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• Jealous of Herself : ACT ONE Scene Three Jealous of Herself

Jealous of Herself (2011), translated by Harley Erdman

ACT ONE Scene Three Jealous of Herself

Edition

Tirso de Molina. La celosa de sí misma / Jealous of Herself, trans. Harley Erdman. Forthcoming 2011 from Warminster, Aris and Phillips [Note dual-language edition in Spanish and English] (in Spanish and English)

Context:

Melchor and his squire, Ventura discuss the woman Melchor has fallen in love with during Mass. He has only seen her hand, but he has fallen instantly in love. Everything that follows in the play is sparked by this initial moment.

Sample text

(Enter DON MELCHOR and VENTURA.)

MELCHOR:

Didn’t you hear Mass?

VENTURA:

Am I
a Turk? Today’s a holy day,
and I’d skip Mass?

MELCHOR:

Where did you
see it from?

VENTURA:

From the doorway

of this holy chapel known as
Soledad, where a fencing-master
priest killed it off in a single thrust.
One “Amen” and it was over.

He should be made Minister of
Incomprehensible Mutter
or Chaplain of the Express Post.
You went up to the main altar

lured on by the scent of ladies;
they were guide-dogs, and you the blind.
I myself avoid such scrapes
so I decided to wait behind

with the other loyal Guzmans
on the poop-deck of this church.

MELCHOR:

Ah, Ventura, how it’s changed me!

VENTURA:

You’re leaving like a new convert,

devoted to that famous icon
celebrated throughout this court.
That statue may be hard as rock
but it’ll soften the strongest heart.

MELCHOR:

If only my devotion were divine,
and that sculpture inside, the cause!
Ventura, I am now devout
but in response to human laws.

The beautiful icon that I saw!—
if an icon can ever be
the flesh-and-blood embodiment
of its own image; if only she

were the very statue of
the Virgin of Soledad
so as to remain untouched
by the congregation’s hands.

VENTURA:

The first keg you see, you drink to the dregs!
On the ground with one thrust of the sword
Knocked out on the opening parry!
What was the face you glimpsed, señor?

Some mortar-laden edifice
fringed with a mane? Some artifice
turned black to white by masonry
of mercury? Some intricate

web of taffeta veil, more obscure
than the grillwork of a convent,
like the husk that hides the chestnut?
What battlements of that high fortress

provided cover for the archers,
whose carelessness in exposing skin
was carefully calibrated
by weathervanes that gauged the wind—

that is, I mean, their flickering fans—
designed to point your compass toward
the magnet of their covered heads?
Jet-black hair must have crowned that fort

and been another line of defense.
A head-dress and a shoulder-cover
of blue silk; a sash across the breast;
gloves of fine agave fiber,

dyed in bright-red achiote;
a jewel that serves as token
of some young man’s commitment;
a hooded cloak across the shoulders

and dainty skirts billowing below,
like a monk; slippers reinforced
with silver; the whole silken rustle—
rosary in hand, of course.

MELCHOR:

Ventura, enough of these words;
enough of these conceits of yours,
Focus instead on the hand,
which is the only thing I saw.

O what a hand! O what beauty!
O what whiteness! O what grace!
O what dimples! O what texture!
O what sweet and tender veins!

O what lovely little fingers!

VENTURA:

O what hawk-like finger nails!
O what gorgeous raptor rapture!
O what talons that embrace

all coins! O what stupidity,
O what folly could be worse
than this folly from León?
And O our sweet little purse—

so help me God, it needs protection.
But you didn’t see her face?

MELCHOR:

How on earth could I see her
if my vision was effaced

by that soft and tender whiteness,
by that living crystal glass,
by that—

VENTURA:

Say “purity sublime”
if you want to jargonize

in the latest critical fashion.
Say that stars were emulating
heavenly splendors as they shone;
say that spheres were circulating,

oscitating sparkling diamonds
in the firmament; say that lilies
were bursting boldly into bloom
like fountains in majestic skies.

All from this a single hand,
tenderized with Portuguese ointment
sweetened with virgin honey
and a touch of bitter almond,

and not an ounce of actual face,
not an eye or an eyebrow
or the faintest little eyelash
or a hint of nose as well?

Jesus Christ, what rash behavior!

MELCHOR:

Idiot, you’ll provoke my rage
if you keep up this nonsense.

VENTURA:

Looks like the horse is out of the gate.
Go on.

MELCHOR:

A lovely hand, white, plump,
and perfect. Its fingers are tongues,
its motions, its soul; it could move
marble to passionate love;

So sovereign, it could make you
kneel down in abjection and be
absolved of any imputation
of social discourtesy.

I was to the side of it;
when Mass started, the sheath was drawn
off the crystal, and in the short space
that separates glove and vision,

I saw jasmine, I saw groves
of perfumed flowers, I saw
alabaster palaces,
I saw diamonds in the raw:

snow wrapped in fire is what I saw.
Her veil came down to her breast;
completely cloaked, she crossed herself:
perhaps she saw how I was blessed

and transformed. Then the hand
descended again into its amber
sunset until, when she kneeled
for the Evangelist prayer,

it dawned again in dazzling sunrise
to make the sign of the cross,
only to be jailed again until
the Sanctus, when it emerged

naked, to this fearful knocking
at the door of my chest,
calling my heart, whose desire
penetrates the strongest corset.

The hand lay bare for my rejoicing,
free of avaricious bondage,
until the drinking from the chalice.
O God, could those few moments

last a thousand centuries!
But the sun set once again
until the Evangelist prayer
started in for the final time,

giving me my final license
to enjoy this liberty
before my eyes were once again
blinded by this purity

sublime, and thus left in darkness.

VENTURA:

You drank it down gulp by gulp,
That hand was playing hide and seek.

MELCHOR:

Wait a moment and hear me out.

As I was adjusting my sight
so my other senses might
rejoice in her beauty, I saw
a man standing at her side—

to all appearances, a man
of honor. Cunningly, he cut
her purse string—with notable skill,
I might add. Who would have thought

such a noble bearing could
disguise such disgraceful behavior?
I loved her, and so I took it
upon myself to defend her

precious items. But rather than cause
a public affront, I grabbed the hand
of that thief and reproached him
in the ear for such an act

unworthy of his fine appearance.
The shame written upon his face
spoke more loudly than any tongue.
And so I took the purse away

and, chalking his act up to
a bad habit born of poverty,
I took a doubloon out of my pocket
and gave it to him for finding me

such a valuable gift. He cleared
out of that church in an instant.
The Mass I mostly missed concluded,
excuse me for my poor attention:

it was out of excess passion.
The chapel emptied, and my hand
closed out accounts on its rosary—
surely to bill me in sorrow—and

so I’m here to await another
sunrise, to glimpse that limpid swan
when it bathes in holy water
and once again becomes my dawn

in this font of my desires,
in this pool of all my pleasures,
before it leaves me high and dry.

VENTURA:

That cursed hand can go to the devil!

This must be the first time ever
love worked wonders through animal grease.
Yes, it was quite a slap in the face!
But come here. What if this hand you’ve seen

belongs to some Cyclops? Some gaunt,
shriveled shrew who’s all cheekbone?

MELCHOR:

You’re a fool! Nature is wise,
and in her workshop always knows

to distribute proportionately.
It would be sinful and indecent
for a hand of such perfection
to be the chosen instrument

of a less-than-perfect face.
Take Alexander the Great,
who ordered his court painter to
show him on a tiny tablet

as if a massive Hercules;
to convey this royal grandeur,
Apeles painted just the thumb
(giants, after all, are measured

in yards), and thus by means of
mathematical projections,
that single finger pointed to
the body’s size. Thus I conjecture,

via the hand, about the beauty
of that agent’s sovereign mistress.

Copyright

The above sample taken from the translation Jealous of Herself (2011) by Harley Erdman is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

Entry written by Kathleen Jeffs. Last updated on 21 January 2012.

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