You are a loser in the death of a man of his position. Avenge it by another's, and (have) blood for blood! Sacrifice (the victim) not to me, but to your crown, to your greatness, to yourself! Sacrifice, I say, sire, to the good of the state, all those whom such a daring deed would inflate with pride.

  Don Fernando. Don Diego, reply.

  Don Diego. How worthy of envy is he who, in losing [life's] vigor, loses life also! And how a long life brings to nobly minded men, at the close of their career, an unhappy destiny! I, whose long labors have gained such great renown—I, whom hitherto everywhere victory has followed—I see myself to-day, in consequence of having lived too long, receiving an insult, and living vanquished. That which never battle, siege, or ambuscade could [do]—that which Arragon or Granada never could [effect], nor all your enemies, nor all my jealous [rivals], the Count has done in your palace, almost before your eyes, [being] jealous of your choice, and proud of the advantage which the impotence of age gave him over me. Sire, thus these hairs, grown grey in harness [i.e. toils of war]—this blood, so often shed to serve you—this arm, formerly the terror of a hostile army, would have sunk into the grave, burdened with disgrace, if I had not begotten a son worthy of me, worthy of his country, and worthy of his king! He has lent me his hand—he has slain the Count—he has restored my honor—he has washed away my shame! If the displaying of courage and resentment, if the avenging of a blow deserves chastisement, upon me alone should fall the fury of the storm. When the arm has failed, the head is punished for it. Whether men call this a crime or not requires no discussion. Sire, I am the head, he is the arm only. If Chimène complains that he has slain her father, he never would have done that [deed] if I could have done it [myself]. Sacrifice, then, this head, which years will soon remove, and preserve for yourself the arm which can serve you. At the cost of my blood satisfy Chimène. I do not resist�
��I consent to my penalty, and, far from murmuring at a rigorous decree, dying without dishonor, I shall die without regret.

  Don Fernando. The matter is of importance, and, calmly considered, it deserves to be debated in full council. Don Sancho, re-conduct Chimène to her abode. Don Diego shall have my palace and his word of honor as a prison. Bring his son here to me. I will do you justice.

  Chimène. It is just, great king, that a murderer should die.

  Don Fernando. Take rest, my daughter, and calm thy sorrows.

  Chimène. To order me rest is to increase my misfortunes.

  Act the Third

  *

  Scene I.—DON RODRIGO and ELVIRA.

  Elvira. Rodrigo, what hast them done? Whence comest thou, unhappy man?

  Don Rodrigo. Here (i.e. to the house of Chimène), to follow out the sad course of my miserable destiny.

  Elvira. Whence obtainest thou this audacity, and this new pride, of appearing in places which thou hast filled with mourning? What! dost thou come even here to defy the shade of the Count? Hast thou not slain him?

  Don Rodrigo. His existence was my shame; my honor required this deed from my (reluctant) hand.

  Elvira. But to seek thy asylum in the house of the dead! Has ever a murderer made such his refuge?

  Don Rodrigo. And I come here only to yield myself to my judge. Look no more on me with astonishment (lit. an eye amazed); I seek death after having inflicted it. My love is my judge; my judge is my Chimène. I deserve death for deserving her hatred, and I am come to receive, as a supreme blessing, its decree from her lips, and its stroke from her hand.

  Elvira. Fly rather from her sight, fly from her impetuosity; conceal your presence from her first excitement. Go! do not expose yourself to the first impulses which the fiery indignation of her resentment may give vent to.

  Don Rodrigo. No, no. This beloved one, whom I (could) so displease, cannot have too wrathful a desire for my punishment; and I avoid a hundred deaths which are going to crush me if, by dying sooner, I can redouble it (i.e. that wrath).

  Elvira. Chimène is at the palace, bathed in tears, and will return but too well accompanied. Rodrigo, fly! for mercy's sake relieve me from my uneasiness! What might not people say if they saw you here? Do you wish that some slanderer, to crown her misery, should accuse her of tolerating here the slayer of her father? She will return; she is coming—I see her; at least, for the sake of her honor, Rodrigo, conceal thyself! (Rodrigo conceals himself.)

  Scene II.—DON SANCHO, CHIMÈNE, and ELVIRA.

  Don Sancho. Yes, lady, you require a victim [or revenge] steeped in blood [lit. for you there is need of bleeding victims]; your wrath is just and your tears legitimate, and I do not attempt, by dint of speaking, either to soothe you or to console you. But, if I may be capable of serving you, employ my sword to punish the guilty [one], employ my love to revenge this death; under your commands my arm will be [only] too strong.

  Chimène. Unhappy that I am!

  Don Sancho. I implore you, accept my services.

  Chimène. I should offend the King, who has promised me justice.

  Don Sancho. You know that justice (lit. it) proceeds with such slowness, that very often crime escapes in consequence of its delay, its slow and doubtful course causes us to lose too many tears. Permit that a cavalier may avenge you by (force of) arms; that method is more certain and more prompt in punishing.

  Chimène. It is the last remedy; and if it is necessary to have recourse to it, and your pity for my misfortunes still continues, you shall then be free to avenge my injury.

  Don Sancho. It is the sole happiness to which my soul aspires; and, being able to hope for it, I depart too well contented.

  Scene III.—CHIMÈNE and ELVIRA.

  Chimène. At last I see myself free, and I can, without constraint, show thee the extent of my keen sorrows; I can give vent to my sad sighs; I can unbosom to thee my soul and all my griefs. My father is dead, Elvira; and the first sword with which Rodrigo armed himself has cut his thread of life. Weep, weep, mine eyes, and dissolve yourselves into tears! The one half of my life (i.e. Rodrigo) has laid the other (half, i.e. my father) in the grave, and compels me to revenge, after this fatal blow, that which I have no more (i.e. my father) on that which still remains to me (i.e. Rodrigo).

  Elvira. Calm yourself, dear lady.

  Chimène. Ah! how unsuitably, in a misfortune so great, thou speakest of calmness. By what means can my sorrow ever be appeased, if I cannot hate the hand which has caused it? And what ought I to hope for but a never-ending anguish if I follow up a crime, still loving the criminal.

  Elvira. He deprives you of a father, and you still love him?

  Chimène. It is too little to say love, Elvira; I adore him! My passion opposes itself to my resentment; in mine enemy I find my lover, and I feel that in spite of all my rage Rodrigo is still contending against my sire in my heart. He attacks it, he besieges it; it yields, it defends itself; at one time strong, at one time weak, at another triumphant. But in this severe struggle between wrath and love, he rends my heart without shaking my resolution, and although my love may have power over me, I do not consult it (or, hesitate) to follow my duty. I speed on (lit. run) without halting (or, weighing the consequences) where my honor compels me. Rodrigo is very dear to me; the interest I feel in him grieves me; my heart takes his part, but, in spite of its struggles, I know what I am (i.e. a daughter), and that my father is dead.

  Elvira. Do you think of pursuing (or, persecuting) him?

  Chimène. Ah! cruel thought! and cruel pursuit to which I see myself compelled. I demand his head [or, life] and I dread to obtain it; my death will follow his, and [yet] I wish to punish him!

  Elvira. Abandon, abandon, dear lady, a design so tragic, and do not impose on yourself such a tyrannical law.

  Chimène. What! my father being dead and almost in my arms—shall his blood cry for revenge and I not obtain it? My heart, shamefully led away by other spells, would believe that it owed him only ineffectual tears. And can I endure that an insidious love, beneath a dastardly apathy, should extinguish my resolution (lit. beneath a cowardly silence extinguish my honor)?

  Elvira. Dear lady, believe me, you would be excusable in having less wrath against an object so beloved, against a lover so dear; you have done enough, you have seen the King; do not urge on the result (of that interview). Do not persist in this morbid (lit. strange) humor.

  Chimène. My honor is at stake; I must avenge myself; and, however the desires of love may beguile us, all excuse (for not doing one's duty) is disgraceful to (i.e. in the estimation of) noble-minded souls.

  Elvira. But you love Rodrigo—he cannot offend you.

  Chimène. I confess it.

  Elvira. After all, what then do you intend to do?

  Chimène. To preserve my honor and to end my sorrow; to pursue him, to destroy him, and to die after him.

  Scene IV.—DON RODRIGO, CHIMÈNE, and ELVIRA.

  Don Rodrigo. Well then, without giving you the trouble of pursuing me, secure for yourself the honor of preventing me from living.

  Chimène. Elvira, where are we, and what do I see? Rodrigo in my house! Rodrigo before me!

  Don Rodrigo. Spare not my blood; enjoy (lit. taste), without resistance, the pleasure of my destruction and of your vengeance.

  Chimène. Alas!

  Don Rodrigo. Listen to me.

  Chimène. I am dying.

  Don Rodrigo. One moment.

  Chimène. Go, let me die!

  Don Rodrigo. Four words only; afterwards reply to me only with this sword!

  Chimène. What! still imbrued with the blood of my father!

  Don Rodrigo. My Chimène.

  Chimène. Remove from my sight this hateful object, which brings as a reproach before mine eyes thy crime and thy existence.

  Don Rodrigo. Look on it rather to excite thy hatred, to increase thy wrath and to hasten my doom.

  Chimène. It is dyed with my (father's) blood!


  Don Rodrigo. Plunge it in mine, and cause it thus to lose the death-stain of thine own.

  Chimène. Ah! what cruelty, which all in one day slays the father by the sword (itself), and the daughter by the sight of it! Remove this object, I cannot endure it; thou wished me to listen to thee, and thou causest me to die!

  Don Rodrigo. I do what thou wishest, but without abandoning the desire of ending by thy hands my lamentable life; for, in fine, do not expect (even) from my affection a dastardly repentance of a justifiable (lit. good) action. The irreparable effect of a too hasty excitement dishonored my father and covered me with shame. Thou knowest how a blow affects a man of courage. I shared in the insult, I sought out its author, I saw him, I avenged my honor and my father; I would do it again if I had it to do. Not that, indeed, my passion did not long struggle for thee against my father and myself; judge of its power—under such an insult, I was able to deliberate whether I should take vengeance for it! Compelled to displease thee or to endure an affront, I thought that in its turn my arm was too prompt (to strike); I accused myself of too much impetuosity, and thy loveliness, without doubt, would have turned the scale (or, prevailed overall) had I not opposed to thy strongest attractions the (thought) that a man without honor would not merit thee; that, in spite of this share which I had in thy affections, she who loved me noble would hate me shamed; that to listen to thy love, to obey its voice, would be to render myself unworthy of it and to condemn thy choice. I tell thee still, and although I sigh at it, even to my last sigh I will assuredly repeat it, I have committed an offence against thee, and I was driven to (or, bound to commit) it to efface my shame and to merit thee; but discharged (from my duty) as regards honor, and discharged (from duty) towards my father, it is now to thee that I come to give satisfaction—it is to offer to thee my blood that thou seest me in this place. I did my duty (lit. that which I ought to have done) then, I still do it now. I know that a slain (lit. dead) father arms thee against my offence; I have not wished to rob thee of thy victim; sacrifice with courage to the blood he has lost he who constitutes his glory in having shed it.