KEEP YOUR OWN SECRET
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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- CESAR: Oh, Don Arias,
- I kiss his Highness' feet, and your kind hands
- That bring his favours to me: and to each
- Will answer separately. First, to him;--
- Tell him I daily pray that Heav'n so keep
- His life, that Time, on which his years are strung,
- Forget the running count; and, secondly,
- Assure him, Arias, the melancholy
- He speaks of not a jot abates my love
- Of him, nor my alacrity in his service;
- Nay, that 'tis nothing but a little cloud
- In which my books have wrapt me so of late
- That, duty done, I scarce had time or spirit
- Left to enjoy his gracious company:
- Perhaps too, lest he surfeit of my love,
- I might desire by timely abstinence
- To whet his liking to a newer edge.
- Thus much for him. For you, Don Arias,
- Whose equal friendship claims to be repaid
- In other coin, I will reveal to you
- A secret scarcely to myself confest,
- Which yet scarce needs your thanks, come at a moment
- When my brimm'd heart had overflow'd in words,
- Whether I would or no. Oh, Arias,
- Wonder not then to see me in a moment
- Flying from melancholy to mere joy,
- Between whose poles he ever oscillates,
- Whose heart is set in the same sphere with mine:
- Which saying, all is said. I love, my friend;
- How deeply, let this very reticence,
- That dare not tell what most I feel, declare.
- Yes, I have fixt my eyes upon a star;
- Toward which to spread my wings ev'n against hope,
- Argues a kind of honour. I aspired,
- And (let not such a boast offend the ears,
- That of themselves have open'd to my story,)
- Not hopelessly: the heav'n to which I pray'd
- Answer'd in only listening to my vows;
- Such daring not defeated not disdain'd.
- Two years I worshipp'd at a shrine of beauty,
- That modesty's cold hand kept stainless still;
- Till wearied, if not moved by endless prayers,
- She grants them; yea, on this most blessed day,
- With this thrice blessed letter. You may see it,
- That your felicitations be rebound
- Double my own; the first victorious trophy
- That proud ambition has so humbly won.
- Oh Arias, 'tis much I have to tell,
- And tell you too at once; being none of those
- Who overmuch entreaty make the price
- Of their unbosoming; who would, if they knew
- In what the honour of their lady lies,
- Name her at once, or seal their lips for ever.
- But you are trusty and discreet: to you
- I may commit my heart; beseeching you
- To keep this love-song to yourself alone,
- Assigning to the Prince, remember this,
- My books sole cause of my abstraction.
- Donna Anna de Castelvi--
- (I can go on more freely now the name
- Of her I worship bars my lips no more,)
- Is she who so divides me from myself,
- That what I say I scarcely know, although
- I say but what I feel; the melancholy
- You ask about, no gloomy sequestration
- Out of the common world into a darker,
- But into one a thousand times more bright;
- And let no man believe he truly loves,
- Who lives, or moves, or thinks, or hath his being
- In any other atmosphere than Love's,
- Who is our absolute master; to recount
- The endless bead-roll of whose smiles and tears
- I'd have each sleepless night a century,
- Much have I said--have much more yet to say!
- But read her letter, Arias, the first seal
- Of my success, the final one, I think,
- Of my sure trust in you; come, share with me
- My joy, my glory, my anxiety;
- And above all things, once more, Arias,
- Down to your secret'st heart this secret slip;
- For every secret hangs in greater fear
- Between the speaker's mouth and hearer's ear
- Than any peril between cup and lip.
MORE MONOLOGUES BY CALDERÓN |
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