Three Judgments at a Blow E-Book

Pedro Calderón de la Barca

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

Beschreibung

"Three Judgments at a Blow" by Pedro Calderón de la Barca is a Spanish play. A king's decree sends a witty shoemaker on a journey of three tasks, testing his resourcefulness. With humor and clever wordplay, Calderón explores themes of justice, wit, and societal hierarchy. The shoemaker's triumphs reveal human ingenuity, highlighting the power of the common man. This comic tale, through entertaining plot twists and allegorical elements, imparts a message of wisdom and resilience.

Leseprobe

Pedro Calderón de la Barca

Three Judgments at a Blow

Published by Sovereign

This edition first published in 2023

Copyright © 2023 Sovereign

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 9781787367470

Contents

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT I

ACT II

ACT III

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Pedro IV.King of Arragon.

Don Mendo Torellashis Minister.

Donna ViolanteMendo’s Daughter.

Elviraher Maid.

Don Lope de Urrea.

Donna Blancahis Wife.

Don Lopetheir Son.

Beatricetheir Servant.

Don Guillena Friend of Don Lope’s.

VicenteYoung Lope’s Servant.

Robbers, Officers, Royal Suite, etc.

ACT I

Scene I.—A Mountain Pass near Saragossa.

Shot within. Then enter Don Mendo and Violante pursued by Robbers, among whom is Vicente.

Men. Villains, let steel or bullet do their worst,

I’ll die ere yield.

Viol. Heaven help us!

Robber I. Fool, to strive

Against such odds—upon their own ground too,

Red with the blood of hundreds like yourselves.

Vic. Come, sir, no more ado;

But quietly give my young madam up,

Nice picking for our captain.

Men. Not while a drop of blood is in my body.

Robbers. Here’s at you then!

Viol. My father!

(As the Robbers attack Mendo, enter Don Lope.)

Lope. How now? whom have you here?

Vic. Oh, noble captain,

We found this lady resting from the sun

Under the trees, with a small retinue,

Who of course fled.

All but this ancient gentleman, who still

Holds out against us.

Lope (to Mendo). What can you expect

Against such numbers?

Men. Not my life, but death.

You come in time—

Upon my knees I do beseech of you (kneels)

No other mercy save of instant death

To both of us.

Lope. Arise! you are the first

Has moved me to the mercy you decline.

This lady is—your wife?

Men. My only daughter!

Viol. In spirit as in blood. If by his death

You think to make you masters of my life,

Default of other weapon, with these hands

I’ll cease the breath of life, or down these rocks

Dash myself headlong.

Lope. Lady, calm yourself;

Your beauty has subdued an angry devil

One like yourself first raised within my soul.

Your road lies whither, sir?

Men. To Saragossa.

Where if I could requite—

Lope. Your name?

Men. Don Mendo

Torellas, after a long embassage

To Paris, Rome, and Naples, summon’d back

By Pedro, King of Arragon—with whom

If ’t be (as oft) some youthful petulance,

Calling for justice or revenge at home,

Drives you abroad to these unlawful courses,

I pledge my word—

Lope. Alas, sir, I might hail

Your offer could I hope that your deserts,

However great, might cancel my account

Of ill-deserving. But indeed my crimes

Have gather’d so in number, and in weight,

And condemnation—committed, some of them,

To stave away the very punishment

They must increase at last; others, again,

In the sheer desperation of forgiveness

That all had heap’d upon me—

Men. Nay, nay, nay;

Despair not; trust to my good offices;

In pledge of which here, now, before we part,

I swear to make your pardon the first boon

I’ll ask for or accept at the King’s hand.

Your name?

Lope. However desperate, and ashamed

To tell it, you shall hear it—and my story.

Retire!

(To the Robbers, who exeunt.)

Don Mendo, I am Lope, son

Of Lope de Urrea, of some desert,

At least in virtue of my blood.

Men. Indeed!

Urrea and myself were, I assure you,

Intimate friends of old,—another tie,

If wanting one, to bind me to your service.

Lope. I scarce can hope it, sir; if I, his son,

Have so disgraced him with my evil ways,

And so impoverisht him with my expenses,

Were you his friend, you scarcely can be mine.

And yet, were I to tell you all, perhaps

I were not all to blame.

Men. Come, tell me all;

’Tis fit that I should hear it.

Viol. I begin

To breathe again.

Lope. Then listen, sir. My father in his youth,

As you perhaps may know, but why I know not,

Held off from marriage; till, bethinking him,

Or warn’d by others, what a shame it were

So proud a name should die for want of wearer,

In his late years he took to wife a lady

Of blameless reputation, and descent