EIGHT DRAMAS
OF
CALDERON

EIGHT DRAMAS
OF
CALDERON

FREELY TRANSLATED
BY
EDWARD FITZGERALD

London
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1906

All rights reserved

CONTENTS

ADVERTISEMENT

In apologizing for the publication of so free translations of so famous a poet as Calderon, I must plead, first, that I have not meddled with any of his more famous plays; not one of those on my list being mentioned with any praise, or included in any selection that I know of, except the homely Mayor of Zalamea. Four of these six indeed, as many others in Calderon, may be lookt on as a better kind of what we call melodramas. Such plays as the Magico Prodigioso and the Vida es Sueño (I cannot rank the Principe Constante among them) require another translator, and, I think, form of translation.

Secondly, I do not believe an exact translation of this poet can be very successful; retaining so much that, whether real or dramatic Spanish passion, is still bombast to English ears, and confounds otherwise distinct outlines of character; Conceits that were a fashion of the day; or idioms that, true and intelligible to one nation, check the current of sympathy in others to which they are unfamiliar; violations of the probable, nay possible, that shock even healthy romantic licence; repetitions of thoughts and images that Calderon used (and smiled at) as so much stage properties—so much, in short, that is not Calderon’s own better self, but concession to private haste or public taste by one who so often relied upon some striking dramatic crisis for success with a not very accurate audience, and who, for whatever reason, was ever averse from any of his dramas being printed.

Choosing therefore such less famous plays as still seemed to me suited to English taste, and to that form of verse in which our dramatic passion prefers to run, I have, while faithfully trying to retain what was fine and efficient, sunk, reduced, altered, and replaced, much that seemed not; simplified some perplexities, and curtailed or omitted scenes that seemed to mar the breadth of general effect, supplying such omissions by some lines of after-narrative; and in some measure have tried to compensate for the fulness of sonorous Spanish, which Saxon English at least must forgo, by a compression which has its own charm to Saxon ears.

That this, if proper to be done at all, might be better done by others, I do not doubt. Nay, on looking back over these pages, I see where in some cases the Spanish individuality might better have been retained, and northern idiom spared; and doubtless there are many inaccuracies I am not yet aware of. But if these plays prove interesting to the English reader, I and he may be very sure that, whatever of Spain and Calderon be lost, there must be a good deal retained; and I think he should excuse the licence of my version till some other interests him as well at less expense of fidelity.

I hope my Graciosos will not be blamed for occasional anachronisms not uncharacteristic of their vocation.

THE PAINTER OF HIS OWN DISHONOUR

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

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.

He and his wife are coming here to-day—

Directly.

Por. Serafina!

Luis. Yes.

To be our guests, till they set sail for Spain;

I trust long first—

Por. And I. How glad I am!

Luis. You! what should make you glad?

Por. That Serafina,

So long my playmate, shall be now my guest.

Luis. Ay! I forgot—that’s well, too—

Let us be rivals in their entertainment.

See that the servants, Porcia, dress their rooms

As speedily and handsomely as may be.

Por. What haste can do (which brings its own excuse)

I’ll do—’tis long a proverb hereabout

That you are Entertainer-general,

Rather than Governor, of Naples.

Luis. Ay,

I like to honour all who come this way.

Enter Leonelo.

Leonelo. Peace to this house!—and not only that, but a story beside.—A company of soldiers coming to a certain village, a fellow of the place calls out for two to be billeted on him. ‘What!’ says a neighbour, ‘you want a double share of what every one else tries to shirk altogether?’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘for the more nuisance they are while they stay, the more glad one is of their going.’ In illustration of which, and also of my master’s orders, I crave your Lordship’s hand, and your Ladyship’s foot, to kiss.

Luis. Welcome, good Leonelo. I was afraid I had overlooked you in receiving your master.

Por. And how does marriage agree with you, Leonelo?

Leon. One gentleman asked another to dine; but such an ill-ordered dinner that the capon was cold, and the wine hot. Finding which, the guest dips a leg of the capon into the wine. And when his host asks him what he’s about—‘Only making the wine heat the capon, and the capon cool the wine,’ says he. Now just this happened in my marriage. My wife was rather too young, and I rather too old; so, as it is hoped—

Por. Foolery, foolery, always!—tell me how Serafina is—

Leon. In a coach.

Por. What answer is that?

Leon. A very sufficient one—since a coach includes happiness, pride, and (a modern author says) respectability.

Por. How so?

Leon. Why, a certain lady died lately, and for some reason or other, they got leave to carry her to the grave in a coach. Directly they got her in,—the body, I mean,—it began to fidget—and when they called out to the coachman—‘Drive to St. Sepulchre’s!’—‘No!’ screams she,—‘I won’t go there yet. Drive to the Prado first; and when I have had a turn there, they may bury me where they please.’

Luis. How can you let your tongue run on so!

Leon. I’ll tell you. A certain man in Barcelona had five or six children: and he gave them each to eat—

(Voices within.) ‘Way there! way!’

Por. They are coming.

Leon. And in so doing, take that story out of my mouth.

Enter Julia.

Julia. Signor, your guests are just alighting.

Luis. Come, Porcia—

Leon. (No, no, stop you and listen to me about those dear children.)

Por. They are coming upstairs—at the door—

Enter Don Juan leading Serafina, Don Pedro and Flora—all in travelling dress.

Luis. Your hand, fair Serafina, whose bright eyes

Seem to have drawn his lustre from the sun,

To fill my house withal;—a poor receptacle

Of such a visitor.

Por. Nay, ’tis for me

To blush for that, in quality of hostess;

Yet, though you come to shame my house-keeping,

Thrice welcome, Serafina.

Serafina. How answer both,

Being too poor in compliment for either!

I’ll not attempt it.

Pedro. I am vext, Don Luis,

My son-in-law should put this burden on you.

Luis. Nay, vex not me by saying so.—What burden?

The having such an honour as to be

Your servant?—

Leon. Here’s a dish of compliments!

Flora. Better than you can feed your mistress with.

(Guns heard without.)

Juan. What guns are those?

Enter Fabio.

Fabio. The citadel, my lord,

Makes signal of two galleys in full sail

Coming to port.

Luis. More guests! the more the merrier!

Ped. The merrier for them, but scarce for you,

Don Luis.

Luis. Nay, good fortune comes like bad,

All of a heap. What think you, should it be,

As I suspect it is, the Prince Orsino

Returning; whom, in love and duty bound,

I shall receive and welcome—

Juan. Once again,

Don Luis, give me leave—

Luis. And once again,

And once for all, I shall not give you leave.

Prithee, no more—

All will be easily arranged. Porcia,

You know your guest’s apartments—show her thither;

I’ll soon be back with you.

Ped. Permit us, sir,

To attend you to the port, and wait upon

His Highness.

Luis. I dare not refuse that trouble,

Seeing what honour in the prince’s eyes

Your company will lend me.

Leon. And methinks

I will go with you too.

Juan. What, for that purpose?

Leon. Yes—and because perhaps among the crowd

I shall find some to whom I may relate

That story of the children and their meat.

[Exeunt Don Luis, Pedro, Juan, Leonelo, Fabio, etc.

Ser. Porcia, are they gone?

Por. They are.

Ser. Then I may weep.

Por. Tears, Serafina!

Ser. Nay, they would not stay

Longer unshed. I would not if I could

Hide them from you, Porcia. Why should I,

Who know too well the fount from which they flow?

Por. I only know you weep—no more than that.

Ser. Yet ’tis the seeing you again, again

Unlocks them—is it that you do resent

The discontinuance of our early love,

And that you will not understand me?

Por. Nay,—

What can I say?

Ser. Let us be quite alone.

Por. Julia, leave us.

Ser. Flora, go with her.

Julia. Come, shall we go up to the gallery,

And see the ships come in?

Flora. Madam, so please you.

[Exeunt Flora and Julia.

Ser. Well, are we quite alone?

Por. Yes, quite.

Ser. All gone,

And none to overhear us?

Por. None.

Ser. Porcia,

You knew me once when I was happy!

Por. Yes,

Or thought you so—

Ser. But now most miserable!

Por. How so, my Serafina?

Ser. You shall hear.

Yes, my Porcia, you remember it,—

That happy, happy time when you and I

Were so united that, our hearts attuned

To perfect unison, one might believe

That but one soul within two bodies lodged.

This you remember?

Por. Oh, how could I forget!

Ser. Think it not strange that so far back I trace

The first beginnings of another love,

Whose last sigh having now to breathe, whose last

Farewell to sigh, and whose deceased hopes

In one last obsequy to commemorate,

I tell it over to you point by point