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Tim. The factis that my girl is very weak, very delicate, a sensitive plant.
Her poor chest troubles her with least thing; and if Lazarus were to lead my
poor Carmen the life which you have led your wife, I should renounce the
relationship and the honour which you propose to me.
Juan. Gently, gently; I have been an irreproachable husband.
Tim. Oh!
Nem. Ah!
Juan. Irreproachable. My wife has always been first in my affections.
Tim. But you have had a second, and a third——
Nem. And a fourth and a fifth.
Juan. Those are lawful requirements of the system of numeration.
Nem. Peace between the future fathers-in-law. The one is as good as the
other; the one is just as gay as the other; and one is quite as sedate a father
of a family as the other.
Juan. And of course you must be better than we are! You who have been
steeped in alcohol from your tenderest years.
Nem. Between the bottle and the woman, I cling to the bottle.
Tim. Well, I to the woman.
Juan. Let us not exaggerate: being between the bottle and the woman
one remains just the same—between the bottle and the woman.
Tim. Not quite: we now remain at home between our own woman and
the bottle of tisan—two tisans.
Nem. Because you are a pair of dotards. I am every night at the theatre,
in my little box: from ten to twelve I consecrate myself to art. Some dancers
have come from Madrid. Sweet zephyrs! Four zephyrs!
Juan (in a loud voice and erecting himself like an old cock). Are they
pretty?
Tim. Your wife will hear you.
Juan (lowering his voice in exaggerated style). Are they pretty?
Nem. Four flowers, four stars, four goddesses, the four cardinal points of
beauty. What eyes! What waists! What vigour! What cushion-like bodies.
Juan. Cushion-like?
Nem. Nothing artificial.
36.
Juan. Nothing artificial?And you are going to the theatre now?
Nem. I go there to finish the night as God commands—in admiring the
marvels of creation. (Rising.)
Tim. Then I’ll accompany you, and we shall both admire them. (Rising.)
Juan. Well, I’ll not stay at home. I’ll go there with you two and we shall
all three admire them. (Rising with difficulty.)
Nem. At this time of night, Juanito?
Juan. You two are going at this time of night.
Tim. And what will your wife say?
Juan. For twenty-five years my wife has said nothing. Besides, I give
orders here. No one ever calls me to account. Ho, there, I’ll be back in a
moment. Ho, there! [Exit.
Nem. I think that poor Juan is getting to the end of his tether. Don’t you
see how he walks? What things he says! What pitiful senilities!
Tim. Yet he is not very old.
Nem. What should make him old? He is little more than sixty. Every man
who respects himself is sixty years old. (Walking about somewhat jauntily.)
Tim. Precisely: you are sixty, I am sixty, every well-conditioned person
is sixty.
Nem. But he has lived! What a life he has lived! This is what I say:
people may be guilty of follies: you have been guilty of them: I have been
guilty of them——
Tim. And every well-behaved person is guilty of them.
Nem. But up to a certain point.
Tim. Up to a certain point.
Nem. But poor Juan was old at forty. And Lazarus is not what his father
says—no, señor.
Tim. Well, talent—he has much talent. All the newspapers of Madrid
assert it; you see it now. That he is a prodigy that he will be a glory to the
nation.
Nem. I don’t deny it. But walk with care before marrying little Carmen to
him.
Tim. Why? The devil! Why? Is he like his father?
37.
Nem. No! Likethe father—no. Inclined to gaiety—yes. What would you
have the son of Don Juan to be?
Tim. Everybody is inclined to gaiety. I am so, you are so——
Nem. It is not that. It is that according to my information (lowering his
voice) he is not so robust as the papa supposes. Lazarus suffers from vertigo
—nervous attacks—what shall I say?—something of that sort. At long
intervals, it’s true; but that head of his is not strong. That’s why he does
such stupendous things, and that’s why they call him a genius. Don’t trust
men of genius, Timoteo. A genius goes along the street, and every one says,
“The genius! the genius!” He turns round the corner, and the little boys in
the next street run after him shouting: “The madman! the madman!”
Timoteo, it is very dangerous to have much cleverness.
Tim. God deliver us from it. Oh! as to that I have always been very
careful.
Nem. So have I. A man should not be altogether a fool; that’s not well.
But the thing is—don’t be a genius.
Tim. Never. Here’s Juan coming back.
Nem. Say nothing to him of what I have told you. They either don’t
know of the sufferings of Lazarus, or they hide them; it’s natural.
Tim. Not a word! but it’s well to know it.
Re-enter Don Juan.
Juan (dressed for going out). Are we ready?
Tim. We are.
Juan. Then let’s march. Listen. (To Tim.) Will you come back for
Carmen, or must we take her?
Tim. Carmen?
Juan. Yes, Carmen. Have you already forgotten that she is in there with
Dolores?
Tim. It’s true.
Juan. What a head! Ha, ha! And you say that I——? He forgets his own
daughter! It would have been easy for me to forget my Lazarus. What a
fellow you are! What a fellow you are! Away with you for a pair of
wooden-heads! (Laughing.)
Tim. You gay young dog, lead us on to glory and to pleasure!
38.
Juan. I shalllead you on to the cemetery if you annoy me any more.
However, what do you decide? Will you come back to fetch Carmen?
Tim. I shall have to come back to carry you home.
Juan. You carry me? You’d never be able to carry any one.
Nem. I shall carry you both. Come, give me your arm, Juanito. If not you
can’t go down the staircase. (Don Juan takes his arm.)
Juan. Teresa—little Teresa.
Teresa enters from the back centre.
Ter. Señor?
Juan. Tell Dolores—tell your mistress—that I am going out. Let
Señorita Carmen wait until her father returns to fetch her. March on. (To
Tim.) Take hold of me, for you are not very strong. Take hold of me.
Tim. March on.
Nem. March on.
Juan. Military step! One—two——
Tim. (looking at Teresa). This girl’s prettier every day.
Nem. (the same). And fresher.
Juan (to Nem.). You are not looking; you will fall.
Ter. Where are you going, señor?
Juan. To take these two to the lunatic asylum.
[Exeunt laughing and clutching each other’s arms.
Ter. (looking from the back). Well, when you get in there, may they
never let you out. Where are those mummies going?
Enter Doña Dolores and Carmen from the right.
Car. Ah! They are not here. Papa is not here.
Dol. Have they gone out?
Ter. Yes, señora. But Don Juan left word that Señorita Carmen’s papa
would come back to take her home.
Carmen coughs.
Dol. Coughing again! You ought not to go out at night; the doctor has
forbidden you. You don’t take care of yourself. You are a little simpleton.
39.
Sick children shouldbe in their little homes.
Car. When I am alone I am very sad. I had rather cough than be sad.
Dol. Not so; I shall go and bear you company. And I shall bring
Lazarus. I don’t wish my sick child, my darling child to be melancholy.
(Fondling her.)
Carmen coughs.
Again!
Car. It’s not worth speaking of.
Dol. The fact is that no one can breathe here. What an atmosphere!
What smoke! What a smell of tobacco.
Ter. The three ancient gentlemen were all the night drinking and
smoking and laughing. Now you see how they have left everything.
Dol. Yes, I see. (Looking with disgust at the little table which is full of
ashes and ends of cigars and covered with bottles, glasses, and waiters’
trays.) Take these things away; clean everything up; open the balcony. I am
not accustomed—yet after twenty-five years I should have grown
accustomed. (Aside.) The poetry of existence! (Laughing bitterly.)
Car. What are you laughing at, Dolores?
Dol. (changing her tone and feigning merriment). I feel amused, very
much amused at the frolics of those three venerable old men.
Car. Papa is not yet an old man.
Dol. He is not: but what a life he has led. (Recollecting herself.) So
laborious—his business—his commerce—the same as Juan.
Car. Ah yes. Parents are all alike, killing themselves for their children.
And Papa is very good. He loves me—my God! At night he gets up I don’t
know how many times and listens at the door of my room to know if I am
coughing, so that I, who hear him, stifle the cough with my handkerchief or
with the bed-clothes; but sometimes I am not able—it is that I am choking.
(Coughs.)
Dol. (to Teresa who has been meanwhile taking away bottles, ash-trays,
waiters’ trays, and who has entered and gone out several times). Open the
balcony! Let in the fresh, pure air. No, wait. (To Carmen.) You could not
bear the sensation, my poor little one. Come. (Taking her by the hand.)
Car. Where to?
40.
Dol. While theroom is being ventilated you must remain like a quiet
little girl behind this curtain. (Placing her behind the curtain to the right.) A
quiet little girl, eh? Afterwards you shall enter.
Car. (laughing). Are you leaving me in punishment?
Dol. In punishment! Your father is very indulgent, I am very severe.
Car. Good; but your punishment does not last long.
Dol. Not very long. (To Teresa.) Go: I shall open it.
[Exit Teresa.
Dolores opens the balcony.
So! Air—the air of night—space—freshness—that which is pure—that
which is great—that which does not revolt one—that which dilates the
lungs—that which expands the soul! To have a very broad horizon which
one may fill with hopes, and to run towards those hopes! At least hope!
Hope! Oh! I cannot complain. I have my Lazarus—then I have everything.
Car. (putting her head from time to time through the curtain). May I
come out?
Dol. No, not yet; wait—quiet, my little one. (Walking from the balcony
to the fireplace.) To have my son! But without him ever having had a father
—above all, that father! Oh, if my Lazarus had sprung spontaneously from
my love! Even as—as the wave of the sea or the light of the sun springs
forth. After all, let me not complain—even if he resembled—though he
does not resemble—his father, Lazarus is mine and mine only. How good!
How noble. What intellect! What a heart! Oh, what it is to have such a son!
Car. May I come in?
Dol. Ah, yes—wait though—I shall first shut the balcony. (Shuts it.)
Come in.
Car. That’s very different. (Breathing with pleasure.)
Dol. You feel well?
Car. Very well.
Dol. What are you looking at?
Car. The clock—to see what time it is. It is getting late: Lazarus is not
coming. (Sadly.)
Dol. It is not late, my child. Come and sit by me.
41.
Car. Yes, itis late, it is late.
Dol. Lazarus will come soon. He knew that you were coming this
evening, and he will not fail.
Car. (sorrowfully). But he would do wrong to inconvenience himself for
me. If he does not see me now, he’ll see me another day.
Dol. You silly child, are you complaining?
Car. Not at all. My God! He has his engagements, and he must not
sacrifice himself for Carmen.
Dol. Carmen deserves it all; and Carmen knows it; don’t be a little
hypocrite.
Car. No, señora, I speak as I think, and that’s what gives me much pain
and makes me quick at finding fault. You fondle me and love me, as if you
were my own mother, now that I no longer have one. You watch over our
love—the love of Lazarus and myself. I am sure you tell Lazarus that I am
this and that—in short, a prodigy. And you swear to me that Lazarus is mad
for the love of his Carmen. But is all this true? Can it be so? Am I worthy of
Lazarus? Can such a man as he feel the passion which you describe to me
for a poor creature like myself?
Dol. Come, now—I shall get vexed. Don’t say such things. Why, have
you never looked into the glass?
Car. Yes, many times—every day.
Dol. And what does the glass tell you?
Car. That I am very pale, that I am very thin, that I have very sad eyes,
and that I rather resemble a mother of sorrows than a girl of eighteen. That’s
what it tells me, and it causes me a rather unpleasant feeling.
Dol. There are very malevolent mirrors, and yours is one of them. (In a
comic tone.) They take the form of boats to give us long faces; they get
blurred to make us pale; they become stained to sow freckles all over our
skins; and they commit every kind of wickedness. Yours is a criminal
looking-glass; I’ll send you one in which you may see what you are, and
you shall see an angel gazing through a tiny window of crystal.
Car. Yes. (Laughs.) But even if I were the most beautiful woman in the
world, could I be worthy of Lazarus? A man like him! A future such as his!
A talent which all admire. Nay, a superior being. I love him much; but it
makes me afraid and ashamed that he should know that I love him so much.
42.
I feel asif he were going to say to me: “But who are you, you little
simpleton? Have you imagined that I am meant for an unsubstantial,
ignorant, sickly little thing like you?” (Sadly and humbly.)
Dol. Well, Carmen, if you don’t wish to make me angry, you will not
talk such folly. A good woman is worth more than all the learned men of all
the Academies. And if, as well as being good, she is pretty, then—then
there’s an end, there is no man who is worthy of her. Men, with the
exception of Lazarus, are either mean-spirited wretches or heartless devils.
(In a rancorous tone.)
Car. Well, papa is very good, and is very fond of me.
Dol. Ah, yes—a very good person. But, if he had been so fond of you,
he would have done better to give you stronger lungs.
Car. But, poor man, how is he to blame? If God did not wish——
Dol. Ah! yes, that’s true. It is not Don Timoteo’s fault. It was God’s
disposition that Carmen should have no more breathing powers than those
of a little pigeon, and we must be resigned.
Car. Well, that’s what I say. But Lazarus is not coming. You’ll see that I
shall have to go away before he comes. And, if he comes and sets to work, I
shall be as little likely to see him to-night.
Dol. No; he has not written for some days. The excess of work has
fatigued him. This constant thought is very wasting.
Car. But is he ill? (With great anxiety.)
Dol. No, child; fatigue, and nothing more.
Car. Yes; he is ill. I noticed that he was sad, preoccupied, but I thought,
“There, it is that he does not love me, and he does not know how to tell me
so.”
Dol. What things you imagine! Neither the one nor the other. My
Lazarus ill! Do you think that if he had been so I would not have set in
motion all the first medical faculty here, and in Madrid, and in foreign
parts? In any way, however (somewhat uneasily), you are right; he is very
late.
Car. Did he go to the theatre?
Dol. No, to dine with some friends.
Car. Did Javier go?
43.
Dol. He wentalso.
Car. I am glad; Javier is very sensible.
Dol. So is Lazarus.
Car. I should think so; but a good friend is never superfluous, and Javier
has admiration, affection, and respect for Lazarus.
Dol. (walking about impatiently). Still, it is getting late—very late.
Carmen turns towards the balcony.
What are you going to do?
Car. Well, to watch and see if Lazarus is coming.
Dol. (drawing her away from the balcony). No, child; you don’t think of
your poor chest, nor of that most obstinate cough of yours. Moreover, the
night is very dark, and you could see nothing. Come away, Carmen, come
away; I’ll watch.
Car. If I can’t see, neither will you see——
Dol. I shall try.
Car. Wait; I think he is coming, and with Javier.
Dol. (listening). Yes—it’s true.
Car. Are they not coming in here?
Dol. No; they have gone straight to the room of Lazarus. But don’t be
uneasy; as soon as he knows that you are here, he will come to see you.
Car. Without doubt he comes back thinking of some great scene for his
drama, or of some chapter of that book which he is writing and which they
say is going to be a miracle of genius, or of some very intricate problem.
Ah! my God, whatever you may say, a man such as he cannot concern
himself very much about an insignificant girl like myself.
Dol. Again!
Car. I know nothing, I am worth nothing, I am nothing. I? What am I fit
for? Tell me. To stare at him like a blockhead while he is considering these
great matters; to watch at the balcony and see if he is coming, although it
may be cold, and Carmen coughs incessantly; to weep if he takes no notice
of me, or if they tell me that he is ill. There is no doubt that little Carmen is
capable of doing wonders. To look at him, to wait for him, to weep for him.
44.
Dol. And whatmore can a woman do for a man? To look at him always,
to wait for him always, to weep for him always.
Car. And is that enough?
Dol. So much the worse for Lazarus if that should not be enough for
him. But wait; he’s here now; did I not tell you? as soon as he knew you
were here.
Car. (joyfully). It’s true. How good he is.
Enter Javier.
Jav. A pleasant evening, Doña Dolores; pleasant evening, Carmen.
Dol. A very good evening.
Car. And a very pleasant—but—Lazarus——
Dol. Is not Lazarus coming?
Car. Is he ill?
Dol. Ah! if he is ill, I must go there——
Jav. (stopping her). No, for God’s sake! What should make him ill?
Listen to me. We and several friends have been dining with two writers
from Madrid—people of our profession. We spoke of arts, of sciences, of
politics, of philosophy, and of everything divine and human. We drank, we
gave toasts, we made speeches, we read verses. You understand? And these
things excite in an extraordinary way the nervous system of Lazarus.
Dol. And has anything gone wrong with him? My God!
Car. Go, Dolores—go!
Jav. For the sake of God in heaven, let me conclude. These things, I say,
shake his nerves, and his imagination becomes on fire; it soon discovers
luminous horizons; the ideas rush upon him precipitately. Could you take
upon yourselves the burden of them? No; that which came with the fever of
inspiration he wished to take advantage of, and for that reason—precisely
for that reason—he locked himself up in his room and sent me away.
Car. (sadly to Dolores). Did I not say so? He would come—and to
work.
Dol. Does he not know that Carmen is here?
Jav. They told us that on our entrance; but he pays attention to nothing, to
nobody, when inspiration and glory and art cry aloud to him, “Come, we are
waiting for you.”
45.
Dol. However—— (Wishingto go.)
Car. No, for God’s sake! (Stopping her.) He must be allowed to work. If
through me he should lose any of those grand ideas which now hover
fondly about him, what pain and what remorse for me! Disturb him that he
may come and speak to me? No, not so; I am not so selfish. I asked for
nothing better. By no means can I consent. (Embraces Dolores; coughs
and almost weeps.)
Dol. (with anxiety). What’s the matter with you?
Car. (affecting merriment). Nothing; it is only that I had begun to laugh
and cough at the same time. I laughed because I was reminded of a tale—a
very silly tale, which made me laugh, however, and which fits the case. You
shall judge. There was a very sprightly little female donkey, which became
enamoured of a most beautiful genius, who bore on his forehead a very red
little flame, and had very white wings; and the bright genius, out of pure
compassion, fondled the ears of the little donkey; and she, in accordance
with her nature, began to leap for joy, and it overthrew the genius, clipped
his wings, and he could fly no more. The blue of the firmament was cut off
from the genius, and there was left to him nothing more than a very green
meadow, a little female donkey who was very good, but who was, after all,
a donkey. No, mother, I don’t wish to be the heroine of the story. Let us
allow the genius to fly.
Dol. (to Javier). See what a creature she is!
Jav. A criminal humility.
Dol. But, indeed, if you persist, we shall let him work.
Car. Don’t you think we might let him have this room free to himself?
Here he has his books of predilection, and he has more room, and he can
walk about; he has told me many times that he composes verses while
walking about.
Dol. A good idea! Let us go to my sitting-room. (To Javier.) Tell him
that we abandoned the field to him, and that he may come without fear.
Jav. (laughing). Noble sacrifice!
Dol. But we’ll have to make up the fire; since we opened the balcony a
while ago the room has become very cold. (Stirring the fire.)
Car. It’s true. But let him not receive the full heat. We must place the
screen in front—so. (Places it.)
46.
Dol. It iswell—so.
Car. (going to the balcony and raising the curtain). Look—look! The
sky has become a little cleared, and the moon has issued from the clouds.
Very beautiful! Very beautiful! We must draw the curtain back, that Lazarus
may see it all and be the more inspired. I know he likes to work while
gazing towards the heavens from time to time.
Dol. (running to help Carmen). You are right; you think of everything.
Jav. Well, if after so many precautions and such endearments the
inspiration is not responsive, the inspiration of Lazarus is hard to please.
Car. Is everything ready now?
Dol. I think so. Wait—your portrait is hidden in the shade. We must
place it so that the lamp may throw light on it, so that he may be inspired by
it also.
Car. I inspire him? Yes—yes! Take it away. (Wishing to remove it.)
Dol. I shall not allow it. Let it remain where I have put it, and let us go.
Car. If you insist—well, then let him see it. But there is not much light.
(Turning up the light of the lamp.)
Dol. (to Javier). Call him—let him come.
Car. Yes, let him come and write something very beautiful. Then I shall
enter for a moment, to bid him good-night.
Dol. Until then—come, Carmen.
Car. (to Javier). And you, too, leave him alone; you must not have any
more privileges than we.
Dol. Are you coming to keep us company?
Jav. Later on.
Car. Is everything in order? (Looking round.)
Dol. I think so. Adieu.
Car. Adieu!
[Exeunt to left Carmen and Dolores, half embracing each other.
Jav. The field is clear. Poor women! How they love him! It is adoration.
(Going to right.) Lazarus! Good-for-nothing! Now you can come—come, if
you can!
47.
Enter Lazarus, pale,somewhat in disorder, and with unsteady
step; in short, as the actor may think fit.
Laz. (looking about). Are they not here?
Jav. No; fortunately it occurred to them that you would work better
alone.
Laz. Well, whatever you say, I think that I am presentable. Eh? My head
doesn’t feel bad—a delicious vagueness. I seem to be encircled by a mist—
a very soft mist; and through its texture there shine some little stars. In
short, peaceful sensations, very peaceful.
Jav. That’s to say, you are better?
Laz. Don’t I tell you so? My legs indeed give way, but without pain. I
walk in the midst of softness. (Laughing.) My head among the clouds and
the ground of cotton-wool. Divine! So ought the universe to be—that is,
quilted. Lord! what a world has been made of it—so rough, so hard, so
inconvenient. At every step you stumble and injure yourself—rocks, rugged
stones, sharp points, peaks, angles, and little corners and big corners. The
world should be round—quite so, and round it is; roundness is perfection;
but it should be an immeasurable sphere of eider-down, so that, if a citizen
falls, he may always fall amid softness—thus! (Letting himself fall in the
arm-chair, or on one of the cushioned stools at the side of the table.)
Jav. All very well—but you really are not strong.
Laz. I am not strong? Stronger than you—stronger than you. Stronger.
Jav. I told you that you should not drink. It does you harm; your health is
broken down.
Laz. I’m broken down? I?—How? I have not been a saint, but neither
have I been a madman. I am young: I have always thought that I was
strong: and, through drinking two or three glasses, and smoking a puro and
laughing a little—here am I transformed into a stupid being! Because, now,
it is not that I am broken down, as you say, nor that I am drunk, as you
suppose—it is that I feel simply stupid. No; and see, now, it is not so
disagreeable to be stupid: one feels—a sort of merriment, as it were. That’s
why so many people are merry. (Laughing.) That’s why! That’s why! Now I
am falling into this same stupidity—that’s why, just so.
Jav. Attend to me, and understand what I say to you, if you are in a
condition to understand me.
48.
Laz. If Ican understand you? I understand everything now. The world is
transparent to me: your head is made of crystal (laughing), and written in
very black and tortuous letters I read your thought—you suppose I am very
bad. Poor Javier! (Laughing.)
Jav. Don’t talk such rubbish: I neither think such a thing, nor are you
really ill. Fatigue, weariness—nothing more. You have lived very fast in
Madrid during the last few years: you have thought much, you have worked
much, you have had a good deal of pleasure, and you need a few months’
rest—here—in your father’s house, with your mother, with Carmen.
Laz. Carmen—yes—look at her. (Pointing to the photograph.) There she
is. How sad, how poetical, how adorable a countenance. I wish to live for
her. With all the glory that I achieve I shall make a circle of light for that
dear, pretty little head. (Sends a kiss to the portrait.) We shall live together,
you and I, my sweet little Carmen, and we shall be very happy. (As if
speaking with her.) For I wish to live. (Growing excited and turning to
Javier.) If I had never lived it would never have suggested itself to me that I
should continue to live: but I have commenced, and I don’t wish to break
off so soon. No—no—it shall not be—as God lives.
Jav. Come, Lazarus.
Laz. I am strong. Why should I not be so? What right has nature to make
of me a feeble creature when I wish to be strong? My thought burns, my
heart leaps, my veins abound with the exuberance of life, my desires are
aflame! To put steam of a thousand atmospheres into an old and rusty
boiler! Oh! infamous mockery!
Jav. Eh! There you are, started off! What steam, or what boiler? The little
glass of champagne.
Laz. A man like myself cannot be tormented with impunity. Here you
have the world: it is yours: run merrily through its valleys, mount its
summits in triumph! But you shall not run, you shall not mount, unless
rheumatism is planted in your bones. Here you have the azure firmament: it
is yours: fly among its altitudes, gaze upon its horizons. But you shall not
fly except the plumage of your wings be wrenched away and you become a
worm-eaten carcass. What derision! What satire! What cruelty! Accursed
wine! What extravagant things I see, Javier! Colossal figures in masks float
across the firmament, and, hung from very long strings, which are
suspended from very long canes, they bear suns and splendours and stars,
49.
and they sweeponward crying, “Hurrah! hurrah!”[1] and I wish to reach all
that, and I cannot touch even one little star with my lips. Grotesque, very
grotesque! Cruel! very cruel! Sorrowful, very sorrowful! My God! My
God! (He hides his face in his hands.)
Jav. Come, Lazarus, come. You see you cannot commit even the slightest
excess.
Laz. I have uttered many follies, have I not? No matter: no one hears me
but you, and it’s a relief to me. See, now I am more composed. I feel tired,
and I even think I am sleepy.
Jav. That would be best for you: sleep, sleep, and let neither your mother
nor Carmen see you thus.
Laz. As for my mother, it would not matter. (Smiling.). But, Carmen—
let not Carmen see me looking ridiculous. The poor girl who imagines that I
am a superior being! Poor child, what a joke! (Stretches himself on the
sofa.)
Jav. Good; now don’t speak. I shall not speak either; and try to sleep.
With half an hour of sleep everything will pass off.
Laz. Sleep, too, is ridiculous at times. If I am very ridiculous don’t let
Carmen see me.
Jav. No; if you don’t look as beautiful as Endymion she shall not enter.
Pause. Javier walks about. Lazarus begins to sleep.
Laz. Javier, Javier.
Jav. What?
Laz. Now I am—almost asleep. How do I look?
Jav. Very poetical.
Laz. Good—thank—you. Very poetical.
A pause.
Jav. No, Lazarus is not well. I shall speak to his father—no, not to Don
Juan. To his mother, who is the only person of sense in this house.
Laz. Javier.
Jav. What do you want?
Laz. Put Carmen’s picture more to the front.
Jav. So?
50.
Laz. So. Forher—the light; for Lazarus—the gloom.
Jav. (walking about slowly). Yes, I shall speak to his mother. And—
happy coincidence! I had not remembered that the celebrated Doctor
Bermudez, a specialist in all that relates to the nervous system, has arrived
within the last few days. Then to him! let them consult with him.
Laz. (now almost asleep). Javier.
Jav. But are you not going to sleep?
Laz. Yes—but more in the light—more in the light. (With a somewhat
sorrowful accent.)
Jav. Come (placing the portrait close to the light)—and silence.
Laz. Yes ... Carmen!...
Jav. (contemplating him for a while.) Thank God—asleep.
Dolores, Carmen, Don Juan, and Timoteo appear at the threshold
of the door at the back centre.
Car. May we come in?
Jav. Silence!
Car. It was to say good-night.
Jav. He is asleep. He worked a short time, but he was fatigued.
Car. Then let us not disturb him. Adieu, Javier. The light is in his eyes—
you should lower the shade. Adieu. (Kissing Dolores.) Adieu, Don Juan.
Tim. (to Dol.) Till to-morrow. (To Don J.) Till to-morrow.
Juan. Nor shall we let to-morrow go by. I shall pay you a solemn visit—
and prepare yourself, little rogue (to Carmen).
Car. I?
Juan. Silence, he is asleep.
Tim. Good, good. Ah! it is late. Good-bye.
Dol. Good-bye, my daughter.
All have spoken in low voices.
[Exeunt Carmen and Timoteo.
Dol. (approaching Javier.) Did he work long?
Jav. A short time, but with great ardour. A great effort of intellect.
51.
Juan (approaching alsoand contemplating Lazarus). Lord, to think of
what this boy is going to be! The face foretells it. The aureola of talent!
Dol. He is very pale—very pale.
Juan. What would you have him to be? Fat as a German, and red as a
beetroot? Then he would not be a genius.
Dol. However—such pallor!
Juan and Dolores are bent over Lazarus contemplating him with
affectionate care.
Juan. I am decidedly the father of a genius, and then (to Javier) they
come to me with——
Jav. With what?
Juan. With nothing. (Aside.) With moral sermons, and with the law of
heredity, and with all that stale trash. The father a hare-brained fellow, and
the son a wise man.
Dol. But has nothing been amiss with him? Was it nothing more than
fatigue?
Jav. Nothing more. You may withdraw: I shall stay until he awakes.
Juan. I shall not withdraw. I was wanting nothing better. I shall sit down
here (sitting at the other side of the table), and from here I shall watch the
sleep of Lazarus. You remain on foot, in honour of the genius. Keep away,
keep away from before him, that you may not prevent me from seeing my
son.
Dol. Yet the sleep is not very restful.
Juan. How should it be restful, woman, since he must be busied with
great matters in his dreams?
Dol. My Lazarus.
Jav. (aside.) Poor Lazarus.
Juan (laughing quietly). Don Juan Tenorio—watching the sleep—of the
son of Don Juan!—silence—silence—let’s see if we shall hear anything
from the son of Don Juan. (With pride and tenderness.)
END OF ACT I
52.
ACT II.
Same appointmentsas in first Act. It is day. On the little table are flowers.
Don Juan discovered seated close to the tea-table. Lazarus also
discovered. He sometime walks about; again he sits down: he tries to
write, he throws away the pen. He opens a book and reads for a few
moments, closes it irritably and resumes his walking about. It is evident
that he is uneasy and nervous. All this in the course of the scene with
his father. Don Juan follows him with his eyes and smokes a puro.
Juan. What are you thinking of? Ah! pardon! I must not disturb you.
Laz. You don’t disturb me, father. I was thinking of nothing important.
My imagination was wandering, and I was wandering after it.
Juan. If you wish to work—to write—to read—and I trouble you I shall
go. Ha, I shall go. (Rising.) Do you want me to go? for here I am going.
Laz. No, father, good gracious! You disturb me!
Juan (sitting down again). The fact is, as you see, that which I do can be
done anywhere. It is in substance nothing. Well, for the performance of
nothing any point of space is good. (Laughing.) Of space! There are your
philosophical offshoots taking root in me. The father in space, the son in the
fifth heaven. That’s why I say if I disturb——
Laz. No, father, don’t go away; and let us talk of what you please.
Juan. Much good you’d get by talking with me. To your great books, to
your papers, to those things which astound by their greatness and are
admired for their beauty! Continue—continue! I shall see you at work. I,
too, shall busy myself with something. (Pulls the bell.)
Laz. As you like. [Sits down and writes fitfully.
Enter Teresa.
Juan. Little Teresa—(looking at his son and correcting himself.) Teresa,
bring me a glass of sherry and a few biscuits; I also have to busy myself
with something. And bring me the French newspapers; no, nothing but
Figaro and Gil Blas. (To his son.) And so we shall both be at work. (To
53.
Teresa.) Listen—by theway, bring me that novel which is in my room. You
can read, can’t you?
Ter. Yes, señor.
Juan. Well, then, a book which says Nana—you understand?
Ter. Yes, señor. Ná-ná.—For no is ná.
Juan. It is something, little girl,—(aside) something that you will be in
time. [Exit Teresa.
Laz. (Rises and walks about—aside). I have no ideas. To-day I have no
ideas. Yes, I have many; but they come like a flight of birds; they flutter
about—and they go.
Juan. See now—I cannot bear immoral novels.
Laz. You said ...?
Juan. Nothing! I thought that you said something. I said that I cannot
endure immoral novels. (Assuming airs of austerity.) I read them, I read
“Nana,” out of curiosity, as a study, but I can’t bear them. Literature is in a
lost condition, my son, in a lost condition. Nemesio lent me that book—and
I am anxious to have done with it.
Laz. Zola is a great writer. (Aside.) This is the very thing that I was
looking for. (He sits and writes.)
Enter Teresa with a tray, a bottle of sherry, a glass and the
biscuits, “Nana” and the two newspapers.
Ter. Here is everything. The sherry: the newspapers just come, the
tender little biscuits, and the tender little Nana (baby) as well. (She stands
looking at the two gentlemen.)
Juan. Bring the sherry closer, Teresa.—Work, boy, work. Take no notice
of me. Work, for it is thus that men attain success. I also in my youth have
worked much. That’s the reason I look so old. (Staring at Teresa who
laughs.) (Aside.) What’s that stupid girl laughing at?—(To Teresa.) Now,
you may go. I don’t want you. The Gil Blas! (Unfolds it and begins to read
it.) Let us have a look at these wretched little newspapers.... (affecting
contempt.) I told you to go.—(To Teresa.)—Let’s see, let’s see. (Reads.)
Ter. Yes, señor. (She remains for awhile looking at the two, and turns
towards the door in the back centre.)
Laz. (rising). Teresa—
54.
Ter. Señorito—
Laz. Comehere and speak lower: let us not disturb your master, who is
reading. Did you take the letter which I gave you this morning?
Ter. Yes, señorito, I took it myself. Whatever you require me to do,
señorito!...
Laz. Good. It was for Señor Bermudez, eh?
Ter. Yes, señorito. That doctor who has such a great name, who has
come from Madrid for a few days to cure Don Luciano Barranco—the same
who, they say, is either mad or not mad. (Laughing.)
Laz. (starting, then restraining himself). Ah! Yes. Quite so; the same.
And did you see him? Did you hand him the letter? Did he give you the
answer? Where is it? Come, quick!
Ter. Eh, señorito—
Laz. Come—
Ter. I gave the letter: he was not in:—they said—
Laz. Lower—(Looking at his father who laughs while reading the
newspaper.)
Ter. They said that as soon as he came back they would give him the
letter. Have no fear, señorito. Whatever little I take charge of! Well, if I do
nothing worse than—
Laz. It’s well—thanks. (Dismissing her, then recalling her.) Oh! if they
bring the answer—here on the instant—eh?
Ter. On the instant: I should think so! have no fear, señorito.
Laz. Enough! let us not trouble my father.
[Exit Teresa.
Juan. Ha! ha! ha! Facetious, very facetious! sprightly, very sprightly!
Pungent as a capsicum from the Rioja! It is the only newspaper that one can
read!
Laz. Some interesting article? What is it? What does it say? Let me see!
(Approaching and stretching out his hand.)
Juan (keeping back the newspaper). A very shameless little article—and
quite without point. It must be put away. (Puts it in a pocket of his dressing-
gown, but in such a way that it may be seen.) May the devil not so contrive
55.
things that Carmenmay come and find the newspaper and read it in all
innocence.
Laz. (withdrawing). It is true: you do well! (Walks about nervously.)
Juan (aside). And I had not finished reading it: I shall read it afterwards.
(Takes up “Nana.”) This also is good. The spring with all its verdure.
(Aloud.) Work, boy, work!
Laz. (aside). I shall speak to the Doctor this very day, that he may set
my mind at ease. I know that nothing is the matter with me; but I want a
specialist to assure me on the point. And then, with mind at peace—to my
drama, to my critico-historical work, to my æsthetic theories which are new,
completely new—and to Carmen. And with the muse at one side,
recounting marvels in my ear, and with Carmen on the other side, pressed
against my heart—to enjoy life, to inhale the odour of triumphs, to live for
love, to satiate my longings amidst eternal mysteries.
Juan. Stupendous! Monumental! Sufficient to make one die of laughing.
Lord, why does a man read? To be amused; then books that are amusing for
me! (Laughing.)
Laz. Is that a nice book?
Juan (changing his tone). Pshaw—yes—pretty well. But these frivolous
things are tiresome after all. (Sees Lazarus coming towards him, and puts
“Nana” into the other pocket of the dressing-gown.) Have you anything
solid to read—really substantial?
Laz. I have many large books. What class do you want?
Juan. Something serious; something that instructs you, that makes you
think.
Laz. (going to the bookcase). Would you like something of Kant?
Juan. Of Kant? Do you say of Kant? Quite so! he was my favourite
author. When I was young I went to sleep every night reading Kant. (Aside.)
What will that be? It sounds like a dog.
Laz. (searching out a passage). If you like, I shall tell you.
Juan. No, my lad; any part whatever! (Taking the book.) Yes, this may
be read at any part. You shall see. And don’t concern yourself with me;
write, my son, write.
Lazarus sits and attempts to write. Don Juan reads.
56.
“Under the aspectof relationship, the third consequence of taste, the
beautiful appears to us as the final form of an object, without representation
of end.” The devil! (holding the book far off, as long-sighted people do and
contemplating it with terror.) The devil! “or as a finality without end.”
Whoever can understand this? “Because what is called final form is the
causality of any conception whatever with relation to the object.” Let me
see—let me see. (Holding the book still further off.) “Final form the
causality.” I believe I am perspiring. (Wipes his forehead.) “The
consciousness of this finality without end is the play of the cognitive
forces.” How does he say that? “The play of the forces—the play.” Well, I
ought to understand this about play. “The consciousness of this internal
causality is that which constitutes the æsthetic pleasure.” If I go on it will
give me a congestion. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! And to think that Lazarus
understands about the finality without end, the causality and the play of the
cognitive forces! God help me! What a boy!—(continues reading.) “The
principle of the formal convenience of nature is the transcendental principle
of the force of Judgment.” (Giving a blow on the table.) I shall be lost if I
continue reading. But if that boy reads these things he will go mad.
Laz. Does it interest you?
Juan. Very much! What depth! (Aside.) For five minutes I have been
falling, and I have not reached the bottom. (Aloud.) I should think it does
interest me! But, frankly, I prefer—
Laz. Hegel?
Juan. Exactly. (Aside)—“Nana.” But you, my son, neither read, nor
write: you are fretful. What’s the matter with you? Did the hunting tire you?
Yet the exercise of the chase is very healthy for one who like you wears
himself away over his books. Are you ill?
Laz. No, señor, I am not ill. And I spent these three days in the country
very pleasantly. But this morning broke dull and rainy, and I said
—“Home!”
Juan. And you arrived when I was getting up. I told you the great news;
immediately you showed great delight; but then you fell into sublime
preoccupations. Poor Carmen! (approaching him with an air of secrecy.)
You don’t love her as she loves you.
Laz. With all my soul! More than you can imagine! I am as I am:
reserved, untamed, unpolished—but I know how to love!
57.
Juan. Better andbetter! The poor little thing—come, now—the poor
little thing.
Laz. And why did not Don Timoteo answer on the spot that he accepted?
When you asked him for his daughter for me, why did he hesitate?
Juan. What do you mean by hesitation? I do him the honour of
requesting the hand of Carmen for my Lazarus—and he would hesitate! I
should strangle the scarecrow. Marry a man like you! What more could any
daughter or any father desire?
Laz. Then why did he put off the answer till to-day?
Juan. The prescriptions of etiquette: social conventionalities: he was
always a great stickler for etiquette. Because he must consult with Carmen.
Imagine him consulting with Carmen! When the poor little thing is like a
soul in purgatory, and you are her heaven.—Ha! ha!
Laz. You are right.
Juan. No: you shall have your sweet little wife, your home; you shall
work hard, you shall gain great glory, you shall keep a sound judgment—
and let the whole world say: Don Lazarus Mejia, son of Don Juan Mejia!
Oh!
Laz. Yes, señor: I shall do what I can—and I shall love my Carmen
dearly.
Juan. That’s right—that’s right. But something’s the matter with you.
You seem as it were absent-minded.
Laz. I am thinking—of my drama.
Juan. Then I shall go! decidedly I shall go! With my insipid chatter I
prevent you from thinking. Oh! thought! the—the—(looking at the book)
“the cognitive forces”—the—the—(looking again) “the finality”—that’s it
—“the finality.”—Ah!—Good-bye.
Laz. But don’t go away on my account.
Juan. We must show respect to the wise. (Laughing.) I am going to read
all alone the great book which you have lent me. (Taking a flower and
putting it in the buttonhole of his dressing-gown.) Consider now, whether I
shall hesitate between Kant and “Nana.” (Pulls the bell.)
Laz. As you please.
Juan. Good-bye, my son. To your drama—to your drama—and put
nothing immoral in it.