Tim. You gay young dog, lead us on to glory and to pleasure!
Juan. I shall lead 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.
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. Sick children should be 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?
Dol. While the room 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.)
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.
Car. Yes, it is 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. I feel as if 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?
Dol. He went also.
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.
Dol. And what more 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.”
Dol. However—— (Wishing to 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.)
Dol. It is well—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.
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!
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.
Laz. If I can 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, and they sweep onward 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?
Laz. So. For her—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.
Juan (approaching also and 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.)
ACT II.
Same appointments as 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 Teresa.) Listen—by the way, 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—
Ter. Señorito—
Laz. Come here 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 things that Carmen may 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.
“Under the aspect of 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!
Juan. Better and better! 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.
Enter Teresa.
Ter. Señor.—
Juan. Listen, Teresa: take all that to my room. Wait—(Pours himself out a glass. Touching one pocket.) Here is Gil Blas, (touching) here is “Nana”: Kant hauled along by the neck—and to my room. Work, my boy, work! Do something great. Leave something to the world. I shall leave you—I think—(drinking the glass of wine.) Well, this finality—has an end. To work—to work?—Good-bye. Lord, what a Lazarus this is! To my room with all that, little Teresa.
[Exit carrying in one pocket Gil Blas, in the other “Nana,” in
his buttonhole the flower, and gripped very hard the volume of
Kant.
Laz. Teresa, they have brought no letter for me?
Ter. (preparing to remove the wine and the biscuits). No, señor.
Laz. Patience: you did not tell my mother I had written to that Señor de Bermudez.
Ter. No, señor.
Laz. Has my mother got up?
Ter. Got up, indeed! Before you returned this morning from hunting, Doña Dolores had already gone to call for the Señorita Carmen that they might go to Mass together.
Ter. And I don’t know how she rose so early, nor how she found courage to go out.
Laz. Why?
Ter. Because last night she was very ill: very ill indeed.
Laz. (starting up). My mother!
Ter. Yes, señor. I say that it must have been the nerves. How she cried: how she twisted her arms! Indeed I wanted to send an express messenger for you to come back at once.
Laz. Ah! my God, my poor mother! and why was I not informed? I would have mounted on horseback; and in one hour—here.
Ter. Because the señora would not have it so. “Silence, not a word to anybody,” so she said, and an order from her is an order.
Laz. But how is it possible? My father said nothing to me!
Ter. He was not informed: he went to the theatre, afterwards to the Casino with Don Timoteo and Don Nemesio; he returned late, and as the señora had given orders—“to nobody”—nothing was said to him; and he knew nothing.
Laz. But how was it? Why was it? She who is never ill!
Ter. I don’t know. The señora dined early and alone. Afterwards she went out. She came back at ten o’clock: she could scarcely enter her room, and immediately fell to the ground—just like a tower that falls.
Laz. My God! my God! And you never informed me!
Ter. Well, I am informing you now. And in spite of what she said, “not a word.” But as to you—for your sake! Oh! when it concerns you, señorito. (Lazarus pays no attention to her.) But don’t be distressed: this morning already she was so strong and so well: yes, really, very pale and with such dark circles round the eyes! but so strong. We women are thus: now we are dying and afterwards we revive: we go back to death and again we return to life.
Laz. You mean that now she is well? But entirely well?
Ter. Don’t I tell you she is as well as could be? Let your mind rest, señorito.
Lazarus, very much agitated, has been walking about.
Laz. Good, good, if it has already passed off—in short, when my mother returns, tell me.
Ter. You have no other orders?
Laz. No. (A bell rings several times.) My father is calling: go, go quickly. The vibrating of the bell makes me nervous.
Ter. I must take away this. (Takes up the trays.)
Laz. (the bell continues ringing). Take it away quickly for pity’s sake.
Ter. On the instant; what a hurry that good gentleman is in!
Laz. And if they bring the answer from Señor de Bermudez.
Ter. Immediately afterwards. (The bell continues.) I am coming, I am coming. (She says this without calling aloud, as if to herself.)
[Exit Teresa.
Laz. (alone). What she has told me about my poor mother has unstrung all my nerves. I am not well. Bah! I am not ill. How Doctor Bermudez will laugh at me when I consult him. The fact is that I am very apprehensive; but I feel strong: Javier says to me every moment: “My boy, don’t strut about on your heels so much.” Steady; so, steady. (He walks about, treads with his heels and laughs.) I know now what’s the matter. I am very happy and I have a horrible dread of losing so much happiness. Very happy. (Counting on his fingers.) My father and mother, so good; Carmen, who adores me; I, who am raving about her; glory, which calls me; I who answer, “Forward, Lazarus”; my eyes, which are my own and are never satiated with drinking in light and colours; my thought, which is mine, and which does not tire of originating wonders; my life, which is mine, and which desires to live more, to live more—yes, more! (A pause.) They say that life is dull, that it is mournful. Buffoons! Has anything better been discovered? Is it better to be stone which has no nerves to quiver with delight? Is it better to be water which always runs in headlong stupidity without knowing where it goes? Is it better to be air to blow without motive and to fill itself with the foulest earth and dust? No, it is better to be Lazarus. (Resumes the counting on his fingers.) For Lazarus has very good parents; he has Carmen; he has glory; he has life; and he has, above all, thought, reason! Ha! I have all this: I have it: what remains to be done if I have it! (Sits down in a somewhat cowering manner.) It is evident—because all this is so good, and because I have it, I am afraid to lose it. I am as terrified as a little child; at times it seems to me that I am a little child, and I am seized with impulses to run to my mother and wrap myself round in her skirt. A man who almost understands Kant and Hegel; who writes dramas which are very well received, yes, señor, very well received; who meditates transcendental works. A man, in every sense a man, who has fought duels in Madrid, and has had a little love affair or so—(laughing)—and very pleasant too: the practical reason, not of Kant but of Zola, which turns the Pure Reason of Kant into ridicule and makes even the good matron laugh. Well then, this formidable Lazarus at times is a child, and he would like his mother to embrace him and to buy him toys! To be a child, yes; all the same it is good to be a child. Nay. I should like it. (Laughing.) But what absurdities! Lord, what absurdities! (Remains cowering in his chair, thinking and laughing very low.)
Enter Teresa.
Ter. Señorito, a gentleman has given me this card.
Laz. (as if awaking). A gentleman? Let me see—Doctor Bermudez! But why has he put himself to inconvenience? I would have gone to him. Let him come in. Let him come in. Quick, woman, let him come in. (Exit Teresa.) With this man I must have much prudence, much composure, much calm. If he had heard the nonsense that I was talking! What a terror!
Teresa. (re-entering and announcing). Señor de Bermudez.
[Exit Teresa.
Enter Bermudez.
Berm. Señor Don Lazarus Mejia?
Laz. Your servant—very much your servant—one who is grieved to the heart for having troubled a person such as you. A man of eminence—a man of knowledge. (With much courtesy, but endeavouring to restrain himself.)
Berm. Not so—not so—I received your letter.
Laz. Indeed, it was not meant that you should give yourself any trouble. I begged you to be good enough to appoint a time for me and I should have gone to your house. But take a seat. I cannot allow you to remain standing an instant longer. Sit down! (Making him sit down.) Here—no—here—you will be better here.
Berm. Many thanks. You are very amiable! (Takes a seat.)
Laz. I don’t know whether I am entitled to sit down in the presence of a man like yourself; a national glory! (Commands himself so that his accent is natural: perhaps however he errs a little by excess of courtesy.)
Berm. For goodness’ sake!
Laz. A man of European fame!
Berm. You overwhelm me. I don’t deserve—(Aside.) He is very engaging, this young man. They were right in Madrid to say that he has plenty of ability.
Laz. You don’t deserve it? Ah! in the mouth of a celebrity like Doctor Bermudez, modesty will always have a voice, but it has no vote.
Berm. Señor de Mejia. (Aside.) How well he speaks!
Laz. Don’t treat me ceremoniously. I am not deserving of so much solemnity. “Señor de Mejia”! (Laughing.) Call me Lazarus. I really don’t deserve anything better; treat me as a master might a pupil. I dare not say as a kind friend would treat a respectful friend.
Berm. As you please. It will be an honour for me! (Aside.) Very engaging, very engaging!
Laz. Well, I repeat that I am sorry at heart for having given you this trouble.
Berm. Not at all. I already told your mother last night that if at any other time she required me, or if she wished by any further suggestions to make me amplify my opinion, I was unconditionally at her orders. A card saying to me “Come,” and I should come instantly. And so it is that on receiving the letter this morning—as you may imagine—I said, “I must place myself at the feet of that lady, and I must personally become acquainted with her son, a national glory of the future, one who is destined to have a European renown.”
Laz. Señor de Bermudez! (Repudiating the honour with a gesture. Aside.) My mother—last night—what does he say? (Commanding himself, then aloud.) So my mother went last night—to see you—because——
Berm. Yes, señor, she has already explained everything to me. That you were out hunting, and that you did not mean to return this week; that she had been informed that I was going back to Madrid this day, and that she had been anxious to consult me without the loss of a moment concerning the illness of that poor young man—a cousin or a nephew, or a relative—I think he is a nephew of your mother, whose name she said was—Don Luis—Don Luis——
Laz. Quite so—a nephew. You have it. (Smiling. Then aside.) What’s this? What relative is that? Why, it is not true. God of Heaven! (Aloud.) A nephew—that’s it. To whom God does not give sons, the devil,—— (Laughing.) Yes, but she also has me—her Lazarus, her son!
Berm. And she must be proud.
Laz. Señor de Bermudez, have compassion on a beginner. But I wish you to explain to me what you had the kindness to explain to my mother; because ladles—don’t understand much about medical science—and though I understand just as little of it, nevertheless——
Berm. Quite so; it is a speciality.
Laz. A speciality, that’s it; it is a speciality. And moreover, I know that young man more intimately—poor Luis! And I can supply you with fresh particulars.
Berm. Oh! those of your mother were very precise. She has a keenly observant mind.
Laz. Very much so; don’t you describe it well! A keenly observant mind. (Aside.) My God!—my mother—and on her return home—her weeping—what does this man say?
Berm. Altogether it would be better that I should see the poor young man; but should that not be possible——
Laz. I should think it is possible, and that would be the best. You shall see him. I myself will take him to you—to your house. Yes, señor, to your house; yes, señor.