The Painter of his own Dishonour E-Book

Pedro Calderón de la Barca

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

"The Painter of his own Dishonour" by Pedro Calderón de la Barca is a Spanish drama. It depicts the downfall of nobleman Raimundo due to false accusations. Betrayal, deceit, and honor clash as Raimundo's life unravels. Through intense dialogue and intricate plot, the play explores themes of justice, loyalty, and human flaws. Calderón's poetic language delves into moral complexity, delivering a cautionary tale about self-inflicted downfall and the corrosive effects of distrust in society.

Leseprobe

Pedro Calderón de la Barca

The Painter of his own Dishonour

Published by Sovereign

This edition first published in 2023

Copyright © 2023 Sovereign

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 9781787367449

Contents

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT I

ACT II

ACT III

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

FedericoPrince of Orsino.

Celiohis Friend.

Don LuisGovernor of Naples.

Porciahis Daughter.

Alvarohis Son.

Fabio} their Servants.

Belardo

Julia

Don Juan Roca

Serafinahis Wife.

Don Pedrohis Father-in-law.

Leonelo} their Servants.

Flora

Maskers, Musicians, Sailors, etc.

ACT I

Scene I.—A Room in Don Luis’ palace at Naples.

Enter Don Luis and Don Juan meeting.

Luis. Once more, a thousand times once more, Don Juan,

Come to my heart.

Juan. And every fresh embrace

Rivet our ancient friendship faster yet!

Luis. Amen to that! Come, let me look at you—

Why, you seem well—

Juan. So well, so young, so nimble,

I will not try to say how well, so much

My words and your conception must fall short

Of my full satisfaction.

Luis. How glad am I

To have you back in Naples!

Juan. Ah, Don Luis,

Happier so much than when I last was here,

Nay, than I ever thought that I could be.

Luis. How so?

Juan. Why, when I came this way before,

I told you (do you not remember it?)

How teased I was by relatives and friends

To marry—little then disposed to love—

Marriage perhaps the last thing in my thoughts—

Liking to spend the spring time of my youth

In lonely study.

Luis. Ay, ay, I remember:

Nothing but books, books, books—still day and night

Nothing but books; or, fairly drowsed by them,

By way of respite to that melancholy,

The palette and the pencil—

In which you got to such a mastery

As smote the senseless canvas into life.

O, I remember all—not only, Juan,

When you were here, but I with you in Spain,

What fights we had about it!

Juan. So it was—

However, partly wearied, partly moved

By pity at my friends’ anxieties,

Who press’d upon me what a shame it were

If such a title and estate as mine

Should lack a lineal inheritor,

At length I yielded—

Fanned from the embers of my later years

A passion which had slept in those of youth,

And took to wife my cousin Serafina,

The daughter of Don Pedro Castellano.

Luis. I know; you show’d me when you last were here

The portrait of your wife that was to be,

And I congratulated you.

Juan. Well now

Still more congratulate me—as much more

As she is fairer than the miniature

We both enamoured of. At the first glance

I knew myself no more myself, but hers,

Another (and how much a happier!) man.

Luis. Had I the thousand tongues, and those of brass,

That Homer wished for, they should utter all

Congratulation. Witty too, I hear,

As beautiful?

Juan. Yourself shall judge of all,

For even now my lady comes; awhile

To walk the Flora of your shores, and then

Over your seas float Venus-like away.

Luis. Not that, till she have graced our gardens long,

If once we get her here. But is she here?

Juan. Close by—she and her father, who would needs

See her aboard; and I push’d on before

To apprize you of our numbers—so much more

Than when I first proposed to be your guest,

That I entreat you—

Luis. What?

Juan. —to let us go,

And find our inn at once—not over-load

Your house.

Luis. Don Juan, you do me an affront—

What if all Naples came along with you?—

My heart—yes, and my house—should welcome them.

Juan. I know. But yet—

Luis. But yet, no more ‘but yets’—

Come to my house, or else my heart shall close

Its doors upon you.

Juan. Nay, I dare not peril

A friendship—

Luis. Why, were ’t not a great affront

To such a friendship—when you learn besides,

I have but held this government till now

Only to do you such a courtesy.

Juan. But how is this?

Luis. Sickness and age on-coming,

I had determined to retire on what

Estate I had—no need of other wealth—

Beside, Alvaro’s death—my only son—

Juan. Nay, you have so felicitated me,

I needs must you, Don Luis, whose last letter

Told of a gleam of hope in that dark quarter.

Luis. A sickly gleam—you know the ship he sail’d in

Was by another vessel, just escaped

The selfsame storm, seen to go down—it seem’d

With all her souls on board.

Juan. But how assured

’Twas your son’s ship?—

Luis. Alas, so many friends

Were on the watch for him at Barcelona,

Whither his ship was bound, but never came—

Beside the very messenger that brought

The gleam of hope, premised the tragedy—

A little piece of wreck,

That floated to the coast of Spain, and thence

Sent to my hands, with these words scratcht upon ’t—

‘Escaped alive, Alvaro.’

Juan. When was this?

Luis. Oh, months ago, and since no tidings heard,

In spite of all inquiry. But we will hope.

Meanwhile, Serafina—when will she be here?

Juan. She must be close to Naples now.

Luis. Go then,

Tell her from me—

I go not forth to bid her welcome, only

That I may make that welcome sure at home.

Juan. I’ll tell her so. But—

Luis. What! another ‘But’?

No more of that. Away with you.—Porcia!

[Exit Juan.

Enter Porcia.

Daughter, you know (I have repeated it

A thousand times, I think) the obligation

I owe Don Juan Roca.

Porcia. Sir, indeed

I’ve often heard you talk of him.

Luis. Then listen.