* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *

This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please contact a https://www.fadedpage.com administrator before proceeding. Thousands more FREE eBooks are available at https://www.fadedpage.com.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

This eBook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available by Internet Archive.

Setting for Night over Taos by Robert Edmond Jones. 1932

Production directed by Lee Strasberg.

ACT ONE

ACT ONE

Scene: The great hall in the residence of Pablo Montoya at Taos, New Mexico, in the year 1847.

The room is long and low, its adobe walls white-washed to the beamed ceiling and covered with red tapestries to a height of four or five feet. A long table, homemade, as is all the furniture, occupies the center, flanked with benches and chairs. There is a large fireplace at the right and an entrance to the inner rooms behind it. At the left a gigantic entrance door with small altars on either side. Candles burn before both. At the rear are three small and low windows, sunk deep in the four-foot wall and not glazed, but covered with translucent parchment. A large hourglass sits on a stand near the fireplace. It is evening and dark save for candle light.

A number of women and young girls, two or three of whom have been setting the table, are weeping quietly while they exchange news in awed voices. Those who were supposed to be carrying in dishes have set down their trays. An Indian Slave has been cleaning ashes from the fireplace into a wooden bowl. Donna Veri, an old woman, has turned from giving him directions to listen to the women.

And Estevan, too, is dead?

I don’t know. He didn’t say.

Yes, dead. I knew it.

Yes, dead. I knew it.

Who told you this?

Santos. Graso heard him.

But is Taos defeated?

Defeated? How could Taos be defeated?

Yes. How could it be?

He didn’t say that . . .
[Graso, an old peon, enters.]

Someone must speak to Donna Josefa . . .

Graso! What was this news?

Graso . . .
[The Indian goes out with the ashes.]

Someone must speak to Donna Josefa at once. Santos, the coward, brings word and runs away! He will not come in! No, he must leave it to me!

But what has happened?
[A wailing song is heard from without.]

Mind you, it comes from Santos, not from me. Santos said there was a great battle, and General Montoya taken prisoner, and a great trampling and running in the snow . . . for, you see, it snowed there in the pass where they were . . .

General Montoya taken! . . .

It’s not my news . . . it’s Santos brings it . . . and you must tell Donna Josefa. . . . Run in and tell her, Maria.

No, no, not I.

Conchita will go. Run in, Conchita, and tell her.

But what shall I tell her?

That there’s been a battle, and Graso is here. . . .

No . . . say nothing about me.
[Conchita goes out.]

Graso . . . what more did he say?

No more. . . .

Yes yes . . . there was something about Pedros!

Who would believe a great liar like that when he says General Montoya is taken prisoner by gringos . . . and if we cannot believe him in regard to the one thing is it likely he spoke truth in respect to the other?

Graso, for the love of our mother, is my Pedros killed?

Pedros?

Yes, Pedros! For God’s love, say!

What you have heard.

He’s dead!

If one wishes to believe a great liar.

And Estevan?

Why, as to Estevan, no . . . I heard nothing. [He turns.]

Graso, look at me . . . speak not what we wish, but what is true.

Is it Americans we fight with, Maria?

Be quiet! Yes, Americans.

You must repeat the message to Donna Josefa . . . and tell her it is lies . . . only she must hear it. . . .
[He goes to the door.]

Stay and tell her yourself!

I . . . I bring no news!
[Conchita returns.]

Donna Josefa wishes to see Graso!

Graso . . .

Have I prophecy? . . . I know no more! Tell her I had gone! [He goes out.]

Nunita!

I don’t know, Cristina.

No one will tell me, I see. I must find him myself.

Where is Santos?

He went on down to the village.

But if Montoya’s prisoner, then they’re all taken prisoner, or dead!

We’ll go after him.

Yes.
[They go toward the door.]

How they weep, the little fat-brains! How they drip! Tender hearts, broken hearts!

And why not, then? Is it any time for laughing?

Don’t spit at me, little brimstone image. I know them and their race. They’ve no sooner one man killed over them than they’ve crawled under another, and more likely than not an Americano! More than once I’ve wondered whether the pure blood of Spain is more likely to turn dark with Indian or white with the northerners.

We haven’t all traveled your path, Veri.

You hear that, Veri? You hear?

You’ve been more places than the stations of the cross, little lambs of God!

Let her talk. [She starts to go.]

Only take care Mateo doesn’t come home at the wrong moment, Carlotta.

What do you mean?

Nothing.

If you mean . . .

I do mean! And why not? Let the conquerors conquer! Only I’ve never had a gringo under my skirts, chiquita.

Come, mother, let her alone.

But she lies!

Was there not one tall hunter from the north who escaped when they killed the governor?

Come, Carlotta, nobody believes her.

It’s all lies, lies, lies . . .

I won’t say a word, I promise you.

[Aghast] She’s . . . she’s wicked. She’s as wicked as she is dirty.

All I say is you’ve been more places than the stations of the cross . . . [Donna Josefa enters.] . . . and little brimstone here is the fruit of one of your trips! And Nuna is another!

What is all this noise? Why are you in the hall at this hour?

Forgive us, Donna Josefa. We followed Nunita in because she brought news of the battle.

What news?
[There is silence.]

What news? Nuna?

It was Graso that brought it, Donna Josefa.

Yes . . . but . . . what was it? And where is Graso?

It seems they both ran, Donna Josefa, both sides. And it was fought in darkness and there was snow falling on the mountain, so that nothing is sure.

Is that all? Come . . . what else?
[Another pause.]

It is said that a number of the men of Taos have been killed, Donna Josefa, and a number taken prisoner, among them General Montoya himself . . . but we know this to be untrue.

How do you know it to be untrue?

We cannot believe that, if you please.

Did you know that we fight with Americanos, Donna Josefa? It’s true. Just now they told me.

Nuna, who brought this news?

Santos.

Bring him to me.

He has gone to the village.

Bring him . . . have him found. And stop that music. Tell them to take their wailing further away. Out now, all of you.
[All go except Veri and Josefa.]

Well, if it be so you’re at least rid of him before you have to take second place in his house. The gringos spare no prisoners.

Take out your ashes and beware you don’t spill them!

In all humility, yes, madonna.

What were you saying to the women?

I was only reminding them, since they are so young and so fat-brained, that the women of a country never change, Donna Josefa. Lo, if a mare but answer the bit softly and remember her paces, what matters a change of riders now and then?

Empty your ashes.

Oh, it was nothing about madonna . . . not the lightest word.

You have spoken too many covert insults about me, Veri. I’m not compelled to hear them.

No, truly? I was once in a position to repel insults myself, dear lady. I was his first love . . . his second bore him two sons . . . you are the third . . . and a fourth trembles now into his waiting arms. Bear insults, Josefa! You will yet bear ashes like myself and Diana will give you orders.

When I live to take her orders!

That was what I said! But I lived . . . and I took orders . . . even from you!
[Father Martinez has entered from within.]

[Pointing] Quick!
[Veri goes through the outer door.]

Good evening, Donna Josefa.

Good evening, father. I was not aware that we had a guest.

I have only now come up the path . . . and I heard the women crying. . . .

There’s news of a battle . . .

Yes. Rumors have reached the village.

A soldier was here . . . Santos.

He’s below now . . . with a crowd around him.

It’s his story? That Pablo’s a prisoner?

His among others.

Do you believe it?

Remember this was a battle fought at night and in great confusion. Those who ran away would need a good story to tell.

Yes . . . but it shakes one . . . it might happen.

Don’t let their hysteria take hold on you. The peons are a credulous lot and their wives are worse. They believe the worst to avert misfortune. There’ll be better news tonight.

God send it soon.

Pablo Montoya is an old hand at mountain warfare. He’s never been defeated or even checked. He’s not the man to be beaten in a first skirmish, nor to be taken prisoner at any time.

But suppose it were worse than that? What happens to you . . . or me . . . or to this house?

Worse than that? Worse than prisoner? Ask what would happen to Taos . . . and New Mexico? We are the farthest arm of an old civilization here. . . . We are rich, and there are great houses on our hills. . . . But there has been only one man of all the ricos who dared face the north and fight it. And that is your husband. He must return.

And he will?

Yes . . . and he will.

Only . . . you say that out of a great need to have it so.

Perhaps.

And there’s something else behind it.

No.

Yes. You don’t trust me. You know that if Pablo were dead there’d be some power in my hands. And you want to know what I’d do with it.

Would you answer such a question?

Not till I know what power I’ll have.

Let us be honest. It has occurred to you as well as to me that if Pablo were dead on the mountain, Federico would inherit his place and his power. Also that you are not much older than Federico . . . and he looks on you with friendly eyes.

[Angry] If you were not a priest!

Forget who I am! When things happen one faces them! You are Pablo’s wife and Federico is his son. Nevertheless, if Pablo’s dead you’ll go to Federico. . . .

You should have thought of that before you encouraged Pablo to set a new wife over me!

But I haven’t, Josefa!

You knew of it! He wouldn’t go about it without telling you! It’s like him to pick out a slave I gave orders to, and plan to make her mistress over me!

But I had no part in it. He will do as he pleases in this as in other things. If any man could influence him I might . . . but it was hopeless.

Did you try?

I did. Not so much for you, it may be, but to keep his weakness from the world. When we all depend so heavily on one man it’s dangerous to allow laughter at him. And after all, he’s sixty . . . she’s not yet twenty. No matter how much power a man wields they always laugh a little at that . . . in corners. . . .

I had my laugh . . . but it was a bitter one.

His father was lord of life and death before him, and he’s been a god so long here in the valley that he thinks he’s a god in fact. That’s his strength, too, though it sometimes makes him a fool.

I hate him! Hate him!

Well . . . that part of it’s done. If he lives he’s earned your hatred. But if he’s dead, what are we to do, Josefa?

It’s not for me to decide.

Federico will decide it. Help me with that, Josefa! We cannot retreat . . . must not be defeated. Help me to hold Federico to what his father would have done!

Father, if Pablo Montoya is dead on the mountain, it won’t matter much who rules in Taos . . . or who influences the ruler! Federico could never hold back the Americanos. It’s senseless to think so.

Montoya’s son—

And don’t be misled about me! Much as I hate Montoya, I hate the Americanos more! May he live to kill them! I’ll be a slave in his house if I must, with his new woman over me . . . but may he live to kill them! Does that answer you?

Josefa . . .
[Diana, a girl of eighteen, comes in, finds that she is intruding, and goes on toward the outer door.]

I’m sorry. I thought I heard someone calling. Was there news . . . of the battle?

No. Nothing.

Oh. [She goes on.]

There have been conflicting reports, Diana, but nothing we can count on.

Thank you, father. [She goes out.]

There walks his new lady, a skin with ten years less wear . . . and that’s all she has.

I’ve always thought her a gentle child.

Does a woman tempt without intending it? She’ll be fat, though, fat before I am, and uglier when she’s forty than I’ll be at fifty.

And less faithful. He may discover that—

That she loves Felipe?

You know that, too?

Only that I’ve seen it in their eyes!

Felipe is his heart’s darling, his stainless son. And Felipe loves the girl he intends to marry. I think this may make the marriage more than doubtful.

No. He’d kill Felipe.

He’d be in no mood for marrying.
[There is a sudden loud cry outside from the crowd of peons, then a silence followed by a babble of voices. Diego, a peon, enters.]

Don Federico is returning!

Federico!

His troop is climbing the trail!

We’ll know from him.

Excuse me, father! Excuse me, madonna. [She runs out.]

But you spoke truth concerning Pablo? You’d rather take a lower place in his household than see him defeated?

If I can bear it! If I find I can bear it!

Then remember this, Donna Josefa: if he has been defeated, and we are never to see him again, we must still go on without him. Federico will have to step into his place. Whatever has happened, help me to keep up Federico’s courage.

I’ll do what I can.
[Federico enters with Two Soldiers and many women and peons listening for news. Diana slips in among them. The men are dressed in black buckskin, with silver buttons. Serapes are thrown over the soldiers’ shoulders. Federico’s hunting-shirt, however, is of white buckskin, the mark of the men of the Montoya family.]

Greetings, Donna Josefa . . . greetings, father!

We’re back from the wars! Clear out of here, you trash!

Nobody’s killed so far as I know, I tell you . . .

They ran like hell, the pack of them . . . they never

Got close enough to get killed! Get out! Get out!

[The crowd clears out, the soldiers with them. Diana goes toward the inner door.]

Are we alone? The news is bad enough

In conscience. My father’s dead. He was cut off

At the pass by a posse of trappers. We tried to reach him

But they were all massacred there. Keep this from the peons

Till something’s decided. They may take to the hills

If they hear of it.

And so . . . Montoya’s dead . . .

We waited as long as there seemed any chance . . .

But these trappers take scalps like Indians; they wouldn’t neglect

A trophy like Pablo Montoya’s.

And how are we left?

We’re left as we always were . . . hanging on by our eye-lids.

They met us with five hundred men . . . we had,

Say, fifteen hundred. They were trappers with rifles

And a few troops . . . they’ve sworn to get revenge

For the massacre at Taos. The man who ordered

The American governor killed brought this on us

And we’ll all pay for it . . . the ones who’ve paid already,

They’re the lucky ones.

You were defeated?

God love you!

What do you expect? Fifteen hundred with spears

And bows and arrows, and a few old-fashioned muskets

Go out to meet troops from the north, and trappers who hunt

For a living! Is it likely we’d win? If it hadn’t been dark

With a heavy snow falling, just when it bothered them most

They’d be here now in possession, and we’d be hidden

Somewhere in the rocks with the catamounts.

And why?

If I may ask, are they not here, these victors?

Because the snow sent them back. They hadn’t counted

On two feet of snow in the trail, and they returned

To reorganize for the weather. But not for us,

Let me assure you. We didn’t hinder them.

There’s only one pass. You met them there?

Holy father,

What’s a pass to a trapper? They went around it, behind it

Under it, any way but through it . . . the troops

Tried a charge at the summit, and a few were killed,

But that was their only error.

What can we do?

Before they break through and exterminate us all

To pay us out in kind, someone who can speak

Had better speak for the valley, and speak quickly

While there’s still time to negotiate.

Never.

Well,

Perhaps you want to die, but I don’t. Not yet.

The United States has formally taken over

This region of ours, and sent a governor . . .

We killed him and killed every northerner we could find

Along with him in Taos. Now vengeance may be

Delayed sometimes . . . bad weather can block the roads

And even cool the blood, but a governor

Was killed, and that’s a first-rate challenge to

The northerners’ sovereignty!

It was meant to be.

Exactly . . . and it was . . . and they’ll roll down

On us, like the mills of God. It may take time,

But it’s sure as that . . . New Mexico is lost

To Spain and to Mexico, and to you and me.

It’s as sure as death . . . and the only thing we can hope

To save out of it is our lives . . . if we’re in time. . . .

You are the elder son

Of Pablo Montoya, Federico . . . it will be presumed

That you speak for Taos and New Mexico

In your father’s absence . . . but before you speak

Give me a word with you in private.

Surely . . .

Any number.

Now?

When I’ve disposed

My troops and given a few last orders. Then

I shall be at your service. Give me this room alone

A little while, Josefa.

Very well.

[Martinez and Diana go out.]

I shan’t need you, Narciso: Tell the men

To meet at dawn at the church for a muster call.

Till then they can sleep.

Yes, captain.

And, on your way,

Send in the prisoner to me.

[Narciso goes out.]

I give you welcome,

And my love, Federico.

Thank you, Josefa.

No more?

This is desperate business. I have no time.

We have this moment.

When I’m trying to snatch

Some safety from the wreck . . . bear this in mind,

We must not be seen together.

When have I

Forgotten that?

Also it’s necessary

For both of us to forget whatever’s past

Between you and me.

And why?

Because, for one thing,

You are my father’s wife.

You thought little of that

A day or two ago. And if, as you say,

Pablo is dead, there’s less reason to think of it now.

What are you trying to think yourself into? What wrong

Have I done, that wasn’t done me first? A woman

Has a right to any revenge she can take!

That’s true.

Take any revenge you can, then. But not with me.

Why, yes . . . I see it. You’re to be in power here . . .

And I’m not chosen. Not now. Who is it, then?

Who is it?

No one.

Diana? I think it is.

She’s snared you too. I’ve seen you look after her . . .

It’s no one.

It is Diana. May she burn

In hell, and all three with her!

Will you go now?

[An Officer, dressed as a trapper is brought to the door by Two Soldiers.]

Leave him alone with me.

[Josefa goes within. The Two Soldiers go through the outside door, closing it. Federico closes the door behind Josefa.]

The devil’s in these priests,

And the women, too.

What happened at the pass?

It worked as planned.

And my father . . . ?

It’s pretty certain.

There was nobody left alive there.

You do your work thoroughly.

You weren’t

Exactly in this for his health, were you? Be thankful

He’s out of your way. He’d put you out of his

Fast enough.

I know that. It can’t be helped.

I’ll have to go through with it.

Good. What is it you want?

I want to govern Taos . . . with your guarantee.

You have little to offer.

I’ve already given

More than you’ll find it easy to repay.

You’d have walked into the old man’s trap, and your nose

Would be two feet under snow if I hadn’t stopped you.

Do you find that little?

No.

But that’s done . . . that’s past. We did win, and I think

You’ll agree the war’s over.

And that’s what a word of honor means to Americanos!

The war’s over,

And whatever you promised is wiped out.

I don’t say that . . .

But I do say, don’t ask too much, don’t hope

To get all your father had and our guarantee

Behind you to keep it. No one can guarantee

You’ll keep your job if you muff it, also my powers

Are limited here. I’ll be doing well for you

If I save your property for you, and that of your friends.

Or even part of it.

Be on your way then!

If that’s how much you trust me, and all you’re trusted

At home, I’ve no more to say!

There’s no use being touchy

And turning Castilian on me at this stage.

I can use you and you can use me, but kindly

Don’t ask too much . . . or you’ll ask more than I’ve got

And you’ll get nothing. This is the way we stand:

Taos has been defeated, and Taos is due

To be ground under. You murdered our governor

And very likely you’ll have to produce a scape-goat

To stand the gaff for that. But when that’s over

We’ll want somebody in power here that understands

The peons and the ricos . . . and you could have it

And keep your father’s property to boot

If you’re willing to take orders, and keep order among

Your aristocratic friends.

Oh, I’m to take orders.

You’re damn right you’ll take orders! You’ll be glad

Of the chance to live unmolested on your land.

You’ve had it soft here, you and your class. Your peons

Jump when you speak. The king of Spain couldn’t ask

More than your father got in the way of service.

But that’s all past. Times change. But I’ll save your ranch,

And my price for this is exactly half your holdings.

Half my land?

I could take all, but I leave you half of it,

Being generous to a fault.

A Yankee peddler . . .

That’s what I have to deal with!

I could make it

Two-thirds, now I’ve been insulted, but I won’t,

I’ll stick to half.

And I’d live neighbor to you

And see you lining your nest with what you’ve stolen.

No, by God, I can’t do that!

I have no more desire to live next door

To you than you to me. I won’t live here.

I’ll put an agent in charge.

Why, then, I’ll take it. . . .

Provided I don’t have to see you again.

Good. Then . . .

You’ll be willing to sign this paper before I go.

[Reading it]
No, I will not. This takes the house from me.

Sign it, my good lad, sign it . . . and I’ll try hard

To save the estate from appropriation by

The new governor. Your father was a rebel

Against our government, and his land’s forfeit . . . yes,

All of it . . . but I think I can save it.

[He sits down and signs the paper]

If I’d known what this would come to you could all be damned.

And I’d go with you, before I’d touch this!

I swear I’ve done you a favor. One more thing. . . .

I want a map of this place.

What place?

The estate. . . .

I want to know what I’ve got. It’s a peddler’s notion . . .

But I want to see it.

There is none.

Draw one then. . . .

I want to see it.

[Federico goes to a case near the fireplace, takes out papers and brings a map. The Officer looks at it.]

How many acres in all?

Eighteen thousand.

Why, that’s enough for both,

Plenty for both. I’ll take this with me, and have

A copy made.

I may need it.

I’ll bring it back,

Or another just as good, showing your half.

You see I’m a man of my word. I stick to half.

Do you want the place you’re offered?

I’ll take it.

Remember

This is no child’s play. If you show any sign

Of treachery . . . and you’ll be watched . . . you go

By a quick route. You won’t be popular

With the new citizens you’ll have.

I know. . . .

And better than you can tell me, what’s left to me,

And what my place will be.

Get the ricos out then. . . .

See to it there’s no resistance, or not enough

To make us trouble, and I’ll do my part. . . .

Well, I’ll do mine.

You’ll find me here alone when you march on Taos.

Goodnight, then.

Goodnight.

[He leads to the inner door.]

Go this way. The small door there sharp to your right.

It leads to an alley-way, and that will take you

To a little gate. Open it. There’s a path

Straight down the hill.

[The Officer goes out. Federico returns to the table. The women have begun their wailing song again outside. Federico listens for a moment, then makes a gesture of impatience and strikes a bell. Graso enters.]

Yes, senor.

Tell them to take that tune of theirs further away.

What’s the matter with them now?

Some of your men, senor, brought confirmation of

deaths, and the women are mourning.

They’ll have to do their mourning outside the plaza

tonight. I’ve heard too much of it. Tell them that.

Yes, senor. Also Don Hermano and Don Miguel have

returned and wish to speak with you.

Let them come in.

[Graso goes out. Father Martinez enters from within.]

We’ve seen many torches across the valley, Federico.

They were near Don Hermano’s hacienda.

He’s here,

And Don Miguel with him.

Good. They may perhaps help me

With what I wanted to say. I wanted to see you

Before you were committed to a course

Toward the Americanos.

It doesn’t follow, you know,

That because I’m my father’s son, I’ll do as he did,

Or that his friends will be mine.

I have no wish

To be an inherited friend.

But if we can help each other, why not?

I doubt

That you can help me. If, in any way,

I can help you . . . why, speak.

[Don Hermano and Don Miguel enter. They are ricos, proudly dressed.]

You’re here before us,

Don Federico.

You’re welcome, Don Hermano,

And you, Don Miguel.

[They embrace.]

Thank you. Now, God be praised.

There’s one Montoya here!

No word of your father?

None.

Nor of Felipe?

Yes, he was seen

After the battle.

He’ll be with us then,

And that will help. Good evening, father.

Good evening,

Don Hermano . . . and to you, Don Miguel . . .

I saw the lights around your gates and found them

Most reassuring.

[They bow to Martinez, who returns the salutation.]

It was reassuring to be there . . .

And to find I had some neighbors left.

You led your men home with you?

What remained of them.

There were some missing. Hermano overtook me

And brought me along. . . . We mean to see this through.

Whatever we do we must do together now. . . .

I knew we could count on you.

And whatever has happened

To Pablo Montoya . . . we pledge ourselves, and I think

We can pledge all the ricos that return,

To stay with you to the end.

It’s touch and go;

We must face that, for Montoya was our man. . . .

But if there’s still Federico to lead them, and they

Aren’t given a moment to think, or consult their wives,

We can herd them into one last dash, and catch

The Americans off their guard.

It might be done.

Can you think of a better way?

I can think of nothing

That won’t be fatal in the end.

You’d surrender?

No.

What good would it do to surrender? We’re under death sentence . . .

All of us if we stay here.

Suppose your father

Were now alive, what plan would he follow?

If you

Are fortunate enough to know, why answer?

The Yankees

Are on the way back to Santa Fe. They find it

Rather hard going. They’ll be camped tonight

Not far from where you met them. At the pass.

They’ll be cold and sleep sound, and keep a poor guard,

Not having much discipline. They’re at your mercy.

Your father’d be there before morning.

And suppose we slaughtered four

Or five hundred, and the rest got away

To tell the story, well, then, what have we gained?

Only another massacre to set

Against our names and rouse the Americans.

They wouldn’t march so readily this way

Next time, if they left five hundred men on the hills.

Are you honest in this, and crazy, or cunning and sane?

You have a brain, you must know, if you lie awake

And think in the night, that we can’t win over a nation.

We’re a broken end of an empire here, cut off

And dying. . . . Mexico’s a republic, and we’re

Disowned at Mexico City. The United States

Has men and arms and armies. Do you want to die?

Have you set your heart on dying?

No.

Well, then

You must be cunning . . . you must see your way

To send me against the north to wreak your vengeance

While you escape, and let the rest of us pay.

My father’s paid already. . . .

Your father needed

No urging.

Then you’re innocent of his death.

But it’s still true that you knew when he went

That it was hopeless . . . you knew when the massacre

Was planned that it would all turn out as it has. . . .

You knew they’d send an army against us then

And we couldn’t stop it. . . .

It seems to have stopped. . . .

Not for long!

If it took them a hundred years they’d have to wipe out

The blood that was spilled here. . . .

Are you so sure

The north will beat us?

I wish I were as sure

Of living through the next year, as I am of that.

Beat us? Our hundreds against their millions?

Our muskets against their rifles! Beat us!

When

Your father was alive, would you have dared

To tell him that?

What’s that to do with it?

This: the reason you couldn’t tell him then

Was that it wasn’t true then. While he was alive

We couldn’t be conquered. Yes, while there was one

In this whole region that would not bow, they were helpless

To set up their sovereignty—here.

They set it up.

And he tore it down! The strength

Of a state is not in its numbers but in faith.

I have seen your father stand at the plaza gate

And look out over the valley . . . and every peon

Looking up from the fields, and every neighbor

On the adjoining hills, knew while he stood there,

Stood firm and would not falter, their world was safe;

The rulers to the north

Knew that, and when they had to make a gesture,

Urged on by those behind, they made it slyly,

Reluctantly and in fear! This governor

They sent out over us, he was a man of straw

Set up to try the wind and see how much

We could be made to endure. We endured nothing.

Pablo Montoya turned on them. They died

Before an order was issued.

And Pablo Montoya

Is also dead.

Even so, they’ve retreated.

Even so, I feel all about us still the spirit

Of Pablo Montoya. His courage

Is over us like a mantle, and it falls

Inevitably to your shoulders.

No.

But it does!

Take up the lance he dropped, call on us to follow. . . .

Believe in us and our cause and the great days

We’ve lived through in the past, and this enemy

You think so well of dissolves to a rabble before you

And lets you through! The man who is his son

Has greatness in him! Wherever he went

He carried with him the center of an age,

The center of a culture, and people’s hearts

Clung to him like vines to rock! You, too, are this man . . .

His other self, his heir . . . all eyes are on you. . . .

When you are in your house the people will say . . .

He is in his house, we are secure . . . he thinks for us. . . .

We can sleep tonight. When you ride on a journey

The people’s gaze will go with you anxiously . . .

And scan the horizon for your return! But beware,

If you betray this.

Yes . . . he was such a man . . .

And I might be.

[He rises.]

Even tonight, even now,

I could strike at them. . . .

You could do more than strike.

You could finish them . . . make an end to them.

No.

[The thought of his bargain has come back on him.]

Think . . .

Think what we have to lose. Nowhere on this earth

Will we find a life like ours, or ever again

Live as we live here. Ours is a little clan.

But we stem from a great nation; this is worth defending

From gringos who have nothing.

Is he padre or wizard . . .

To turn the truth inside out? We’re struck to the heart,

And the wound’s mortal. It’s too late for courage.

You know it as well as I.

Too late! We’ve fought

One indecisive battle!

Too late because

We’re out of fashion! Our guns are out of fashion,

Also our speech and our customs and our blood.

They’re the new race with the new weapons!

We must fight them or die.

We can retreat.

And abandon Taos to them?

Is that your counsel . . .

To abandon Taos?

I can think of nothing better.

I believe you mean this.

I do.

[A pause.]

Why, then, let’s go.

I had some hope when I came here.

Don’t think I’m happy

To say this to you. I like it no more than you do.

No . . . but to leave our houses, our flocks, to turn

The peons adrift. . . . I’d rather make a stand

And die for it. And you would!

No. I would not.

Will you go now?

Yes. Goodnight, Don Federico.

Goodnight, Don Hermano. Goodnight, Don Miguel.

Goodnight.

What are your plans?

I have none. We’ll need

No plans for what’s left to do.

[Don Hermano and Don Miguel go out.]

And what are yours?

If I may ask.

To salvage what I can carry.

What can one carry that’s of any value?

What we have is Taos. Losing our city,

We have nothing left. . . .

[Nuna comes to the door, bringing Santos.]

If you’ll pardon me,

I have much to do.

Is Donna Josefa here?

[Stepping toward the inner door] What do you want?

[Frightened] She sent me for Santos.

Must you track through the hall? [He goes through the inner door.]

She was here . . . she sent . . . He’s angry at me.

She may have sent you, dear child, but you are obviously not wanted now. Nor I either, you might add. . . . Come along, and bring Santos with you.
[He goes through the outer door. Diana enters from within.]

Senorita!

Yes.

Is Donna Josefa within?

I don’t know.

She sent me. . . . I was to bring old Santos. . . .

Nunita, tell me . . . can you be true . . . and silent?

Yes, senorita. . . .

Could you be a friend to me?

But I am a servant. . . . I’ll be your servant.

No . . . it’s more than that. If I ask you a question, you’ll never tell that I asked it?

Never.

Then . . . tell me. . . . Is Senor Felipe alive?

Yes, senorita, they think so.

But they’re not certain?

No.

He’d be back if he were alive . . . don’t they say that? . . . I thought I heard them say that, from a window. . . .

He’s late coming, but that might be. Santos?

No . . . no!

I’ll be careful. Santos . . .
[Santos comes forward.]

Yes, Nunita.

Did anyone go back along the pass to look at the faces of the slain?

No, no, it was dangerous. You could not.

But if any were wounded . . . they would be cared for?

Girl, how can I tell? . . . Am I not brought here to speak with the Donna Josefa?

You speak with Senorita Diana, pig, and she is even greater than Donna Josefa!

Is she indeed? I did not know. [He takes off his cap.]

The senorita wishes to know if the wounded of Taos will be cared for.

Ah, that is with God!

One can see that it is not with Santos.

But senorita!

Would you go back along that trail for her?

But when one has escaped by miracle with his life would he tempt the good God by returning?

Our Santos is afraid . . . afraid of Americanos!

No. . . . No! Who would be afraid of Americanos? They are a small and weak nation, compared with the people of Taos . . . but they have rifles, and rifles are deadly.

Then that’s all, Santos. . . .

But the Donna Josefa . . .

She won’t see you today.

If I have incurred displeasure . . .

No . . . no . . . only that’s all now.
[Santos withdraws, cringing.]

But I would go.

Where?

Back along the trail.

We’d never find it. . . . You’d go with me?

Yes.

We’d never find it.

No, it’s true. We wouldn’t. It’s dark and cold . . . and a long way.

Only . . . there are men lying there at this moment.

You love him?

No! . . . say nothing of this! . . . run away! . . . Oh, Nuna, Nuna. . . . I can’t talk to you . . . nor to anyone . . . but you know what hangs over me.

I know. We have all heard.

And what do the women say?

They say you’re lucky mostly.

He may be dead.

They say he is . . . and they say Felipe’s alive.

Oh, God . . . if that could be true!
[Veri enters carrying linen through.]

You’re wanted, Nuna. [She goes up to Diana.] And this is the piece of flesh he had in his eye. This is his dish. [She pulls Diana’s shawl away from her breast.] Curds and cream for the old goat!

Let her alone!
[She drags Veri away.]

From what I hear he’ll keep warm with the jackals tonight . . . not with my lady.

What have you against me, Veri?

That he should want you . . . that’s all!

You’d better go make those beds!

Before God, this one’s putting on airs now . . . and she’s pretty, too. She’ll be marrying Don Federico and running the house. Well . . . when it happens remember I spat on you once . . . pht!
[She goes in. Nuna is grave for a moment, then is unable to restrain a smile.]

Forgive me.
[A loud clear voice is heard outside calling a name, “Felipe!”.]

[Outside] Now God be praised . . . Felipe! It is Felipe!

[Outside] Good evening, father. It’s Felipe. You’re not mistaken.

[Outside] Wounded?

[Outside] Enough to hurt. That’s all.
[Diana sits.]

[Outside] Let me see.

[Outside] I’m well.

[Outside] You come late.
[Felipe and Martinez enter.]

I went back over the ground to look for my father;

We found some dead and some dying; on both sides . . .

But not the man we were looking for.

[Nuna goes out backwards, all eyes.]

He was gone.

He must be dead, or wounded too badly to answer.

We called his name . . . and I got this scratch for my pains.

Some of the trappers shot at us from the rocks,

Where they’d taken shelter. It’s a moonless night,

And the snow fell so fast the bodies were covered

Before we reached them. And yet I can’t believe

He’s there among them.

I hope not!

I hope not. Good evening, senorita.

Good evening, senor.

Federico’s returned?

Yes, unwounded.

I must speak to him.

I came upon real panic in the village.

They’ve heard of my father’s death, but they’re not mourning.

They’ve put away their guitars, and the burros

Are loaded for a flight to the mountains. Look, from that window.

You can see the lights of lanterns in the street

Gathering like fireflies. When these people are silent

They’re badly frightened.

Federico’s here.

I’ll tell him you’ve come.

[He goes within.]

Diana.

Yes. Yes, senor.

I break a bond with myself when I speak to you

Alone. I’ve sworn I would not.

Yes . . . I’ve known it.

But now we have only a moment, and whether we’ll ever

Be given another . . .

[He breaks off.]

Should my father not return

You’ll have enemies here. . . .

Yes.

Count on me to help you

In any way I can.

Then . . . he won’t return?

I did what I could to find him. If he were alive

It seems there’d have been some trace . . . or a hint somewhere.

Yet in my heart I think he lives.

And I . . .

I think so.

Why, Diana?

Because I fear it.

I’m sorry . . . I fear . . . the other.

If he

Had failed to see me, I could have loved him too.

What plans we can make for you should be made at once.

I think they’ll lay this valley desolate. . . .

The Americans . . . and those of us whose lot

Is cast with Taos will go with our city. But you

Have northern blood in your veins . . . you came here by chance,

A prisoner . . . and there’s no reason why you should add

One life more to the slaughter. There must be some way

To send you where you’ll be safe, and can find friends

Before the worst happens. That much I can do.

Do you want me away?

I want you to be safe.

And you stay here to be killed?

That’s the price one pays

For being a Montoya in Taos. There’s no such reason

Why you should remain. . . . Diana . . . if this were said . . .

This that’s between us . . . if it were ever in words

You’d be mine in my heart . . . not his . . . I’d go mad

To take you in my arms . . . and it would be madness. . . .

Because I’d want him dead . . . my father . . . the man

I’ve loved and honored above all others . . . and still

Do love and honor.

If you must die with Taos . . .

Felipe, Felipe!

Try not to say it!

Then I . . .

I must die here too.

So long as one loves

In silence it can be borne . . . as much as before

My father stands between us.

Not if he’s dead!

But he’s not . . . I feel it and know it. He’ll be here

And take you from me. And how can I bear that now,

Now that I know? I should have left this house

And stayed away till it all burned out . . . but that

Was impossible . . . so I lived here, and loved you more

And fought against it. But always when I saw you

It’s been the same.

I’m glad.

We know it now.

We must be content with that.

But don’t ask me to go.

You’re the one thing in my world

I can save out of it, and I must save it. You’d be

A needless sacrifice.

It’s all needless, Felipe,

Needless and useless for you as well as for me.

You must not die, Felipe.

But there’s one thing

A man can’t do . . .

What is it?

Desert in danger.

I’m my father’s son, Diana. We have a strict code.

I can’t break with it, nor with him. I’m a Spaniard,

And I honor my line and my name.

But if all here

Are to die?

Yes, even if he

Were dead, and I knew it, I couldn’t leave Taos. Not

If I were to keep respect for myself and believe

Myself worth saving. But I could wish I’d been born

In the north like you! . . . Then I’d say, let all the rest

Go where they like . . . let Taos and the Rio Grande

Dissolve like a mist and leave me fatherless

Alone by a strange river . . . if you’d come with me!

In the north no questions are asked; a man and a maid

May come and go as they like. We could make our own kingdom

Somewhere among them.

And this defeat could mean freedom!

Yes.

Felipe!

Yes?

To think and act . . .

To love as one wills . . . to speak and walk like a queen

Freely in a free land . . . to love where we love

And no one to forbid us. Why, that’s no kingdom,

Felipe, it’s heaven!

Heaven we can never have.

Are those the ways of the north?

Yes.

And young

And old go their own paths, and no one is bound

To love except from his heart?

Yes.

If these are my people,

And their blood is mine, and their ways are better than these,

Could you not live by them?

No.

He’s dead, Felipe.

And all this is dead around us . . . dead or dying . . .

He would have taken me from you when I loved you. . . .

Would still if he were here!

If Taos is dying

Put your love elsewhere, Diana, for I’m part of Taos . . .

And my blood’s strong in me. You look abroad and see

The earth as a maze of many roads and cities,

All open to you . . . and yours to choose . . . but I

Am born to one world, and share its destiny

Whether it’s good or bad. If my father’s dead

I still belong to Taos. It’s not a choice.

It’s the only thing I can do.

Then I have no choice.

I’ll stay here with you.

You’d do that . . . to be near me?

I have no more choice than you.

Diana, if

I put my arms once round you, I’ll lose all sense

Of what I have to do . . .

[He goes to her and takes her in his arms.]

And so I lose it.

There’s someone watching.

[She draws away from him. Federico, Josefa and Martinez enter from within.]

Give them your blessing, father. She takes them all . . .

Our chaste Diana! Father, sons, Holy Ghost. . . .

Be silent! Greetings, Felipe.

Greetings, brother.

You’re wounded.

It’s not a wound. It’s not that much.

[The brothers embrace.]

Well . . . we’ve come out of this.

In some fashion or other.

Yes . . . not too luckily . . .

Not with our father gone.

I looked for him.

It was useless?

No one had seen him.

No one knew what had happened to him. And still

I’m certain somehow he is alive.

If he were alive we’d have heard from him.

We’ll have to get on without him.

If he were dead

The world would be one thing . . . but if he returns

Something quite different. Whatever plans we make

Must fit with both.

My plans do fit with both.

[Narciso enters with a Soldier.]

Don Federico, pardon me . . . I think you’re needed

Below . . . they’re panic-stricken, both men and women. . . .

When I came through the village the peons were packing

And ready to leave for the range. You must make some announcement

Or they’ll walk out from under us. Just now it looks

Like the flight into Egypt down there . . . on a vast scale. . . .

Only the Josephs are mounted on the donkeys

And the Marys are walking behind.

There’s no danger tonight,

Go down and quiet them, Narciso. Tell them

I’ll give them a leader, and let them go before morning.

They won’t believe me. The town’s a caravan.

Wait then. I’ll go down and talk to them.

You’ll give them

A leader . . . and let them go?

I mean to stay here

With a few friends who’ve made their minds up to it. . . .

And stand the attack when it comes. They’ll over-run us,

Of course, but someone must stay behind to delay them,

And to wait for Pablo. He might come. The peons

And those who wish to live are to take the trail

And make their escape. I give you charge of that.

You ask me to lead them?

Yes.

That’s a hard sentence . . .

To lead a retreat from Taos at a time

When men are needed here.

Brother, men are needed

Most, where they’ll do most good. If we all stay

The siege might be prolonged, but it would end

Exactly the same way. You’re younger than I am

And it’s better that you should live and use what talents

You have to find new lands for the citizens

And slaves who are driven out.

This may be necessary . . .

But not till we know what’s happened to our father.

You’ll wait till morning, and then set out.

I don’t like it.

It’s a coward’s job. If the peons must stampede,

Let them go. The fight’s as much mine as yours.

Brother, if we had one chance of holding out,

I’d say try it . . . all of us . . . but since it’s hopeless

Before we start, I forbid it. It’s noble to die,

No doubt, when you have a noble cause to die for,

But when you have no cause, when your cause is lost,

The fewer lives lost the better.

I don’t like the role you

Cast me for. Lead the retreat yourself,

And leave me in Taos.

No.

But I can say no

As well as you, Federico. I won’t go.

I’ve made it a command.

I don’t understand you, Federico.

It’s not like you to insist so firmly on dying . . .

Forgive me for saying so.

Don’t puzzle about it.

I have my reasons for wanting you out of the house,

And our father would have them if he were here.

You say he’s alive and will return. If he does

He’ll ask for Diana. I’d rather not have to tell him

To look for her with you.

And that’s your reason?

These orders of yours fit oddly with what you told me

A while ago, Federico. You said, I believe,

That others might die if they cared to, defending Taos,

But you’d rather not.

It may be I’ve changed my mind.

I don’t think so. I think as Felipe does

That there’s something odd about it.

By God, he’ll go,

Or I won’t answer for him!

This is strange talk

For a brother, Federico.

And you have strange manners

With the woman betrothed to your father! You’re to go

And Diana stays here.

And now I quite understand you.

You mean to make peace and save what’s left for yourself. . . .

You’re a little mad, I think, to make such a charge,

Mad with love, no doubt. Diana belongs

To Pablo Montoya, and he may return!

Meanwhile, to guard her honor, the least I can ask

Is that you take the road.

He lies, Felipe.

He’s done all this for Diana. Now strike at me!

But it’s the truth!

You hear?

Are we to listen

To women? My charge against you is just, and you

Retort with another. It’s you who’ve been traitorous. . . .

But I’ve given you a chance for life. Will you take command

Of the expedition to the south, as I’ve ordered you,

Or are you an enemy?

I don’t trust you.

Arrest him. . . .

Arrest him, Narciso.

You anticipate a little,

Federico. You’re not yet master here.

You’ll wait

A long time for another. Arrest him!

Narciso!

Mind what you do!

If you ask for it I’ll find

A way to quiet you, too! I need no priest’s leave

For taking what I want. If I remain

Your master here, Diana is mine to give

And I take her for myself.

Yes?

Let her learn to love

Where she finds it necessary. As things stand you’ve nothing

To offer her, and I have!

[Narciso approaches Felipe.]

[Brushing him aside]

May God pardon me.

[He draws his sword.]

Lay your hands on him!

Give me fair play! You’re not my father’s son. . . .

I won’t believe it!

[Federico draws.]

Let him alone, then! I warn you!

You’re a novice at this business! I’ve made you an offer,

And you’d be wise to take it!

I’ll take nothing!

[The swords clash. Martinez leaps between them, catches the blades under his arm and breaks Federico’s sharp off. Federico drops the useless weapon and draws his dagger. Felipe tosses his sword back over his shoulder and draws his dagger also. They manoeuver for position slowly and silently.]

Narciso!

Yes!

[He draws his sword and springs to Federico’s side. Felipe stoops and picks up his sword. There is a sudden sharp shout in unison from a distance: “Montoya! Pablo Montoya!” After a pause this is repeated: “Montoya! Pablo Montoya!”]

That comes from the village! Wait!

What are they saying?

Montoya! Pablo Montoya!

They’re calling Pablo Montoya!

He’s returned!

Yes. He’s returned.

[At the window]

They’re coming up from the village . . . along the road.

[She looks at Felipe, and he at her. There is a silence, then The Crowd can be heard singing.]

If he has come back we’ll say no more about this.

[Felipe looks at him without answering.]

You’ve made a groundless charge against me, Felipe,

And I was angry. But I’m willing to forget it

If you are.

What do you think it matters to me

Who you’ve betrayed or when?

[He goes quickly to Diana and bends over her.]

We shall all do well,

I think, to forget whatever passed in this room.

[The singing becomes audible again as The Crowd rounds a corner of the hills, and a patter of feet is heard. Conchita comes in hurriedly.]

[Breathless]

It’s . . . he’s come!

Yes . . . we’re waiting for him.

[The singing stops and nothing is heard save the trampling of feet. Two or Three Women come to the door and edge in silently. They are followed by Boys and Men. The stage is filled, all looking back at the doorway as they pause. Pablo Montoya enters, a solid, burning-eyed man of sixty, his hair gray, his face intent. He stops to take in the room, then comes to the center. Others enter behind him. Montoya’s glance lights up as he sees Felipe. He lays a hand on his arm and then turns toward Federico to greet him also. But he stops when he notices the broken sword.]

Whose sword was that?

Mine, Pablo.

Take it up! It offends me! If swords must be broken

Let them break in a gringo’s throat, against the bone,

Not in our houses!

[Federico picks up the sword. Montoya looks round the room again.]

Men of Taos, I have come home, and I bring

Only a doubtful victory. Women of Taos,

What victory we have, little though it is,

Has saved us from slavery, and those we must thank for that

Lie now on the mountains. They chose rather to die

Than live not free. First, let us mourn for them.

Mourn with me, women of Taos. They were my friends,

And your heart-break’s mine. But our mourning must be brief,

And forgotten in anger. Let the women go out.

All save Diana.

[The women go.]

This was no defeat! We were betrayed at the pass,

Betrayed from within. If that were not so

We’d have spilled them like water, and not one death

Would have been needed!

Betrayed!

Just that!

I went back over their march. They’d followed the trail

Through every pass till they came to the one where we waited. . . .

And then they went round to attack our flank! They knew

Where we were waiting for them! I read the story

There in the snow. It was plain. And somewhere among us

Some Indian-livered dog-spawn crouches that traded

Our plans to the north! Yes, by our God, and I’ll find him

Before this night’s out! If he stands here and hears me

Let him breathe deep, and taste the air! It’s good,

This mountain air . . . and it’s the last he’ll have!

It happens I’ve taken an opportune prisoner or so,

And I know how to make them talk! We’ll have that vengeance

Before we strike again!

We attack tomorrow?

This was no victory for the Americans,

Remember! They had our plans . . . they attacked from the flank!

Where they knew we were unprepared. And they came to punish

The people of Taos. Instead we’ve crippled them

And sent them limping home! Punish Taos! They go back

To Santa Fe without seeing Taos! They left

Their own dead too on the mountain, and they’ll look twice

Before they leap at our throats again! Why, look . . .

This was no defeat . . . but a victory that will lead

To victory again! They’ll never touch Taos. . . .

They’ll never push us back . . . no . . . rather we

Will push them out of Santa Fe, and northward

Back to their English mothers! We’ll pledge to that.

Let each man pour himself a glass of wine,

And fill it full, for we drink death to the Yankees!

[The men fill their glasses.]

But before we drink we must know what more we drink to.

My ears are good. I have heard it said here and there

That Spain is old and I am old, and the dogs

Of the north will have their day. Do you believe this?

[There is a slight pause, then a murmur of “no, no,” “no, no.”]

And if you did what place would you have in the world?

None. You’d be the dogs of slaves, you’d be

The slaves of dogs. We come of an old, proud race,

From that part of the earth where the blood runs hot, and the hearts

Of men are resentful of insult. We are either lords

And masters of ourselves, or else we die.

And who are these conquerors who intend to take

Our places and our rights? For this is our place,

We wrought it out of a desert, built it up

To beauty and use; we live here well, we have

Customs and arts and wisdom handed down

To us through centuries. They would break this up,

And scatter it, these tricksters from the north.

They come here penniless, homeless, living with squaws

For women, vagabond barbarians, with hardly

A language, no laws, no loyalty . . . traders . . . whatever

They have they’ll sell . . . behind each other’s backs

They’ve sold me a thousand rifles! And I have them!

And when next we fight you’ll use them.

[The men lean forward.]

And are these the men

To lop off an arm of Spain? Oh, brothers in blood,

If you are proud, take pride now in what we are!

It is said that Spain has abandoned us here, that we live

Cut off from allegiance . . . under an ancient banner

That’s lost its meaning . . . but Spain has never gone back!

It’s now three long centuries since Cortes led

His hundreds into Mexico. Had you listened

Then, you’d have heard Spain’s enemies whispering. . . .

She spreads too far, her power will weaken soon. . . .

We’ll wait . . . then strike! They waited a hundred years. . . .

Then struck at Brazil! Two hundred years ago,

That was! And Spain roused and shook them off, and ran

The Dutch from her colonies, and invaded Flanders

And wrote on their doors with blood! And if you had listened

Behind those doors you’d have heard them whispering again:

Wait! Spain is old . . . she has endured too long. . . .

We’ll strike a little later! And they did wait.

Two hundred years they waited before Napoleon

Dared cross the border, and lost Europe crossing it!

And again they say Spain is old . . . she’s ruled too long,

These stragglers from the north! She has ruled so long

That they are a race of children . . . and their plans

Are a child’s plans, playing with sticks and mud. We have never

Gone back, our people . . . we never will! We’ll push

These scavengers north, these eaters of dirt . . . we’ll thrust them

North to the Lakes, take the St. Lawrence from them,

And leave them the eastern seaboard only so long

As they can hold it! That is what we drink to!

Who drinks with me?

[The men are motionless for a moment, then come forward to fill the glasses.]

There is a play that we perform at New Year’s . . .

In which the men of Taos, retaliating

Against the Comanches, don Comanche war-paint,

Trail feathers in their hair, and charge like Indians,

And return victorious. And there’s a final scene

That shows a silent field, with fallen men.

I was a young man then but I fought in that battle,

And others who fought there are still here. It’s grown

To be a legend . . . but it was more than legend.

Out to the east a hundred miles there lies

A ring of bones still whitening in the wind

Where you can count them. Seven hundred men

And not one left alive. The Comanche nation

Never struck back. It was never a nation again.

Tomorrow the Americanos camp at Cordova.

They won’t get farther. And before they wake we surround them,

This time with rifles, and a hundred years from now

Our children’s children, passing through that valley,

Will count the white-picked skeletons and remember

Who turned the Americans. If any pause,

Thinking this is not without risk, some will die, why true,

But it’s death if we wait for them here! We struck them first,

And we’ll not be forgiven! If any man say in his heart:

I have too much to lose, I dare not die,

Let him remember this is my wedding night,

I go from a bride’s arms to battle. No man risks more.

Who drinks with me?

[Each man lifts his glass. Suddenly they give a thunderous cry: “Montoya! Pablo Montoya!” They raise the glasses to their lips.]

CURTAIN

ACT TWO

ACT TWO

Scene: The same room a little later the same evening. The men have eaten and drunk and the remains of the food are on the table. A stack of long-barrelled rifles has been placed at the outer door, and the guests are beginning to file out toward them.

A Few Women, among them Raquel, come in to clear away. Diana is not in the room. Martinez is seated, waiting.

Let each man take his rifle as he goes. I take mine now. [He does so.] Sleep as long as you like tonight, as long as you can tomorrow. At sundown we start for Cordova, and it would be well to be fresh when we arrive. We should have drunk deeper if it were not for that, for the laws of the church run backward for me this evening, and I am to be married at midnight. All those of noble blood will return at that hour for the wedding. Goodnight to the rest.

[As they go out] Goodnight, Don Pablo.

Goodnight, and sleep sound.
[He turns toward an inner door and the assembly is dispersing quietly. A woman’s voice is heard calling outside.]

Don Pablo! Don Pablo! Let me come in!
[Montoya pauses and the others listen.]

Don Pablo!

Let her in.

In the name of God, justice! He’s killed my daughter!
[A Middle-Aged Woman enters, the men standing aside. She is followed by a Soldier who leads Mateo, a Spaniard, the latter wearing a bandage round his head. Nuna comes in after them.]

Don Pablo . . . will you hear me?

What is it, Valeria?

My daughter’s murdered!

By whom?

Carlotta’s murdered! Mateo killed her!

Mateo?

Why, yes. I killed her.

Why?

For no reason.

Answer me.

Why does a man kill a woman? Let the others answer!

He had no reason! He came home and greeted us . . . and then he went to her room and strangled her!

Mateo?

That is so.

You’re ready to die for it?

I have no defence. Do what you like with me.

Who knows what lies behind it? Come . . . there are women here. What was the cause?
[There is no answer.]

Maria?

Don Pablo . . . she was Mateo’s wife.

Mateo won’t touch you. What gossip have you heard?

Don Pablo . . . [She pauses.]

Yes?

At the time of the massacre one gringo escaped. It was supposed he carried news to the north.

We know that.

It is said Carlotta warned him.

Nothing more? There should be more than that.

Nothing more was certain.

[Under her breath] It was certain enough.

Cristina?

She brought all this on us. And she deserved it.

They lied about her . . . lied!

Be quiet, Nunita! How? What have you known?

I’ve heard her talk.

What did she say?

She came to the market one day not long since, when Mateo had beaten her . . . and said she’d have her satisfaction.

Well?

She said that she had borne bastards to Mateo in the past and would bear him bastards again. She said that the men of the north thought all women angels and treated them so, but the Spaniards believed all women devils and therefore made devils of them . . .

[Whispering] Lies, lies!

That was all?

No. We taxed her with knowing too well how the northerners treated a woman . . . and she said we would all bed with northerners before the year was out, and be glad of the change.

Who else heard this?

Raquel.

Raquel?

It was what she said. I heard it.

Nunita . . . she was your mother. What judgment shall I lay upon Mateo?

They lied about her, always!

And shall Mateo be punished? I make you judge of this. What you say shall be carried out. Does he live or die?

You make me the judge?

Yes.

Then kill him! . . . No, no . . . it was true . . . Oh, God, now I know it was true about her! Let him go! . . . Let me go now!

Yes, go, Nunita.
[Nuna goes out.]
And you, Mateo, take your rifle from the stand. You are no less one of us than before. If my wife had done as yours or spoken as yours did, I’d use the same measures. Let those women beware whose eyes have wandered. Wait! What was the name of the man who escaped through Carlotta?

They called him Captain Molyneaux.

We were betrayed then. And through Carlotta. Mateo, there was more reason than you knew for what you’ve done. It was Carlotta’s doing that we were surprised at the pass. The blood of every man killed was on her head. We were beaten by treachery, not by the north! By God, it’s true!

It is true! And you were right!

You knew this all the while.

We’ve put our finger on the traitor, Miguel! And we know there was a traitor . . . and by that same token we know the next time we meet them will be another story.

She may have had an accomplice.

There’s no doubt of it. And we must find him, too. That’s what I want to do now.

We’ll leave you, then.

But I’ll see you? [He gives his hands to Miguel and Hermano.]

Yes.

And you, Don Miguel . . . and Don Fernando?

Within the hour?

Near midnight.

Expect us, Don Pablo.
[The ricos go out, leaving Montoya, Martinez, Andros, Felipe, Federico, Maria and Raquel. Montoya sits, seeming weary. The women continue clearing the table.]

Pablo, you ate nothing. I watched you. Be mortal for a few minutes, now . . . and touch some meat and wine.
[He offers a plate.]

No, no. Let the others eat. I think more clearly without it. Wait . . . lest it should be said that I have refused you anything . . . [He takes a morsel of meat with his fingers and washes it down with a gulp of wine.] No more.

Come now. I was famished. You’re still hungry.

Not when I’m about to fight, Felipe. Have the sons of Montoya never felt it . . . a fever in the liver so devouring that food is impure? No, no . . . you’re young. There’s an ancient belief that wisdom comes with age, and the twenties are the time of passion. It’s for that reason they choose old men as judges . . . men who will have outworn the lusts of flesh and blood and be willing to rule impartially over the sins of youth. But all this is a fallacy. For wisdom and justice we must depend on the young; for madness in devotion to a cause, for all madness, you must go among their elders.

You say this to reprove us.

Tonight let us have no reproof among the Montoyas. No. I said it in excuse for you both, Federico. When a man is first a man a little fire is kindled in him for his race and his cause. If he is a man worthy the name he blows this fire to a flame . . . and it burns up in him to a conflagration. It burns in me now so white-hot and steady that I look at my hand in wonder seeing that it doesn’t tremble . . . there’s such a roaring of living fire inside, such a war of seething heat that sweeps my brain and nerves. It’s a thought for your state should you ever govern, Felipe. Make no old men judges.

General Montoya . . .

Wait. Make the old men soldiers. Old men are swift, violent, crafty, lecherous, unscrupulous in winning, relentless in defeat, putting their cause before their affections. Young men are much too tender, much too true. When I was lost on the hills tonight, and some thought me dead, I was hidden in a cave with three companions, because the rifles of the trappers had swept the trail. And I heard a voice calling my name. Up and down the pass it went, calling my name. It was your voice, my son, and you were risking your life needlessly. Had I tried to reach you I should have been killed, and I lay there, nursing my wrath at the enemy, knowing when next we met them our rifles would outnumber theirs. Had I been young as you I would have tried to warn you and been slain for my trouble. And I learned then that in a battle youth is too tender and too true. You should have known that if I were dead it would do me no harm to lie a night in the snow, that if I were alive I would find my way alone.

And if you were wounded?

Then better one wounded than two. But if you dream I might hold this against you, my Felipe, you are wrong. You are a kind and loving son. Only, when you are older, as old as Federico, you will not take these chances. Federico is already wiser. He came home, and he was here before you.

I’m not good at riddles. Am I to gather that I’ve displeased you, sir?

I am never displeased by superior wisdom. With what could I be dissatisfied, Federico? [He lays a hand each on his sons’ shoulders.] These are tall brothers, in every way worthy. Go, and make yourselves ready for the wedding. Lie down if you are weary. It will not be for an hour yet. Tomorrow, too, you can rest . . . we won’t start till evening. And whatever happens, this has been true . . . that I have been proud of you both, and have trusted you. That I have looked forward to an old age which you would lighten, one on either side.
[He turns. Felipe and Federico start to go. Raquel suddenly throws herself at Felipe’s feet. Josefa enters and stands near the door.]

What is it? Who is this?

Ask him for me, in God’s mercy. Ask him.

Who are you? [He raises her face with his hand.] It’s Raquel. What shall I ask him?

Only ask him, and let him say.

About Pedros?

[In agony] Yes.
[Felipe turns to Montoya.]

Pedros? You’ve had no news?

Nothing.

Federico, he was your officer.

He hasn’t returned. I know nothing further about him.

Pablo Montoya, you know. I can take your word.
[Federico goes out. Josefa looks at him. He avoids her eyes.]

I should say that Pedros would be alive. Yes . . . if I know Pedros.

Then he is. [She rises] Thank you, senor. [She goes out, and the other servants follow her.]

Andros?
[Felipe goes.]

You wanted me?

Bring me the three prisoners.

Yes, Don Pablo.
[He goes. Josefa comes forward.]

If I can be of use, Pablo, only let me know what you would like to have and it will be done. There may be preparations no one else could make so well as I.
[He is silent.]
I am no longer angry, Pablo. You will do as you will . . . and I shall consider it just. Even this wedding . . . I will help with it if I can. It is your house. The women in it are yours. . . . If I rebelled at first, you must forgive that. It has not been easy, but I accept it now.

There will be no preparations. One thing you can do.

Tell Diana that I wish to see her.

Yes, Pablo. [She goes out.]

What devil has poured his unction on that bitch?

She wish me well? There’s something in this house . . .

I knew it when I came in . . . there’s some snake’s purpose

Under this crawling. Federico, too.

He looked at me smiling, but there was that in his eyes

That wished someone dead and damned. Have you talked to him . . .

Or to her? What have they said?

Nothing that’s secret.

Meaning you won’t tell me. Because you think

It’s better I shouldn’t know. But, by God, I will.

You imagine this!

Friend, I imagine nothing. I see and act.

I’ve seen two things that I’ll find the bottom of

Before tomorrow. . . . I saw that I was betrayed

At the pass by someone within my ranks . . . and I saw

When I came home . . . that it was only my coming

That balked another betrayal!

As to the pass,

I know nothing of it . . . if we were betrayed

God help you find the traitor . . . but for the other . . .

The other I’m sure of. If Federico glanced

About him like Felipe, and took my hand

With the same pressure . . . but no, his conscience eats

Into his brain . . . and he crawls, and Josefa crawls . . .

Felipe’s done nothing he regrets. His eyes

Look back at you clear as a lake. And I think I know

What’s bitten Federico. He’s looked too long

At Diana, and wants her. And that explains Josefa.

I’ve watched her with Federico. She’s willing that I

Should marry Diana and cut Federico off

From hope of her. And now I have one son.

One son only.

Pablo, when a man grown gray

Loves a young girl, he peoples the wind with rivals.

But even if this were true of Federico,

Isn’t it natural enough? If she should love him

Could she be blamed? I could swear it isn’t true,

But if it were . . .

He’s a man, I believe! Son or not,

My path has never been crossed! I’d cut him down

Like cactus!

Pablo, youth turns to youth

Inevitably as water seeks a level.

And a son to a father’s wife when she’s young?

She’s not

Your wife yet!

She will be.

At our age men may have lust, but the day of love

Is over with us. A woman as young as Diana

Wants more than desire.

Why, then, you know more than I do,

About women’s needs, my priest. So far as I’ve known

What they want’s desire, and when they get it they’re happy,

And also they’re in love. I’ve heard these lectures

From churchmen on the subject of lust. But I know

And you know, too, there’s nothing a man’s more proud of

Than his lust for a woman, and nothing a woman prizes

More highly in a man. Since before the beginning

Of knowledge women have given where gifts were required.

A woman goes to the stronger, as land and nations

Go to the stronger. There’s not one title to land

Or possession in any empire that isn’t based

On a thousand murders . . . not one life in a nation

That wasn’t nursed in a thousand conquered women!

You are the people’s idol, Pablo. They look

On you to free them, and keep them free. This marriage

Detracts from you a little. It’s something to smile at

When they meet to gossip.

Let them laugh if they like.

They won’t laugh in my face! The drivelling bastards . . .

You saw how they climbed on their asses and made for the hills

When they thought I was done for! No village of half-wits will set

My laws for me! I take the woman I choose,

And God can’t help him who gets in my way!

God won’t help him

Who gets in the way of what’s coming.

Of what that’s coming?

The times are changing. Mexico’s a republic.

The English to the north broke from their kings. We’re here

Like a little island of empire, and on all sides

The people have a share in what happens.

And that’s what you’ve meant

By your printing press . . . and your teaching the peons to read!

Do you want a republic here?

I want to save

What we have, Pablo. They’re not all peons. They look

To the north and south, my friend, and take stock of themselves,

A little, and wonder why one class of men,

Or one man out of that class, has it all his own way

In the province of Taos.

If so, it’s because you’ve taught them

To think they can think.

Not so. It came without asking,

Like an infection. There’s only one cure for it,

And that’s to seem to offer them from within

What’s offered them outside. Give them books and schools,

And the franchise if they want it.

You’re my friend, José,

And have been, but this difference between us

Is deep as hell, and as wide. You fight the north

Because you want to keep your place. In your heart

You want what the north wants! But I fight the north

Because I despise what it stands for! Why should they think

About government, these peons? They’re happier

With someone thinking for them! Why should the young

Take rank above their elders?

We must give them the shadow

Or they’ll want the substance.

Begin to make concessions

And they turn to a mob and tear you to pieces! Show them

You’re afraid of them, and they’re wolves! But let them see

That you’re the better man and they’re sheep, and your dogs

Can herd them without fences! . . . And shall women choose men?

Are they so much wiser? All your reforms fall in

With this plague from the north that enfeebles us! God’s name,

I think you mean well! You’ve been my friend, but what

You teach is poison to me!

An enlightened people

Could be ruled more simply . . .

All rule is based on fear . . .

On fear and love . . . but when they know too much

They neither fear you nor love you! Teach them too much

And you tear your empire down, and what you have left

Is what there was before there were empires! This

Is all your progress . . . and they won’t thank you for it.

Nor will the women. They don’t want freedom! But they’ll take it,

And laugh at you for giving it!

[The Trapper and Two Other Prisoners are brought in guarded.]

Then the marriage goes forward?

Must we have this again?

[Martinez bows and goes out.]

[To the 1st Trapper.]

What is your name?

Senor, I have no intention

Of telling you my name nor anything else.

If you insist on one I’ll give you the wrong one.

Good, you have spirit. You’re the leader then.

That’s what I wanted to know. Your name, sir.

James.

What kind of name is that?

If you want my full name

It’s Humphrey James.

Were you at the pass tonight?

Yes. I was there.

Have you searched them?

We took their arms.

That’s all there was.

Let me see them.

[An armful of weapons is brought forward.]

And who are you?

I’m a prospector. I wasn’t with the others.

So this one’s a coward.

[He turns to the weapons.]

Whose dagger is this?

[Pointing to the 3rd Trapper]

It was his.

And now I know you’re a liar.

I know this dagger. Where did you get it?

I bought it . . .

In Santa Fe.

[To himself]

This dagger belonged to Pedros . . .

And I heard Pedros’ voice after the battle.

He was alive then. There could hardly be two like this.

It’s impossible. This one’s a coward and liar.

And Pedros is dead. Search them again. Take off

That hunting-shirt.

[To the 1st Trapper.]

I think not.

Take it off him!

[The guards peel the shirt from the 1st Trapper.]

Toss it here.

[They toss it to his feet. He touches it with his foot.]

Put it on. Must I bring it to you?

[The 1st Trapper takes up his shirt.]

Search the next.

[They search the 3rd Trapper.]

Take that shirt off him.

[The shirt is tossed to him. He examines it with his foot.]

Look through it. There’s a paper in it.

[Andros rips the shirt with a knife and takes out a map, which he hands to Montoya.]

By God, I was right!

They’ve been in my house. They were leaving here when we met them.

Where did you get this?

I didn’t know it was there!

[Taking up the man’s dagger]

Where did this come from? This is Pedros’ dagger.

Do you want to die the way he did?

He gave it to me.

Who?

[Indicating 1st Trapper]

He did.

What’s his name?

Captain Molyneaux.

What else did he give you?

Nothing.

Did he tell you

Why you were to carry this? Quick . . . speak.

No, senor.

Were you in this house?

No.

Tell me, senor Captain,

Who gave you this map?

[The Officer smiles without reply.]

You are all three to die,

You know . . . unless there is one of you who is willing

To tell more about this.

We’ll die anyway, boys,

So keep your mouths shut.

Even to an enemy

I keep my word.

[To the 3rd Trapper.]

Do you want to live or not?

The Captain was in the house. He brought two papers . . .

And gave one to me to carry, and one to him . . .

And we went separate ways.

Search this man again.

Search me all you like. There was a paper,

But you won’t find it. I burned it.

[Andros searches the 2nd Trapper.]

There’s nothing on him.

It’s true he burned something.

When?

Outside in the jail.

You sons of fools!

He threw it on the fire.

What was in that paper?

Senor, I don’t know. . . .

But you have an idea. . . .

Come, we shall get along, we two. I promise you,

You’ll live, and I don’t lie.

They were talking about

A settlement . . . the captain was going to arrange

Not to destroy the town . . . because he owned it.

Not to destroy Taos?

Yes, senor, because

This house was his.

And who had signed that paper?

Senor, I don’t know . . . and that’s the truth.

[To the Officer]

Someone had signed away this house to you,

And in return you were to pacify

The officials at Santa Fe.

The lad’s a fool,

Don Pablo. He’ll tell you anything you ask for,

He’s making this up to save his hide.

With whom

Did you make this agreement?

If you want a story from me

I can tell one fast enough. I negotiated

With a priest called Martinez.

That is a lie. . . .

Go on. If you tell enough lies I’ll know the truth.

Senor Montoya, I know the fix I’m in

As well as you can tell me. You’re a hard man,

But I never met a Spaniard harder than I am. . . .

And you won’t frighten me. The worst you can do

Is kill me or torture me. Well, the Indians tried that,

And they know the game, but I kept my mouth shut.

  You

Can say or do what you will, I give no one away. . . .

And I tell nothing. But if you have the time

I’d like to speak a word about this business,

Quite without malice.

Good. You wish to advise me.

Proceed. Advise.

You’ve killed the governor

And a number of our citizens. Now, by what right

The government at Washington first laid hold

Of New Mexico I don’t know. So far as I see

This land belonged to you Spaniards, but you were adrift

From Mexico . . . and you’re not protected by Spain. . . .

There’s nobody helping you but yourselves. Whatever

Your rights may be you’ll lose. The government sent

A force to put you down, and it had to go back.

It wasn’t sufficient. Well, they’ll send another . . .

And if necessary another . . . they’ll send an army

If they find they have to . . . and the more you resist

The worse it’ll be. Taos will be destroyed,

With every man, woman and child, if you hold out,

And there’s no point in it. It’s a fertile valley,

And a handsome town, and it’s rich. If you were willing

To lay down your arms, and concede some part of the place

To American ownership, you could keep the rest

And the war would be over . . . and a lot of lives saved, too.

If it goes on it’s plain murder.

[To 3rd Trapper]

One more question.

Where did you get this dagger?

He let me have it.

[Indicating the Officer.]

You took it off a corpse?

Yes.

Then who killed him?

Killed himself.

More lies?

No, no, it’s true . . . he killed himself!

Pedros killed himself?

I don’t know his name . . .

He brought a message to the captain before the battle . . .

And afterward, after the battle, he came again,

And pretended he had a message, only this time

He tried to kill the captain. He had no message

This time. It was a ruse. They took him out

To shoot him, but he was too quick for them.

What did he say?

Remember what he said.

When?

Any time . . .

Whatever he said.

I wasn’t near enough

The first time he was there, but afterward,

After the battle, when he’d drawn his knife on the captain

And we were taking him out, he said he’d thought

He was bringing a message to mislead us, but then

He found he’d betrayed his own people, so he came back

To kill Captain Molyneaux. He called that back

To the captain when we were taking him away,

And then he killed himself.

Pedros was true then . . .

Captain Molyneaux, will you tell me the name

Of the man who betrayed me?

No.

You can have your life,

I have no interest in taking it.

No.

And whether

You tell me or not I’ll find it out.

I say no!

And no’s my answer!

This is strange behavior

For a man about to die. Are there other gringos

As stubborn as you?

Well, get it over with!

If you think I’m stubborn you’ve got a lot to learn!

You’re used to peons and Indians!

You prize your stiff neck

More than your life, it seems! You’re proud of that,

And in your country it may be that the dogs

Are better than their masters . . . but not here!

Here you bend your neck or you don’t live long.

Goodnight to you.

[He goes to Andros and they speak a few words.]

Senor! Your promise! Senor!

You may live,

But it’s no compliment. Send in Narciso,

I saw him outside.

[The prisoners are led out. Narciso enters.]

Narciso, Raquel has asked me

For word of Pedros. Was Pedros lost?

I don’t know,

Don Pablo.

But he’s not here.

No.

And I’m quite certain

I heard his voice after the battle. He was, I think,

Federico’s officer?

Yes.

You’ve taken his place?

Yes.

When were you appointed?

An hour ago,

Or a little more.

Narciso, I’m sorry to say this,

But there’s something strange about Pedros’ disappearance,

And it reflects on you.

Pablo, I’m also sorry.

And that’s all?

Why . . . no. Pablo, perhaps I know

Where Pedros is, but it’s something I’d keep from saying

As long as I could.

Where is he?

I think he crossed

The line to the Americans.

Why do you think so?

He quarrelled with Federico after the battle

And set off across country alone.

[There is a long pause.]

With Federico. And what was said

In this quarrel with Federico?

I don’t know that.

I didn’t hear it . . . but they were very angry

And almost came to blows. I heard the noise.

You heard not one word from this quarrel?

Let me remember . . .

No . . . not a word. I couldn’t make out at the time

What they were incensed about.

[Diana comes to the door. She has changed her dress.]

Come in, Diana.

That will do, Narciso. Your name is cleared.

But send Federico to me. Tell him I wish

To lay our plans for Cordova.

[Narciso goes out. Montoya takes up the map and puts it in its place. The dagger he puts in his belt. He brings out a casket and sets it on the table.]

This is a holiday dress. You are ready?

Yes.

It becomes you. I wish a man might look

Behind a woman’s eyes, Diana, and see

What lies there. You veil your eyes from me.

Now?

[She looks at him.]

Even now.

I’m sorry.

No, don’t be sorry, but this is a world

No man can trust much, even at best . . . and when

He gives his name to a woman, he must know as near

As he can how much he can trust her. Those closest to us

Have most to betray. I’ve been betrayed tonight . . .

Virtue’s gone out of me, and out of this house.

Let me see your eyes again. Diana?

Yes?

What can you say?

I don’t know.

Are you afraid?

Yes.

Afraid of Pablo Montoya?

Yes.

Is it because I’m older than you . . . and have power?

Yes.

Yes, perhaps. Let me see your eyes again.

I think that’s what it is. . . . This dress becomes you.

Whatever you wear looks its best on you, Diana.

That’s why I want you to wear a few jewels tonight

That haven’t been worn since this house was built.

They are waiting

For someone to wear them who’d be worthy of them.

[He takes out a tiara.]

Take down your hair.

[She loosens her hair.]

This is to be your own . . .

And it’s a dowry to be proud of.

[He fastens it on her.]

No matter

What the future may bring for me or you . . .

Keep it for your fortune.

I do thank you.

Thank me better. Have you no better thanks?

Yes.

Take my hands. Kiss me.

[She does so.]

If I have sensed

What happiness lay in you . . . I was wrong . . . you are richer,

Sweeter than I could know. Let me look at you . . .

I want to see what bride it is I take

Before the others are here. This is your hair.

This is your hand. You stand thus. Now

Could you kiss me, and kiss me as a lover kisses?

Yes. Must it be tonight?

You are a gentle girl, Diana. Perhaps

One takes advantage of that, and assumes that you

Will understand what’s strange, forgive what’s left out

In the way of courtesy.

It’s not that.

For the rest,

You have known a long while what was destined for you.

You came here a captive child, with other captives,

And played at my feet as a child, and, watching you,

And weary of tongues and unfaith, and women who seem

To love where they hate, I lost myself in dreaming

Of a child-wife, who would love where she seemed to love

And give herself purely. You grew in beauty, too . . .

Grew maiden-like, flower-like, woman-like, and still kept

Your candid eyes that never lied, and I knew

If you were mine, you’d be wholly mine. I could rest

In that. You come of an alien race, somewhere

From the north . . . I’ve lost trace of where, but a woman’s mind

And heart are in her eyes . . . and you could be trusted.

And so I told you of this, and you were troubled

As a maiden is . . . but I wanted the world to know

Where I had chosen, and wanted to prepare you

Softly as might be. If I come suddenly now

To fulfill my promise, it’s not as I would have had it,

But we run risk of death tomorrow, and I

Should not be willing to die before I’d tasted

For once, this one happiness. Am I forgiven

Now, for my abruptness?

I’ve made myself ready.

There are two kinds of happiness, to win

In battle, because that makes you one with those

Who are your people, and to share a love

With one who loves you . . . because then, for an instant

A man is not alone. But when one shares

Himself and all he has and then discovers

Too late, that he was mocked, and the woman mocked him,

There’s no such loneliness on earth. I’ve loved

And given, but without return. Always I’ve known

Too late that I was alone.

Could that have been . . .

Don Pablo, because you demanded . . . instead of asking . . .

Because you took as your right, whatever you wanted,

Instead of wooing for it?

But not with you!

With you I have been gentle . . . Only give me all

Your faith, and you shall have mine! Will you give me that?

I have no wish to rule . . . !

I don’t care for that! Let me live where I can,

Humbly, anywhere . . . and marry humbly

And be forgotten! You have many things

In your life! I could be forgotten!

You said you would give me

What you could.

Yes.

I won’t ask more than that.

You are a child still, and I seem grim to you

And you’re afraid. But as for running from me

And hiding from the world, and marrying humbly . . .

That you don’t mean.

Oh, yes.

There was never a woman

Worthy to be a woman, who wouldn’t choose

A man she could honor rather than a handsome face

Growing on a peon. Yes, a woman will take

One-tenth of a man she can honor, and share him with others

Rather than breed with his servants. You, too, will know that

When you are older . . . and love me, and be proud.

I thought I could bear it. But I can’t! Pablo Montoya,

Have pity! You are great! You won’t need me. Oh, for God’s love,

Have pity on me!

Child, I love you. If you

Had ever been in love you would know there was one thing

A love cannot do. It cannot let go.

But I could.

If I were in love I could take all my life in my hands

And give it to him I loved, and turn away

And never see him if he asked it!

Yes,

But you are a woman. And something in what you say

Teaches me you are more of a woman than you could be

If your heart were empty. Who do you love?

No one!

You love my son! I had evidence of this before

But I wouldn’t believe it. When Josefa came to me

Smiling, to hurry the wedding, I knew it then.

She wishes you married to me. What has there been

Between you and Federico?

Federico!

Nothing.

No . . .

But there would have been had I not interrupted it

By returning awkwardly. You’ve been untrue

Already to me at heart. You’re like the others,

A woman, inconstant, deserving of no better

Than the others, and giving no better. But know this about him . . .

If there were no other reason that he should die

He’d die for this, but there are other reasons.

He’s sold us out here, or tried to, and he fought

Against us at the pass, like the whelp he is,

And my nest shall be cleaned of him! I loved him well . . .

Stood ready to share my name and fortune with him,

And he sneaks like a jackal in his father’s house,

Stealing his wife and his place, surrendering

To thieves that he might share! Go, and be ready . . .

But guard yourself . . . for I know you now . . .

Look not

To right or left from me. For I swear to you

That if the son I love were to lift his hand

Toward yours, he’d die . . . and as for Federico . . .

Count him dead. Go! Why should you look on my torment?

[Diana goes out. The village is heard singing far-off the same song with which they welcomed Montoya back. He sits listening. Federico comes to the door.]

Their spirits have come back. You hear them?

Yes. They’ll follow tomorrow, and gladly too,

If we can keep them singing.

They sing enough.

Too much sometimes.

Is there something on your heart,

Federico?

No. I think not.

You start queerly

Sometimes, as if the opening of a door

Might bring ill-fortune. As if something lurked

In corners here.

It may be I’m not so easy

When things are happening, as I will be later

When I’ve seen more.

Are you clear enough in your mind

To lead one section of the attack tomorrow

Without failing me?

I think so. What are the plans?

If we can time ourselves to reach Cordova

Just before dawn, before the horses wake

To graze, we’ll find the troops camped in the valley

Along the stream. They’ll have to take the trail

That brings them there . . . and they’ll stop there, for the water

Is hard to reach further on. If we attack

From one side or the other, they’ll have the trail

Before them, and they’ll escape, or most of them . . .

But if we make a division of our forces . . .

Attack with half the rifles on this side

And meanwhile plant an ambush on the other

Where they’ll run into it unprepared, we’ll have them

As neatly bottled as could be wished. Now I

Can’t be on both sides of the camp. If you

Will lead one-half our men around Cordova

And wait where the gulch is narrow, our campaign’s planned

And we can sleep tonight.

That’s excellent.

It’s almost certain victory.

More than that,

It may be that not one will get away.

That’s what I want . . . to take them by surprise,

And leave not one alive.

That’s possible,

But not too likely . . . they can climb like goats . . .

These hunters. Some would escape.

Which would you choose . . .

To make the first attack at this side, or lead

The detachment round for the ambush?

Let me have

The post of danger. I’ll go on ahead

And wait for them where it’s narrow.

And you’re sure

You can hold them there?

Trust me.

Your officer . . .

Narciso, is it?

Yes.

I could wish it were Pedros.

We lost our best man in Pedros.

He was hardy.

And faithful, too. One could trust him always.

I wonder at his being killed. I could have sworn

I heard his voice after the battle, among your men

As plainly as yours now.

You heard his voice?

It must have been an illusion. Such things do happen . . .

Voices come back from the dead . . . to testify

Or complain, perhaps, if their owners died unhappy.

And this is strange . . . I took this dagger from

A trapper prisoner. Was that Pedros’ dagger?

I think it was. From a trapper?

Yes.

That’s like them . . .

To rifle the bodies.

Well . . . Narciso will do . . .

But don’t depend on him too much.

I’ll see

To every order myself. And let me thank you

For laying this trust on me.

I think you’ll be worthy

Of the trust I give you. Federico,

It’s been borne in on me of late that I’ve taken

Too much to myself, and allowed no scope for the play

Of younger minds and hands. The estate is large

And I’ve kept too much to myself in its supervision . . .

I can’t do everything well. If I should give you

Half share in the ranch, would you stay here with me and keep it

As jealously as I have?

I would indeed.

[A marriage song begins outside.]

But this . . . you don’t mean this?

Why, indeed I do.

I do mean it. And lest we let it go

And you think it out of mind, let us get the map

And make our choices.

Let it go till later.

No, bring it . . . bring the map.

I can’t accept it

Till you’ve had time to think.

I’ve thought a whole life-time!

[A pause.]

After we meet them tomorrow.

[He turns.]

Very well.

We’ll let it go till later.

[Federico starts to go.]

No, wait,

Good God, let’s settle this little matter! We’ll have

The map!

[He goes to chest and brings it out.]

Four thousand acres this side of the river,

And fourteen thousand in the flat, beyond. It’s enough

To make a Yankee covetous, I admit.

[Federico, terrified, is rooted where he stands.]

But is that reason enough to cause a Montoya,

An elder son, trusted, acknowledged heir,

To draw a line down the center, and auction off

His father and his brother, and a whole village

To keep his skin from danger?

[Martinez, Felipe, Diana and Josefa come in.]

This is the time you set,

Is it not, Pablo?

[The marriage song comes nearer.]

Why yes, it is time. Come in . . .

Come in, Felipe! Come in all of you

And watch his face while I read him a history

Of what he’s done! Look at him!

[The Nobles of the village, four or five in number, enter with their wives. They are ushered in by Nuna, who goes out at once.]

What do you mean?

What have I done?

Be patient. I’ll tell you. This map

Has a line drawn across it . . . a line dividing

Your share from the man you sold out to . . . you were to get

Immunity to live here for that share!

Look at this dagger, too! Look hard at it

And let nothing show in your face when you remember

Whose dagger it was, and how much a better man

Pedros was than you are! Pedros is dead.

He killed himself when he knew what you were about

And what he’d helped you with. It was Pedros who carried

The word to the other side to avoid the pass

And strike us on the flank. And the man who sent him

Was Federico.

It was true then?

Someone has lied

To you about this.

[There is a volley outside, then two more in quick succession.]

Someone told me the truth,

And that’s his reward for it. The Yankee trader

Who traded with you is dead. Look, look, Felipe . . .

That was my eldest . . . that one there with the face

That twitches . . . but the deed is cancelled now.

The party of the second part is dead,

And the party of the first part’s dying.

[Andros and Narciso enter.]

But it was annulled when you came back! And think . . .

You hadn’t returned . . . it was supposed you were lost,

And I knew no other way to save our lives

And the lives in the village . . . was it treasonous

To take command when I thought I must?

Look, Felipe . . .

Whatever love or promises I gave him . . .

Whatever was his as my eldest son, is yours,

Stand at my shoulder now . . . let me believe

One can trust a son . . . this is not easy, to send

A son to death. I’ll try to forget that he’s lived

And remember only Felipe. Why, look, he’s not

And never was a Montoya. . . . See, he crawls . . .

Crawls again!

I think you’re wrong!

That’s better . . .

Stand up and fight me, at least. If I must kill you

At least die like a man!

Perhaps he’s not

So much to blame as you think.

I know the story

From beginning to end. It was his plot that brought us

Defeat on the mountain. Even then he was in touch

With the northerners . . . and even then he was wooing

The woman I’d chosen to marry. Weren’t there enough half-breeds

To help you populate the valley, that you

Must approach my woman, and win her over to you

And away from me?

[To Diana.]

How proud of your choice are you now . . .

Now that you know him?

I won Diana from you?

Yes . . . that too.

You fool! It was Felipe.

She loves Felipe now!

Yes, tell your tales . . .

Lie out of it if you can.

It’s true, Don Pablo . . .

She loves Felipe!

And you, too, have your reasons

For wanting me to think so!

[To Andros.]

Take out Federico

And chain him at the plaza gate, let him feel

What it’s like to hang in irons before we hang him

The last time for the buzzards!

[Andros and Narciso start to lead Federico out.]

You won’t do that!

By God, I will!

He could hang a thousand years, and it wouldn’t pay me

For what he’s done!

But I say you won’t!

Why not?

He’s your son . . . my brother . . . you can’t stake him out

Like a bear to be tortured . . . !

Only I will!

Don Pablo . . . !

Get on with him! Get him out before this knife

Of Pedros’ finds a home in him!

Don Pablo!

[They take Federico out.]

Damn you! One thing I could bear . . . that he’d betray me . . .

I’d swallow that . . . I’d have let him live . . . a coward . . .

But the other I won’t take!

Then why do you send

The wrong man out to be chained?

You fiend . . . be quiet! . . . Felipe!

This is not true?

[A pause.]

It’s true that I love Diana.

I can’t deny that.

And she loves you.

[Felipe is silent.]

You do love him?

No, no . . . I swear it . . .

There’s been nothing, nothing . . .

And you’ve been willing

To let Federico suffer . . .

Oh, Pablo, believe me . . .

I’ll be a true wife to you.

[She goes to him.]

I’ll be true and faithful,

And do all you can ask.

[She kneels.]

Forgive me if I

Have been silent when I might have spoken, or seemed

To turn away when you came to me. It’s true

I’m young, and you are older . . . and I’ve been frightened . . .

That I couldn’t help . . . but I’ll be kinder

And give you all you ask . . .

Do you love Felipe?

[She is silent. There is the beginning of a babble of voices outside that increases in volume slowly.]

Speak! Do you love Felipe?

But it’s not his fault!

I loved him first, and he never spoke to me . . .

And there’s been no crime . . . no touch . . .

She lies . . . we found them together . . .

In each other’s arms!

Only when you were lost

And hadn’t returned! Punish me, Pablo. Felipe

Is your son . . . and wouldn’t dishonor you!

I’m blessed

With dutiful sons, it seems. They think of me only . . .

And of my wife!

[The voices outside are louder.]

Pablo . . .

Be silent! You’ll drive me

To something I must keep my hands from, pleading . . .

Are you so hot for him?

This is not more or less

Than you could hope for, Pablo. Since it comes now

Before this marriage, it won’t come later on.

If you’d been married, every year that went by

Would have brought it nearer, inevitably. Somewhere,

Some time, she would have loved and been loved where her youth

Was certain to lead her . . .

What are you mumbling?

I say

There’s no crime in it except your own.

You knew this!

It was certain to come.

[There is a shout outside. It trails off into single voices, indistinctly heard: “What does he say?” “They’ve sworn to destroy the village!” “Three hundred thousand men!” “He talked with the northerners.” “Will you listen to him or his father?” “He’s a Montoya, as much as Don Pablo!” “I say, loose him!” “Let him go!” “Damn you, come no nearer!” There is silence, then Federico is heard as if a door had been opened in the passage.]

[Outside]

You have seen a village

When it was in ruins . . . no life, the people living

Somewhere in the hills! . . . But this will be worse . . . they’re in thousands,

These Americans . . . they’ll come like locusts . . . flies . . .

They’ll come when you least expect it . . . not one escapes . . .

And they could be placated . . . my father’s mad . . .

Crazy . . . he wants to die . . . wants you all to die . . .

And you’ve been fools and followed him because

He gave you rifles! . . . Why, if he gave you war-paint

Like the Indians you’d do as well!

[The crowd breaks into a louder babble.]

[Andros enters.]

I’m sorry, Don Pablo,

But I think you should interfere before your soldiers

Listen to more of it. Federico’s surrounded

By a great crowd at the gate . . . and when they asked him

How he came there, he told them that he had arranged

A peace with the north which you had repudiated . . .

Also that you intend to execute him

To keep this knowledge from them.

Say that again.

Federico’s spreading sedition at the gate.

They’ve all surrounded him because of his chains,

And he tells them they can never win against

The English of the north . . . many believe him . . .

Or at any rate, they’re shaken.

You will stay here

And wait for me . . . all save Andros.

[Montoya and Andros go out. Soon afterward the noise of the crowd is suddenly hushed.]

Felipe . . . you . . .

Go quickly . . . I won’t see you . . . but I’ll love you . . .

Go . . . the other door . . .

You must think lightly

Of me, Diana. Would I go, and leave you?

Felipe . . .

Will you come with me?

If we were caught

You would be killed . . .

But we wouldn’t be caught . . .

Yes . . . yes . . . there’s only a moment, Felipe . . . you waste

Your whole life waiting . . . !

Come then . . .

And bring your death on you?

You’ll die if you stay here now . . . you’ll die if I go

Along with you . . . but you alone could escape . . .

He’ll let you go if I’m here . . . but if I were with you

He’d never forgive you, and he’d never give up

Till he’d hunted us down!

All this is true, Felipe . . .

Be off, and swiftly . . . and I’ll tell him I advised it.

[Outside]

Stand back from him! Stand back!

Quick! Now, Felipe! Oh, God, will you wait for him . . .

Till he comes back? You must live. . . . If he should kill you

And I were to blame, how could I live?

[There is a great shriek from the crowd . . . then silence and one voice.]

Don Pablo!

Don Pablo! Your son!

[There is complete silence, then the steps of Montoya returning slowly in the corridor. He comes to the door and enters, his head bowed, the dagger in his hand. As he comes to the center a great splash of scarlet is seen to have appeared on the front of his white hunting-shirt. Nuna and Raquel appear silently in the doorway, a few Others behind them. Raquel’s face is a tragic mask. Montoya stands with bowed head for a moment, then tosses the dagger to the center of the table, where it sticks trembling, and turns his eyes toward Felipe.]

CURTAIN

ACT THREE

ACT THREE

Scene: The same. The act opens some minutes after the close of Act II.

Felipe and Diana are guarded and about to be led out. Montoya stands near the table, breathing as though he had come through a scene of violent altercation. Martinez faces him, evidently his antagonist. The Ricos have drawn nearer. The rear door is open and Many People have collected silently to listen, unnoticed by the Ricos.

[To Martinez]

I say he dies!

[There is a slight gasp and motion among the people. Montoya notices them.]

Andros, clear out those slaves!

Out that way, Narciso. Take them with you.

[The crowd murmurs.]

What’s he done?

He’s done nothing.

[Loudly]

Pablo, what’s the charge against Felipe? We want to know.

Are you going?

[The crowd is put out and the door closed. Only Raquel and Cristina, who were making preparations for the marriage, remain behind.]

[Quietly, to Martinez]

I say he dies.

[To Felipe.]

A woman hated me once

And tried to poison me. It happens it was your mother,

Yours and Federico’s. She had loved me at first

And borne me two sons, but she grew to hate me then

As fiercely as she’d loved. I knew this. She tried

To hide it with soft words, but one night at supper

She turned her back for a moment, pouring my wine,

And then set a glass for me, and one for herself.

I looked in her eyes, and changed the goblets, and drank,

And she took the challenge and drank . . . she was no coward . . .

And died before my eyes. I have this poison

Of hers. It’s quick and painless, and stops the heart.

I found it, and still keep it. There’s enough left

To end her generation! You were all three traitors,

All three in different ways. It’s fitting to end it

With her own potion. And go on alone.

Take them out.

[Diana and Felipe are led out. Montoya faces Martinez.]

In the future, Father Martinez,

Remember that your business is with the church.

Your authority stops there!

What you do tonight

Concerns not you alone, but all Taos. I plead

For our city . . . not for the church, not for myself . . .

And I say call back Felipe!

Have I lived so long

That I hear a priest give me orders?

Things are not as they were!

From now on you’ll listen to more than yourself!

You heard

What was charged against Federico, heard his reply!

I heard it . . . and rather than any other hand

Should be lifted against him, I killed him. He was my son.

His life was mine. It’s not what a man would choose . . .

To strike down his own son . . .

No man has challenged

The death of Federico! But to kill Felipe

Endangers us all!

He also is my son,

And his life’s mine!

Then the north does win!

It wins if he lives!

Whether he’s guilty or not

To kill him means we’re beaten. You’d never gather

Your army round you tomorrow. There’d be no army;

Your leadership depends on the trust they have

In your strength and wisdom. If you execute Felipe

They’ll no longer respect you. The news will spread

That Pablo Montoya’s raving in his house

And murdering his sons. Can you command them

With that in their minds?

Is this happening to me . . . to Pablo Montoya,

To hear this mouthing! Not since I was a man

Has my rule in this house been questioned . . . nor in this city!

Am I likely to accept it now?

I remind you only

To think of Taos first . . .

The north wins in Felipe

If he has his way! When sons turn against their fathers

And get their will by it, all our rule goes down

And order with it. Our state’s built on that . . . but no more . . .

Not if Felipe can defy me, and keep

What he got by defiance! You fool, the north itself

Attacks us from within, and if it conquers

In Taos, what will it matter if Taos is taken

And conquered from the outside?

Don Miguel . . . Hermano . . .

You must see this!

Martinez, in these days

An anarchy drifts down from the north upon us,

Even here where we guard ourselves, and some give credit

To new strange gods, and deny our ancient customs.

The rights of the old, the rights of fathers give way

To the rights of sons. Children look up with envy

At family possessions, and snatch when they can;

And some say, “Good. Let the old men look to themselves.”

And some say justice should be dealt by the rabble

On young and old, on rich and poor alike.

So thought Federico. You see where it led him.

You see where it leads us all.

I have a house

Of my own, and I have sons, and I’d rather they gave

No orders to me.

Nor I.

There have been two things

I wanted . . . that we might save the house of Montoya,

And that we should save Taos. Perhaps we can’t have both.

In that case it’s best to save Taos. Pablo Montoya

Can sign his own death warrant, and yours, Don Miguel,

And every Rico’s, but not mine, and not

The city’s.

You’re one of us, Martinez, you

Will go as we all go!

No.

From the very beginning

You sat in our councils.

We part over this!

Let him go.

[Whispering]

Now, Raquel.

Don Pablo!

[Without looking at her]

What is it?

I’m only

A woman, Don Pablo . . . but I’ve lost a husband . . .

I’ve lost Pedros, and he was true to you

When others failed you. Remember that and forgive me . . .

Forgive you what?

For saying this: Felipe

Must not die, Don Pablo! Whatever he’s done

He must not!

[Montoya is silent, looking at Martinez.]

You’ve been dismissed! Is once not enough?

[Raquel and Cristina go out.]

What do you mean to do? Where will you go?

I go with your peons outside . . . and ask what they ask!

They’re right this time, and you’re wrong . . . and they have the power

To say what you must do!

Let him go!

I followed

Pablo Montoya, believing that through his strength

And leadership we dared take up the challenge

The north threw down. I believed there was a chance

Of making this province too costly for them. But when

Montoya tosses his leadership away

And tears his house down quarrelling with his son

It’s time to think of my people.

Your people?

Yes, mine!

They’re no longer yours! You abandon them to keep

Your pride! We all know what hangs over us!

We’re at war with a nation that outnumbers

Our little state by millions! This counter-stroke

You’ve planned might make them wary, hold them off . . .

Make them regret what they’ve started! But fail in that,

Lose the next battle, lose the people’s confidence,

And your history’s ended! Kill Felipe, and you do fail . . .

Keep him with you, and you may win!

[Coldly]

Think more clearly, Martinez.

Suppose Felipe lived, and lived in my house.

She would be Felipe’s or mine. Suppose she were mine,

And I knew she had loved Felipe. Is that a thing

A man can bear? Or suppose I gave her up,

As I might, and she were Felipe’s, and lived with him

Here in my house. Is that a thing a man could

Bear, and live? Not I.

The city of Taos

Will live on, then, and the church . . . and I myself . . .

But this is the end of the ricos.

You intend to betray us?

What could I betray? They know who leads here

And who’s committed with him. I’m no friend to

The north, and I’ll never be . . . but I can live with it

If I have to . . . and so can the peons! Go fight your battle,

And when you’re broken, I’ll gather what’s left of our city

And we’ll live here as we can! But, good God, what’s a woman

To weigh one way or another when the question’s only

How to save the house of Montoya, and saving that,

Save all of you?

And why should our winning or losing

Depend on Felipe? He’s but one man among us

And a young soldier . . .

You haven’t seen that yet?

That Montoya no longer governs Taos? . . . That you . . .

All of you . . . hold your places here only so long

As the peons think you worth fighting for? You heard

What Raquel said . . . Felipe must not die!

You thought nothing of it. She was only a woman . . .

Unworthy to give you counsel, but she spoke for all Taos . . .

And all Taos waits at your gate to hear the answer . . .

They heard my answer!

Pablo, there’s truth in this.

[To Martinez]

I think you’d rather the ricos

Were gone, and the town was yours to rule as you pleased,

Federico-fashion!

Have you known me so long,

Pablo . . . and you can believe that?

It’s true, if Felipe

Could live, Don Pablo . . .

Am I alone among you?

Fernando?

Speak to Felipe, Don Pablo. Too much

Depends on this.

I am alone.

It’s true

They govern us now. If they find us unworthy to die for,

Why should they die for us? And they won’t do it.

No.

[Montoya regards his guests silently, making up his mind.]

How can you ask it of him? How can you dare

To ask this of Montoya?

Be silent.

I know

When to be silent. I’ve hated him in my time,

And also I’ve loved him . . . but there’s not a man among you,

And not one outside, with half his strength or courage . . .

And yet you dare ask him to humble himself before

His people and his son!

Every man asks

What he must to save himself. Well . . . I can give up

To Felipe . . . to save the city. I’ve lived enough

To face that much. I’d rather Felipe lived.

This is no longer my city, but Felipe’s.

Arrange it as best you can. I leave this to you,

Hermano. Call him in.

[He turns slowly and goes out.]

[To Andros]

Bring Diana first.

[Andros goes out and returns with Diana.]

You must not be frightened,

Diana. Stand here . . . and let me ask you only

Two or three questions. You’re not to be punished, neither

You nor Felipe. It’s not a thing forgiven

Easily, that you’ve forgotten a pledge

Sworn to Montoya, but there’s nothing for us to do

But erase what’s happened. Can you forget Felipe

Utterly, Diana?

No.

But you

Will promise to be a true wife to Pablo Montoya

In word and deed?

[There is no answer.]

You must answer yes to that

Or we can’t save him.

Yes.

And whatever has passed between you and Felipe

Is cancelled and ended?

Yes.

Why, see now, the world

Is yours again to live in. This is not so bad,

You’ll find . . . to trade a first maiden inclination

For a whole world. Let us have Felipe, Andros.

[Andros goes out.]

You need not stand now, Diana. That’s the last question,

And Felipe’s to live.

[She sits.]

Are you so sure of that?

Montoya meant to give Diana up

To Felipe. He said as much. Do you mean by these questions

That Diana goes to Pablo?

I do mean that.

And why not? What we want is to save Felipe . . .

Does it matter how?

Diana will promise whatever

She must to help him . . . but he won’t surrender her . . .

He’ll choose to die . . .

I think not.

He’ll choose to die . . .

And you’ll be driven to threaten him. If he still

Refuses . . .

He won’t refuse.

[Felipe is brought in.]

Felipe, it’s been decided

That we must go back to where we were . . . blot out

What was said here . . . and what led to it. If we do that

Our lives can go on as before . . . if not, this night

Will leave terrible scars on all of us. What we could do

To palliate your offense, we’ve done, and will do,

Not only for your sake, but for your father,

And the name you bear in this province. If you will promise

To put Diana out of your mind . . . why then

Nothing will be held against you. I’m delegated

To put this to the question. Answer wisely, and keep

Your place in our hearts and our city. You’ll do this?

Yes, if I can.

Then first . . .

Ask him first what there’s been

Between him and Diana.

Senors, if my father

Questions me I’ll answer whatever he asks.

Let him ask me himself.

He left this to us.

As to Diana . . . I knew she was my father’s . . .

But I did love her . . . and do.

She loves you?

Yes.

But you’re willing to relinquish her?

I am a prisoner,

Don Hermano. Why should I be asked

To relinquish Diana willingly, when you know

You can compel me to do whatever you like?

[Montoya re-enters and waits in the rear.]

Because you must live! And your father and you must both live,

And live here in this house! She will be his wife!

Say something that will make us understand

That this sickly love is ended, before it ends

Our hopes in you!

How can a man promise that?

He can promise whatever he has to!

I have no heart

To oppose my father. . . .

Then why do you oppose him?

That’s what you’re doing. We ask only your promise!

[Impatient]

I give it!

Never mind his promise . . . I ask

No promise from him, nor from her. I have this to say,

Which I should have said before. Let the north come down. . . .

And all the devils to fight on its side. . . . Let the peons

Yell at my gate till they’re speechless. . . . Let all of you

Warn me as you have . . . this is still my place

And my house and my city! Let him promise or not

As he likes, he’ll do what’s required of him while he’s here,

And Diana likewise! Let the north come down!

I’ll be as I’ve always been . . . and live as I’ve lived. . . .

And fight as I’ve fought . . . ! Let Felipe live! You might

Have spared your promise. I meant to let you live,

Promise or not. . . .

[He turns.]

Pablo, let me speak to you!

Why, speak.

I?

Yes.

You’ve forgotten my name then, Pablo?

What do you want to say?

Why have we grown

So far apart? When I looked for you on the mountain . . .

I loved Diana then. . . .

You looked for me hoping

You’d never find me.

Pablo . . .

Are you afraid?

Another Federico?

We were always friends,

Pablo . . . even tonight . . . tonight in this room,

And though I seem to blame for what’s come between us,

I can’t help trying to tell you . . . that I’m sorry. . . .

And I wish we could be as we were. . . .

He is a coward.

And I’m no coward!

I tell you that when I sought you on the mountain

I sought you because I loved you! I sought you as you

Might have looked for me if I’d been lost! If I’d found you

Dying there in the snow I’d have given my life

To save you! Yet I knew then that I loved Diana. . . .

And more than I loved you . . . and that if you lived

You’d keep her from me! . . . It was you who were wronged

By my loving her . . . not I . . . but I never chose it!

Never in my life have I wanted to hurt you

Or thwart your wishes! Only, now, since we’re caught

In this thing together, and neither can help it, why

Are you suddenly a stranger?

Because I know

What happens when two men meet face to face

And want the same woman! Brothers they may be,

Or father and son, but they hate each other! You

Both hate and defy me.

Pablo, does what I say

Sound like defiance?

I have no more desire than you

For a feud between us. I loved you as you loved me.

I want to love you now. But there’s no tie

Between two men that holds when both of them love

A woman, and one has her. This will happen to us. . . .

Be sure of it. It happens now in your eyes.

You wished me dead in the snow. You tried not to wish it,

But you wished me dead.

It’s true. I tried not to wish it,

But I did wish you dead.

He’s given his word,

Don Pablo, and he’ll keep it. Give him your hand.

He’s a better son than you think. Let it go at that.

[Turning away]

Yes. Let it go.

And I’d rather not give my hand,

And rather it didn’t end this way. My father

Has an instinct in such matters.

What do you mean?

I’m a son of Taos. I’ve been loyal to Taos,

And its ways are deep in my blood, but still it’s true

That I’m a rebel at heart. Somewhere within me

Something cries out: Let us go! Let us be free

To choose our own lives! Sometime, if you let me live,

It will be the worse for Taos that I’m alive. . . .

Damn you, be still!

No . . . I tell you my father

Makes no mistakes in such matters! I’d be a traitor

To my house and my cause if I lived. I tell you that

To save you from it!

Do you want to talk yourself

Into dying quickly?

It may be a better death

Than I’d have later, better than I think’s likely

To come your way, Don Miguel . . . or any of you!

I don’t know when it will come . . . you’ll have victories,

Perhaps, for a while, but before they’re through with you

The armies of the north will crush you in

And drive a last few of you to this crag to die

And keep you here till it’s ended! Till it’s all ended,

The last of Taos, the last of Spanish power

North of Mexico city!

And you’re for the north,

That’s what you mean?

How could I be for the north

When all my people, all my friends, and my life

Are rooted in Taos? I’ve fought on your side and mine,

And I’d do it again . . . but still I’m not so blind

But what I can see that if the laws of the north

Were to judge between us, my father would be in the wrong,

And I’d be held right! And it would be just! But here

A girl goes where she’s sent by her father, and when

She’s chosen, by an old man who can pay for her

Or who has her at his mercy, she’s his, and a slave,

And all the women are slaves here! (That’s why you can’t trust them!)

And the men are slaves! Yes, I am myself no better

Than a peon, nor any of you! I’ve earned the right

To say this. I’ll die for it!

[Diana rises. Montoya turns on Felipe.]

When a woman once bears a bastard

She’ll bear more than one, count on it! Federico’s mother

Was also yours, and all three hated me,

And all three tried to betray me! You think I don’t dare

To send you after them . . . you think we’ll pick

Some justification for you, and cover it over

Because you’re only half guilty. If you were a man

Worth saving you’d be one thing or the other. This

Is too cowardly to be treason! Half-coward, half-traitor,

More snake-like, more deadly, more to be despised

Than Federico himself. You’ve chosen sides

Against a man who can take a handful and make it

An army by what he dares! They’ll come to me . . .

Come fawning to me, they’ll crowd under my banner

And fight against their own, these northerners,

When they know the man I am! You should have known it,

And you’ve failed as a man and my son! Hermano!

Felipe!

Do you want to drag us all down?

Let him free Diana

To make her choice! And remember that Federico

Was right about the north!

[A silence.]

Are we in accord in this?

[Miguel and Fernando assent silently. Hermano turns to Montoya.]

Leave them to me.

[The stage empties of all save Montoya, Felipe and Diana.]

Why, yes, Diana may choose.

Do you choose Felipe . . . or me?

To go with Felipe.

You know what it means?

Yes.

There’s no question of that.

She’ll choose for herself.

Diana!

Would you have me live . . .

And live on after you, a slave? They say

I’m a northerner by birth! A woman of the north

Chooses the man she’ll follow! I have my own right

To choose to die!

And since you choose Felipe . . .

I was a traitor to myself to want you

With your northern blood and face. It’s just as well.

[He sets out a carafe and glasses.]

It’s fitting to end it

With her own potion . . . and go on alone.

[He pours two glasses and takes out a little phial.]

Drink quickly! Let me see the last of her spawn

Put under ground!

Take with you my own treachery to myself. . . .

This woman that stands here . . . and let me go out alone

To face my world again!

[He lifts the phial, but instead of pouring it in the glasses, holds it in his hand.]

Wait, wait, I’d forgotten!

[He sits.]

There’s something I’d forgotten. It was a dream.

Is this a dream that we were standing here

And I had sentenced Felipe? I’ve dreamed it before.

There’s something unreal about it. Don’t drink, I said,

It may be poisoned!

[He starts up.]

Do you know what’s true?

I’m old and alone, and my people fall away,

And the race is old and nerveless. The village is eaten

With doubt of me and my purpose. They’re all decayed

Under the skin. They bloom like health, but they’re rotten

And dying out. Why should they fight the north?

They’d rather surrender, and live here under Martinez. . . .

And so would Felipe. I killed Federico, but that

Was a last effort, desperate. No strength.

Till now I thought I was young. I’ve always been young,

The first man in the field . . . in any assembly

First there too. To youth and strength belong

The whole of the earth, and I’ve believed them mine

Because I was strongest. The eagle lives long, but at last

He grows old, his sight is dimmed, he misses

His stroke, and goes hungry on his crag. This thing

Comes to them all, eagle and kite alike,

And now it comes to me. I had a dream

That Spain was old, and her arts and ways were worn

To mockery, threadbare . . . her power was taken away. . . .

Her kings were impotent on her throne, her people

Impotent at home. The barbarians

Lifted new standards . . . that which once was right

Was right no longer, but wrong. The children’s words

Were taken for truth . . . the old men stood aside

And listened to this new wisdom. A new race came

And said, There is a God over you who sets

A term to all things, to man and nation alike,

And your term is up. Felipe came to me

And said, love is not bartered in the new lands. . . .

Give me back my love. But this was no dream,

Or else my dreams are true. Our race is done.

The Spanish blood runs thin. Spain has gone down,

And Taos, a little island of things that were,

Sinks among things that are. The north will win.

Taos is dead. You told me this before,

But I wouldn’t believe it. I believe it now.

Yes, and it’s right. It’s right

Because what wins is right. It won’t win forever.

The kings will come back, and they’ll be right again

When they win again. Not now. The gods are weary

Of men who give orders, playing at God. And why

Should a man, an old man, looking forward to nothing,

Take pride in breaking men to his will? Meanwhile

The years creeping up at his feet, and all he has

Going down around him? And then to stand there, alone,

Helpless . . . an old man, playing at God. Go out,

Leave me, be together, be free! In all Taos

There’s only one man who could not surrender and live,

And his heritage is darkness. I drink to your mother.

She had her way.

[He drinks from the phial.]

Pablo!

And you have yours.

Never! Pablo, believe me! Hermano, Miguel.

[He goes to the door.]

Stay here . . . I need no crowd around me to die!

What do you want to do?

To bring help. . . .

[Martinez enters.]

It’s useless . . .

If that’s what you mean. I’d rather you were here,

Felipe. Forgive me. It begins to blind me already.

[He reaches for a chair and sits.]

If I could help you . . .

Or I.

[She kneels beside his chair.]

CURTAIN

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

[The end of Night over Taos, by Maxwell Anderson.]