THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA
A monologue from the
play by Pedro
Calderón de la Barca
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NOTE: This monologue is reprinted
from Eight Dramas of Calderon. Trans. Edward Fitzgerald.
London: Macmillan & Co., 1906. |
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- ISABEL: Listen for the last time. You know how, sitting
last night under the shelter of those white hairs in which my
maiden youth had grown, those wretches, whose only law is force,
stole upon us. He who had feigned that quarrel in our house,
seizing and tearing me from your bosom as a lamb from the fold,
carried me off; my own cries stifled, yours dying away behind
me, and yet ringing in my ears like the sound of a trumpet that
has ceased!--till here, where out of reach of pursuit,--all dark--the
very moon lost from heaven--the wretch began with passionate
lies to excuse his violence by his love--his love!--I implored,
wept, threatened, all in vain--the villain--But my tongue will
not utter what I must weep in silence and ashes for ever! Yet
let these quivering hands and heaving bosom, yea, the very tongue
that cannot speak, speak loudest! Amid my shrieks, entreaties,
imprecations, the night began to wear away and dawn to creep
into the forest. I heard a rustling in the leaves; it was my
brother--who in the twilight understood all without a word--drew
the sword you had but just given him--they fought--and I, blind
with terror, shame, and anguish, fled till--till at last I fell
before your feet, my father, to tell you my story before I die!
And now I undo the cords that keep your hands from my wretched
life. So--it is done! And I kneel before you--your daughter--your
disgrace and my own. Avenge us both; and revive your dead honour
in the blood of her you gave life to!
MORE MONOLOGUES BY CALDERÓN |
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