ACT I.

[Illustration]

The Son of Don Juan

IN SAME SERIES.

The Lady from the Sea.

A London Plane Tree, and other Poems.

Iphigenia in Delphi.

Mireio.

Lyrics.

A Minor Poet.

Concerning Cats.

A Chaplet from the Greek Anthology.

The Countess Kathleen.

The Love Songs of Robert Burns.

Love Songs of Ireland.

Retrospect, and other Poems.

Brand.

Mariana. By JOSÉ ECHEGARAY.

[_In Preparation._

[Illustration: José Echegaray, portrait]

The Son of Don Juan

_AN ORIGINAL DRAMA

IN 3 ACTS_

by

JOSÉ ECHEGARAY

Translated by JAMES GRAHAM

_CAMEO SERIES_

T. Fisher Unwin Paternoster Sq.

London E.C. MDCCCXCV.

_José Echegaray: a Sketch._

BY JAMES GRAHAM.

The author of the plays here done into English was born in Madrid on the

Thursday in Holy Week of sixty-three years ago. In spite of a fair

indication to go by, his friends are responsible for the curious

assertion that he himself does not know, or has not taken the trouble to

verify, the exact date of his birth. A reference to familiar sources of

chronology enables us to make a respectful claim to better information

on the point than the person most concerned. So the day of Señor

Echegaray’s birth maybe fixed precisely as the 19th of April, 1832.

The first three years of the dramatist’s life were passed in the capital

of Spain. In 1835 he was removed from Madrid by his father, who had just

obtained the appointment of Professor of Greek at the Institute of

Murcia. It was in Murcia that José received the rudiments of his

education; and while still a child he entered the institute. Here he

studied Latin under Professor Soriano, Natural History under Angel

Girao, and Greek under his own father. The boy was early seen to be

gifted with brain-power of the first order. And being of a docile and

amiable nature, of active and laborious habits, having the advantage of

excellent tutors, and being under the supervision of a kind and cultured

father, it is hardly to be wondered at that his progress in learning was

great and rapid. From the first he displayed that passion for

mathematics which has never grown cool in him throughout life. His

interest in literature itself was far from absorbing. He showed, indeed,

some liking for novels and romantic dramas. For tragic writers of the

stamp of Corneille and Racine he could not conceal his disrelish, though

the fairness of his mind would never permit him to ignore or deny the

many beauties of the classic drama. When he was fifteen years old he

became Bachelor of Philosophic Science, and proceeded to Madrid in the

month of October, 1847, to prepare for entrance into the Escuela de

Caminos. In this great school the mathematical professor was Angel

Riguelme, under whose able tuition young Echegaray devoted himself with

increased ardour to his favourite study. His affection for literature,

it is true, had been gradually strengthening. In the midst of his graver

studies he had also frequented the theatres. But he never failed to

return with an almost frenzied delight to the branch of knowledge which

afforded such food to his voracious intellect. To use his own language,

he “studied the higher mathematics ferociously, ravenously.” It has been

maintained that in all the records of Spanish scientific history no one

has ever been known to devote more eager and profound study to

mathematics than José Echegaray. His whole spirit seemed to be

inextricably identified with the subject, to be indissolubly enchained

to it. Mathematics became for him the most absolute of necessities, the

supreme of joys. The following is an experience related by a fellow

student of Echegaray when both were at the Escuela de Caminos. “Every

Saturday our professor of mathematics was fond of setting us problems of

the most difficult kind, the solutions of which we were expected to hand

in on the Monday. On a certain occasion the problem given out to us was

of such an excruciatingly intricate nature that the huge majority of the

class had to give up all hope of mastering it. I was among the

unsuccessful ones. I had seen Saturday, Sunday, pass over without

bringing me nearer to a glimpse of light. On the Monday morning I was

all at once inspired with the idea of going to Echegaray to obtain some

hint on a question which could not have failed to occupy his attention

at least as much as mine. It was an hour before the time appointed for

the opening of the Escuela and the delivering up of the answers. I set

out for Echegaray’s lodging. I found my friend in his room. The curtains

were drawn and the shutters were fastened over the windows. On the

chimney-piece was an expiring lamp. On the edge of the bed--the clothes

of which were tossed about in much disorder--sat Echegaray in his

nightshirt. His head was bent, and he was in an attitude of deep

thought. The noise which I made on entrance was as unsuccessful as my

friendly greeting in withdrawing him from his abstraction. He confined

himself to raising his hand with a gentle but expressive motion, and to

saying ‘Hush!’ Suddenly he bounded up, undressed as he was, and, to my

stupefaction, exclaiming, ‘Here it is!’ hurried across to a small board

close at hand. He commenced to draw lines upon lines and circles upon

circles, and dash down figures here and there, till at length he said,

‘The whole night have I been thinking of that problem, and--look there!’

And he drew back to show me the signs all fairly traced, the operation

completed, the problem solved. This rehearsed performance he repeated in

school that morning. He alone did it, to the admiration and almost to

the alarm of the professor himself, who, I think, had really given out

the problem without much serious thought of any one even attempting a

solution.”

Echegaray had entered the Escuela de Caminos in 1848. He finished his

course of study in 1853, carrying off with him the highest honours that

the institution could bestow, and being placed far and away the first of

all his contemporaries. Meanwhile the literary and dramatic instinct lay

almost entirely asleep in him. It sprang up fitfully now and then in a

curiosity to assist at the initiatory performances of pieces by

first-rate, second-rate, and even third-rate authors. Echegaray was

always held up as an exemplary pupil; he fulfilled his duties at school

with almost exaggerated obedience and scrupulousness; and yet once--only

once--he ran out of the Escuela de Caminos without permission that he

might not be too late to buy tickets for the first night of Ayala’s

drama, “El Hombre de Estado.” On leaving the Escuela, then, in 1853,

Echegaray had already seen many dramas, and had read a vast number of

French, English, Italian, and Portuguese novels, ancient and modern, of

all kinds. But he had not himself essayed anything in literature. He had

not written a verse. The making of verses appeared to him a thing quite

foreign to his nature. In this the enemies of Echegaray are affable

enough, for once, to agree with him; and they remain constant to their

belief when he has long since had ample reason for changing his mind.

The mathematical rigidity and angularity of much of his poetry, say

these enemies, is not compensated for even by the daring originality of

his conceptions, his nobility of sentiment, the richness of his imagery,

the splendour of his language; they deny to him, for instance, the

exquisite ease and melody of Espronceda, the bird-like spontaneity and

perhaps fatal fluency of José Zorilla. In short, during these days of

his dawning manhood, Echegaray had never dreamed of being a poet, still

less a dramatic genius.

The requirements of his profession as tutor of mathematics, to which he

now formally addressed himself, took him to various important

cities--Granada, Almeria, Palencia--thus keeping him away for years from

the capital, where he was destined to shine in whatever he undertook. At

last the moment came for his return to Madrid. He was elected Professor

of Mathematics at the Escuela de Caminos, at the very institution where

he had achieved such triumphs as a boy and a young man, and where he had

left behind him so many pleasing remembrances. And now his professional

engagements, and the extraneous tasks which he voluntarily imposed on

himself, scarcely left him time to breathe. During the thirteen years of

his occupation of the mathematical chair an immense number of classes

had the advantage of his teaching of the Infinitesimal Calculus,

Theoretical and Applied Mechanics, Hydrostatics, Curve-tracing,

Descriptive Geometry and its applications, Solid Geometry, and so on

into the dimmest heights of the science. During this time he devoted

himself to Political Economy, to Philosophy, to Geology, and to another

study, entered upon with slight equipment by many men, very seriously

and with all his faculties by this man--Politics. At the Bolsa and the

Free Exchange Propaganda he delivered orations full of subtle thought

and sound doctrine; in the Ateneo he spoke enthusiastically in favour

of pure democracy; in presence of the Society of Political Economy he

pronounced numerous discourses appropriate to their several occasions,

and distinguished by an order of eloquence which was looked upon as

remarkable, even in a capital where almost every one seems endowed with

the gift of picturesque and ready speech. He published different

articles in the _Economista_, _La Razon_, and other periodicals--it

seeming impossible that he should give his attention to multitudinous

labours of this kind, and at the same time devote eight or ten hours of

his days and nights to private lessons in mathematics and to public

lectures on other subjects, among which were Physics and Naval and

Military Engineering. Such excessive work would have paralysed a nature

less vigorous than Echegaray’s, but in the continuance of a portion of

it he was unexpectedly stopped. The private lessons which he had been

giving would have raised an independence for him. They were prohibited.

Echegaray was made a victim of the administrative despotism to which the

authorities of the Escuela de Caminos were compelled to bow. He applied

for a special license; it was refused. In his indignation he was about

to leave the Escuela. But there he was assured that he would be acting

ill-advisedly. If he indeed abandoned his career in defiance, he would

forfeit all his rights as a tutor in the public schools of Spain. The

earnest remonstrances of his friends, joined to the promptings of his

own reason, induced him to relinquish the design. His most powerful

motive against precipitancy was that he had not the heart to break with

the work of his whole life. He was the soul of the Escuela. He had

become indispensable, alike to his fellow professors and to his pupils.

Mathematics consoled him for all his trials, and to them he continued to

consecrate himself with a loving fervour which even he had never

surpassed. The mathematical treatises which he then began to send forth

in rapid succession from the press will not be readily allowed to die by

the scientific world of Spain.

Being about this time commissioned by the Spanish Government to study

the works of tunnel making at Mont Cenis, and having no opportunity of

doing so at leisure on his arrival, a very brief inspection sufficed for

him to understand, or rather to guess, the whole of the internal

mechanical arrangements of the perforators. And, thanks to this, and

without bringing away with him sketches or plans of any sort, he, on his

return to Spain, drew up a memorial with the most detailed

description--a description subsequently proved accurate in all essential

particulars--of the mechanism and procedure employed in the enterprise.

All this while there had been nothing in Echegaray’s tastes or

performances that gave evidence of the poet, the dramatist, or even, in

any distinct form, of the man of letters. His literary works, or rather

such works of his as had even a suspicion of literary flavour about

them, had been thus far confined to certain political orations, to

articles on Political Economy, to publications on Mathematics, and to a

humorous little sketch entitled, “The Comet, or a Carnival Joke,” which

appeared in a Madrid newspaper. Echegaray’s partiality for the reading

of novels and for the frequenting of theatres was the same. Still there

was no awakening within him of any expressed ambition to write in

emulation of those whose productions he admired as a spectator.

Towards the year 1864 it was that José’s brother Miguel, then a mere

lad, wrote a little piece in one act and in verse entitled, “Cara o

Cruz,” which was put on the stage, and was received in a friendly

manner. And José, equally startled and amused at the spectacle of his

boy brother writing smooth and harmonious verse, rapidly acquired the

conviction that, after all, the writing of verses ought to have no

stupendous difficulty about it. He did not long delay an experiment. He

immediately set about putting together an appalling tragic argument,

which he versified with tolerable ease. In this fashion was composed his

first play. He kept it by him for a year. Having in the meanwhile

dedicated himself with serious and characteristically energetic study to

the whole question of dramatic writing, he drew the piece forth and read

it a second time. He found it by no means equal to his first complacent

judgment of its merits. He at once chose a safer hiding-place for it

than previously, and it has never seen the light. Echegaray was becoming

more and more immersed in these new subjects of interest, when an

interruption came in the most notable public episode of his life. The

revolution of 1868, and the flight of Isabella, launched him into the

full tide of politics. His known ability naturally fitted him for the

playing of a prominent part. He was very speedily selected for Cabinet

rank in the newly-formed Government. He was created Minister for the

Colonies. His new duties, entered upon and sustained with vigour and

success, removed him for five years from the concerns of literature and

the drama. Towards 1873, on the dissolution of the Permanent Commission

of the Cortes, Echegaray’s name was proscribed. He was in imminent

danger of death. He escaped to France. Eventually the ban was taken

from his name, and his life was preserved, through the commanding

influence of Emilio Castelar. This has been ever since gratefully

acknowledged in a manner which does credit alike to the great orator and

the great dramatist.

In the meantime, during his comparatively brief exile, Echegaray had

written in Paris his drama, “El Libro Talonario.” It is the first of his

pieces which was put on the stage, and the date of its production is

February 18, 1874--not long after the author’s return to Spain. Nothing

commonplace could come from Echegaray, yet neither in style nor in

argument does the work give any revelation of the future greatness of

the writer. Very little better was the reception accorded by the critics

of Madrid to the second performance of the new poet, “La Esposa del

Vengador,” also produced in 1874. There was not one, however, who failed

to admit the numerous beauties of either play. The third effort, “La

Ultima Noche,” again, was declared to be a chaotic conjunction of graces

and monstrosities: as a work of genius unimpeachable; as a display of

true dramatic quality, absurd.

On the other hand, the public of Madrid, roused to the highest pitch of

interest in the new career marked out for himself by the celebrated

mathematician, the ex-Cabinet Minister, the returned exile, had been

receiving one after the other of his dramas with delight. This was not

enough for a man of such iron will as Echegaray. He was deliberately

bent on subduing his critics. His three first dramas had been

experiments. He had been merely trying his hand.

On the 12th of October, 1875, was produced “En el puño de la Espada.”

The play was welcomed with unanimous and boundless enthusiasm. The

irregular and fiery genius, whose only enemy seemed to be his individual

rashness, had stepped safely aside from down-rushing avalanches and

gaping precipices, had scaled the heights reached by those few alone

whose names will live, and was looking down in security and serenity

alike on admiring critics and acclaiming public. From that night the

severest judges of the Spanish capital recognised that there had come

among them a dramatist of the first rank. Since that night Echegaray’s

career has been one long triumphal march, his path strewn with flowers,

his eyes rejoiced with the smiles of countless friends, his ears greeted

with cries and songs of praise--and envy.

One of the most noted peculiarities in the onward course of Echegaray is

the mixture of patient scorn and fierce energy with which he declines to

look upon difficulties as insurmountable. Not merely in the solution of

a hard problem in mathematics, or in clearing from his path the

impediments which now make him rule the theatre of Spain as a monarch,

does Echegaray show the force of his will. The rough term in which

Ancient Pistol sums up the attributes of the Spaniard of Shakespeare’s

time could not be more ludicrously applied than to such a man as José

Echegaray.

In our country it is natural to conceive that we can pay no higher

compliment to a man than by proclaiming him to be even as one of

ourselves. Mr. Swinburne recognises--and with infallible justice--“a

decisive note of the English spirit in Molière,” as well as in Rabelais.

In one way, at least, in the moral if not in the intellectual sense, in

his resolution to ignore defeat, however incongruous be the task he may

undertake, there appears to the observer of Echegaray’s career something

strangely English. Two anecdotes may be given, alike as proofs of his

almost boundless versatility, and of his constancy in breaking through

seemingly impenetrable obstacles. On one occasion, he being in a

drawing-room with several of his friends, among whom was a philosophical

critic of some renown, the conversation fell upon German philosophy.

Echegaray, who knew little of the matter discussed, and less of the

German tongue, deemed it presumptuous to hazard an opinion for or

against the thesis advanced, and maintained an absolute silence.

Gradually, however, the debate resolved itself into a dispute as to the

possibility of making an exhaustive study of a certain school of

philosophy within a relatively short period. There can hardly be a more

modest or amiable man than Echegaray, and yet the mere breathing of the

word “impossibility” has been known at times to rouse him into an

attitude of imperial defiance almost worthy of Cæsar or Napoleon. He

left the house with the secret intention of proving that nothing is

difficult to a man with clear brain and indomitable purpose. From that

hour he devoted himself with patient zeal to no less a task than that of

studying the special school of philosophy just argued about in the very

fountains from which it emanated, in the original text of the German

authors themselves. With such effect did he apply himself that, two

months later, being in almost the same company, and the conversation--as

the narrators will have it, with the usual emphatic pointing to

coincidence--veering round to the same theme, the new student of

philosophy displayed a depth of discernment, an acuteness of independent

thought, a readiness of argumentative resource, a fertility of citation

from the German language itself, which confounded the listeners; and

apart from the congratulations on his new linguistic acquirement, there

was an unanimous admission that Echegaray had expressed himself on the

subject as a master in the midst of novices.

Another time he was in the company of friends who were engaged in a most

exhaustive dissertation on the art of fencing. Innumerable were the

experiences detailed in illustration of practice with the sabre, the

sword, and the foil. Those who were least excited by the discussion

turned now and then to Echegaray with a courteous explanation and a

general air of respectful apology for treating of matters in which he

could take no conceivable interest. Echegaray, in truth, had never held

an offensive weapon in his hand. Next day, however, he appeared at the

rooms of one of the best-known fencing masters of Madrid, enrolled his

name as a pupil, and took his first lesson instantly. There are living

eye-witnesses who tell how, three months afterwards, the grave

mathematician, the coming lord of the Spanish drama, in a desperate

encounter with foils, repeatedly hit, and at length actually disarmed

his fencing master himself, amid the intense amazement and uproarious

enthusiasm of bystanders, who counted among them some of the most expert

fencers in the Spanish capital.

Echegaray’s very career as a dramatist might in a measure be described

as a gigantic experiment in the art of vanquishing difficulties, an

elaborate and prolonged _tour-de-force_. He was a spectator of his

brother Miguel’s boyish and successful entrance into the domain of

dramatic poetry. He saw nothing to prevent himself from following in the

same path. His own prescription for writing verse is concise, and

contains a justification of his new departure. He sums up the full

requirements of a poet in “A little grammar, a little imagination, and

a tolerable ear for music.” This is a matter-of-fact style of putting

things which may seem rather like a ruthless tearing aside of the veil

from a sanctuary that should never be revealed to profane eyes. The

great unpublished poets whose own works are the result of the purest

inspiration will resent it accordingly. Yet there is reason for

suspicion that Shakespeare might have expressed himself on the dread

mystery in some such light-hearted manner as Echegaray. The Spanish

dramatist, however, omits one important condition which he, at least,

has well fulfilled. He has all through life acted up to the letter of

Carlyle’s teaching as to the “perennial nobleness and even sacredness”

of “Work.” With him the main necessity in all the ways of life is hard

labour, untiring drill, constant self-perfection. In his own example he

seems to declare that even poets cannot straightway claim to be in the

charmed circle of Mascarille’s “gens de qualité” qui “savent tout sans

avoir jamais rien appris.”

Perhaps one of the first things calculated to strike a student of

Echegaray is the air of gloom which overhangs many of his graver dramas.

Instances might be given in which a combination of nearly all the

elements of woe and despair, frequently leads to a catastrophe, from the

contemplation of which others besides the mere hysterical reader will

find it difficult to turn away with calmness. Yet this writer may, in a

certain sense, be said to have in him something of classic delicacy and

reserve--with regard, in especial, to scenes of death. The introduction

of death upon the stage seems invariably a matter of concern to him. Not

that it is ever awkwardly shrunk from. Indeed, when used as a last

resort, when “fear has had laid upon it as much as it can bear,” “when

life is weaned and wearied till it is ready to drop,” then death in the

hands of Echegaray comes forward at times with the weight of an almost

overwhelming consummation. The Spanish dramatist, in short, may fairly

claim a portion of that pleasing reverence for the dead which all true

artists have. To adduce illustrations which must appear unfashionable in

days when half a continent may be depopulated, without much protest, in

the course of a single volume. The author of “Guy Mannering” and the

author of “Monte Cristo,” in the very height of the gaiety, the

gallantry, the majesty of their descriptions of their own and former

times; Dickens and Thackeray, in the full flow of their mocking

indignation or their lacerating irony, will be seen all at once to stop

short. Their looks change. Their tones become softened and their eyes

downcast. They uncover their heads and compel us to do the same. For

they have led us into the presence of the dead; and before the lowliest

or the loftiest of their fellows--Meg Merrilies or the Abbé Faria, Betty

Higden or Colonel Newcome--these rare spirits incline themselves in

solemn veneration.

Of Echegaray’s power over the pulses of sorrow and terror, without the

intervention of death, an example may be found in “El Hijo de Don Juan.”

And here, perhaps, a few words may not be out of place, even in view of

Echegaray’s own “Prologue,” as to the true source of this drama. That it

was inspired by the reading of Ibsen’s “Ghosts,” we have the Spaniard’s

own declaration. But were it permissible to put aside the fact that both

works treat of the problem of heredity in its most hideous and harrowing

form, and the minor circumstance of the borrowing of Oswald’s phrase,

“Mother, give me the sun!”--words which, to the mind of Echegaray,

embody such picturesque and profound significance--Mr. William Archer

himself might not be reluctant to admit the essential originality of the

Spanish play. The truth is that “El Hijo de Don Juan” is a sombre and

relentless satire upon the real national hero of Spain, the being

immortalised by Molière and Mozart, and more or less caricatured in the

cruder imagination of José Zorilla. Don Juan, the gamester, the

libertine, the duellist, the bully, has been transported from the

sixteenth century to the nineteenth. He is in entirely new surroundings

and has become in a measure reformed. We find him past the sixtieth year

of his age, with a wife whom he has indeed ill-treated, but with a son

of whom he never tires of boasting. The disorders of his youth have left

him with none the strongest of brains. And now the sins of the parent,

in accordance with Echegaray’s unsparing rule, are visited upon the

child. The father’s own mental weakness is developed in the most grim

and terrible form in the gifted son. And so the flames in which Don Juan

Tenorio was untimely plunged, are rekindled in the hell of misery and

remorse with which the heir to his shameless renown sees the final

overthrow of his boy’s intellect. It is hardly too much to say that the

“Ghosts” is almost bright and frolicsome in comparison with the “Son of

Don Juan.” Echegaray has here deliberately chosen colours of funereal

blackness, and has laid them on with little regard for the feelings of

the sensitive reader. Ibsen leads us to the edge of his own “Inferno,”

and points to the pale faces of those whom his genius has condemned to

immortal suffering; but he hurries us aside before we have time to

become giddy. Echegaray drags us pitilessly down and holds us fast,

while in our very presence his victims are whirled shrieking past

us--borne along on burning winds, or stretched in agony on the rack.

Still with all deductions, the gift of true impressiveness, which has

been so abundantly acknowledged in Ibsen, will scarcely be denied to the

Spaniard who so frankly admits the influence of the Northern master.

This impressiveness may be set down to pathological causes, to the

unwholesomeness of the subject, to the lugubrious moral atmosphere in

which a pessimist like Ibsen, a teacher of Hebraic sternness like

Echegaray, loves at times to fold himself round. But whether the effect

of plays of this kind may or may not be illegitimate, it is, perhaps,

within its peculiar limits, entirely unexampled. Plays of high name,

plays filled with scenes of violence, with the ring and storm of battle,

with midnight murder, with death in its worst forms, might be placed for

comparison beside the “Son of Don Juan.” And though there is not a

death, not a blow struck from beginning to end of the Spanish drama,

such plays, with all their accumulations of misery and ferocity, might

be found to yield in the element of sheer horror to the spectacle of the

brilliant Lazarus, the poet, the dramatist, the coming glory of Spain,

waking from a trance under the anguished eyes of his father, his mother,

his betrothed, and bursting into the ravings of a hopeless madman.

Of Echegaray’s use of dramatic resources when he indeed brings death

upon the stage, a few examples maybe quoted. In “El Gran Galeoto” the

sudden exposure of the body of Julian to his unforgiven wife. In

“Mariana” the bloody sacrifice of the heroine--in presence of her real

lover--by the husband whom she loathes and defies. Lover and husband

stand armed over the corpse; but the stage is not therefore converted

into a shambles; we are merely left to conjecture that the two desperate

men confronting each other will not long survive the woman who has

coloured in such sinister fashion the lives of both. Another example,

more openly verging on the melodramatic, may be encountered in an

earlier drama than these, “En el seno de la Muerte.” Here is one of the

rare instances in which Echegaray has chosen a purely romantic period

for the scene of his play. A husband, treacherously wronged by the

brother and the wife whom he had almost equally loved, contrives his

revenge. He locks himself and the two culprits in the family mausoleum,

of which he alone has the key and he alone knows the secret. He does not

ignore, they do not ignore, the fact that there is no escape for any one

of them. After a painful scene of reproach, at the end of which the

traitor brother kills himself, the husband first throws the key which

had locked them in, then the torch which had illumined the dismal

magnificence of their surrounding’s, down a deep cavity which yawns

between the monuments. Finally, in utter darkness, he stabs himself dead

at his wife’s feet; and the curtain falls amidst an undefinable

impression of haunting dismay at the alternatives of fate before the

lonely survivor.

For obvious reasons Echegaray has been here referred to in connection

with Ibsen. Whether an apology for such a conjunction of names might in

reason be demanded by the most loyal of Ibsenites is doubtful, under the

present conditions of criticism. It cannot but be a source of relief to

any one helping to introduce a new author to the public, that the

process of comparison has been simplified of late; that the

qualifications exacted from competitors are drawn up in a spirit of

charming leniency; that the certificate of immortality is made more than

ever easy of attainment. Some years ago a writer thought fit, not only

without seeming sense of shame, but with the complacent air of one who

sees “a new planet swim into his ken,” to couple the names of Mr.

Rudyard Kipling and Charles Dickens. It must have been under the

inspiration of such criticism as this that Shakespeare was immediately

dethroned--for at least the hundredth time--and once again at the hands

of “our lively neighbour the Gaul.” Corneille, Racine, and Victor Hugo

were allowed to slumber tranquilly in their graves, and it was admitted

on behalf of England--by the Paris _Figaro_--that the author of

“Othello” was surpassed by M. Maurice Maeterlinck. Even under these

encouraging circumstances, however, it will not be here contended that

Señor Echegaray shows in his work anything comparable--“et oserai-je le

dire,” as M. Mirbeau would say--“supérieure en beauté à ce qu’il y a de

plus beau dans Shakespeare.” It might be suggested that “Mariana”--Señor

Echegaray’s masterpiece in female creation--would have been readily

accepted as a companion with Charmian and Iras in attendance on the most

complex of all heroines--Cleopatra. Further than this it will not be

safe to go.

Echegaray may be noted as displaying, even in the following mournful

drama, a genuine and, as a rule, unforced sense of humour. In his comic

passages, however, he has a fault which he shares with Shakespeare--and

the editor of _Punch_. He is a remorseless punster.

This poet’s genius, as may have been remarked, burst into bloom at a

time beyond the midsummer of life. He was forty-two before his first

drama was produced. That is twenty-one years ago. Since then his

activity has never known exhaustion. He is now the author of some fifty

plays. There are particular years among the past twenty-one in the

course of which he has put upon the stage as many as four dramas, not

one of which is carelessly written, though one imitation from the

German, “El Gladiador de Ravena,” was commenced and completed within

three days. During these twenty-one years, indeed, he appears to have

determined on making up for what, in other important respects, had

certainly not been lost time. Civil engineers have found and still find

it to their advantage to consult him on points which are the special

study and occupation of their lives. He has published three formidable

volumes on the “Modern Theories of Physics.” A well-known book of his

has appeared on sub-marine vessels of war. He has lectured on Political

Economy and Geology with equal success. He is admitted by Spaniards to

be the chief of their own mathematicians; they further claim for him the

honour of being one of the first mathematicians in the world. He is an

orator who has won the applause of Castelar himself. There were only

wanting his labours as a poet and a dramatist to set the seal upon a

career of almost universal aptitude. Those labours have earned for him a

renown which will assuredly not be allowed to die in his own country.

Be the praise high or low, in view of the condition of Spanish

literature between the seventeenth century and the nineteenth, Spaniards

declare that for more than two hundred years their drama has not brought

forth a serious rival to this man. And there can hardly be a doubt that,

in any selection of names of the greatest dramatists ever sprung from

Spain, Lope de Vega and Calderon de la Barca will find the place nearest

to themselves occupied by José Echegaray.

TWO WORDS BY WAY OF PROLOGUE.

In trying to interpret the idea of my last drama, “The Son of Don Juan,”

the critics have said many things. That the idea was the same as that

which inspired Ibsen in his celebrated work entitled “Gengangere.” That

the passions which it sets in movement are more natural to the countries

of the North than to our sunnier climes: that it deals with the problem

of hereditary lunacy. That it discusses the law of heredity. That it is

sombre and lugubrious, with no other object than that of arousing

horror. That it is a purely pathological drama. That it contains nothing

more than the progress of a case of lunacy. That from the moment when it

is perceived that Lazarus will go mad, the interest of the work ceases,

and nothing remains but to follow step by step the shipwreck of the poor

creature--and so forth. I think that all this is but a series of

lamentable equivocations on the part of the great and little judges of

the dramatic art. The idea of my drama was not one of those mentioned.

Its motive is very different, but I shall not explain it. Why should I?

In all the scenes of my work, in all its personages, in nearly all its

phrases it is explained. Moreover, to explain it would be dangerous; it

might be imagined that my proposal was to defend the poor Son of Don

Juan under the pretext of exposing the central idea from which he drew

birth. I never defend my dramas; when I write their last word I leave

them to their fate. I neither defend them materially nor morally. I

finish a drama, I give it to the management of a theatre, it is put on

the stage, it is liked or not liked, according to the favour of God. The

management does what is most suited to its interests, without my

interference: the actors represent it as they can, almost always very

well, the public pronounces its judgment in one sense or another,

according to its feelings, and the critics unbosom themselves to their

satisfaction. I neither wish nor ought, if only from good taste, to

defend my new drama; but it contains one phrase which _is not mine_,

which _is Ibsen’s_; and that phrase I must defend energetically, for I

consider it one of extraordinary beauty: “Mother, give me the sun,” says

Lazarus. And this phrase, simple, infantile, almost comic, enfolds a

world of ideas, an ocean of sentiments, a hell of sorrows, a cruel

lesson, a supreme warning to society and to the family circle. Thus I

look at it. A generation devoured by vice; which bears even in its bones

the virus engendered by impure love; with a corrupted blood which in its

course drags along organisms of corruption mingled with its ruddy

globules, this generation goes on falling and falling into the abysses

of idiocy: the cry of Lazarus is the last twilight of a reason which

founders in the eternal blackness of imbecility. And at the same time

nature awakes and the sun comes forth--another twilight which will very

soon be all light. And the two twilights meet and cross and salute each

other with the salutation of everlasting farewell at the close of the

drama. Reason, which is precipitated downward, impelled by the

corruption of pleasure. The sun, which springs upward with immortal

flames, impelled by the sublime forces of nature. Below, human reason

which has come to an end; above, the sun which begins a new day. “Give

me the sun,” says Lazarus to his mother. Don Juan likewise asked for it

from between the tresses of the woman of Tarifa. On this point there is

much to be said: it gives room for much thought. For, in truth, if our

society.... But what the devil are these philosophical speculations that

I am plunging into? Let every man compose such for himself as best he

may, and let him clamour for the sun or beg for the horns of the moon,

or ask for what suits his appetite. Does nobody understand or take an

interest in these matters? What then? This, at most would prove that the

modern Don Juan continues to bequeath many sons to the world, though

they have not the talent of Lazarus. Let us give a respectful greeting

to the sons of Don Juan.

_PERSONS OF THE DRAMA._

CARMEN.

DOÑA DOLORES.

PACA.

TERESA.

LAZARUS.

DON JUAN.

DON TIMOTEO.

DOCTOR BERMUDEZ.

JAVIER.

DON NEMESIO.

_First represented March 29, 1892._

[_Rights of adaptation and stage representation reserved._]

ACT I.

_The scene represents a room for business or study. It is mounted

in elegant yet severe taste, with something of a worldly style,

indicated by some artistic object which betrays predilections of

that kind. On the left of the spectator is a very light and

charming tea-table to accommodate three or four persons; upon the

table is a candle or night-light with a bright-coloured shade; and

surrounding it are three small arm-chairs or cushioned seats and

smoking chairs. On the right is a desk--not very large, though

massive and sober in style: behind, a chair or writing stool. At

the side of the desk a high stool or better still an arm-chair.

Upon the desk a lighted lamp with a dark shade. Also on the desk,

in a framed easel, the photograph of_ CARMEN. _On the left first

wing a balcony, to the right a fireplace with a very bright fire:

at one side a large portative screen. Over the doors and the

balcony thick, sober-hued curtains. A door in the background, and a

door at either side. If it be possible, there should also be in the

background a small bookcase, dark and rich: at the left forming a

pendant, a cabinet, dark like the bookcase, and full of objects of

art. If this be impossible, two equivalent pieces of furniture. In

short, a room which gives evidence of rich though not opulent

possessors, and which above all denotes the contrast of two

tastes:--the one austere, the other gay and worldly. It is night._

SCENE.

DON JUAN, _and_ DON TIMOTEO, DON NEMESIO _discovered seated round

the tea-table, drinking strong liqueurs and smoking. The three are

old, but give token of different types: the three bear the stamp of

life-long self-indulgence. It is recognised, however, that_ DON

JUAN _has been a man of gaiety and fashion._

JUAN. Timoteo!

TIM. What?

JUAN. I have a suspicion.

TIM. What about?

JUAN. That we are getting old.

TIM. How have you got to know?

JUAN. I’ll tell you: there are symptoms. When the weather changes all my

joints are sore. When I wish to stretch out this leg merrily, it entails

labour on me, and in the end it is the other leg which moves. Moreover

my sight is failing: when I see a dark girl in the street, she looks

fair to me; and if a girl happens to be fair, she becomes so obscured as

to turn dark before my eyes.

NEM. That’s weakness; you should take a tonic. (_Drinks._)

JUAN. My stomach cannot endure alcohol now: I drink out of compliment;

but I know that it does me harm.

TIM. Because it is not the alcohol of our time.

NEM. This is corrosive sublimate alcoholised.

TIM. It is the alcohol which has grown old. (_Walks about jauntily._) I

feel young still--Ah!

JUAN. What’s the matter?

TIM. While simply moving I seem to have disjointed my whole vertebral

column. The devil, the devil!

NEM. (_drinking calmly_). Something or other will have got dislocated.

JUAN. Let us undeceive ourselves: we are nearing the City of Old Age. By

the life of life, how short is life! (_Strikes the chair with his

fist._) Ah!

TIM. What ails you?

JUAN. A pain in the elbow--and in this shoulder.

NEM. The weather; it’s damp. (_Drinks._)

TIM. Juanito, you have never been very strong.

JUAN. I have not been? I have not been? I have been stronger than you

all. For twenty-four hours running I have played cards: for three days

running I have been shut up with Pacorro and Luis emptying bottles: and

my patron Saint Juan Tenorio, from the heaven where he dwells in company

with Doña Inez, will have seen how I have borne myself in amorous

enterprises. You, on the other hand, have been nothing more than the

braggadocios of vice. Away with such lay-figures.

TIM. We don’t deny that you have been a greater madcap than anybody

else; but strong--what’s called a strong man--that you have not been.

NEM. You have not been that--confess.

JUAN. What have I to confess?

TIM. Something has happened to you which never happened to any one else.

JUAN. What happened to me?

TIM. In order to get your spine straightened you had to be put in a

casing of paste, and they used to hang you up by the neck twice a day.

JUAN. But that was because we were playing at single stick in the Plaza

de Toros, and they broke two of my ribs; that might happen to anybody.

TIM. No, no: you were not like us. Do you remember, Nemesio? “Where is

Juanito?” “In bed.” “Where is Juanito?” “At Panticosa.” “Where is

Juanito?” “At Archena.” “Where is Juanito?” “Shut up in his casing.”

“Where is Juanito?” “At this moment they must be hanging him.” Ha, ha!

TIM. _and_ NEM. _laugh_. DON JUAN _looks at them angrily_.

JUAN. Don’t laugh very loud, or we shall have a general breaking up. I

have been a man and you two have been pitiful fellows. You (_to_ TIM.),

got married at forty: you locked yourself up in a corner of this town

with your wife, and there was an end of Timoteo. You (_to_ NEM.), flying

like a coward from the storms of the world, took refuge in Arganda,

where you drink each year the vintage of the year before. I, on the

other hand (_speaking with proud emphasis_), I--it is true that I also

got married--at forty-two; but that’s no proof of weakness. If Don Juan

Tenorio had been allowed the time, he would have married Doña Inez, and

indeed there is a rumour that they celebrated their mystic wedding in

heaven. But I, the other Don Juan, got married like a man, like a free

citizen; yet I did not thereupon abandon the field of honour. I am

myself at home, myself abroad, at nine in the convent, at ten in this

street. Well, then I had my Lazarus!--Eh!--There’s a lad! That’s what it

is to have a son.

TIM. God help me, with your glorious triumph! Jump into the street, and

you won’t see a neighbour who is not the son of somebody. Each

individual has a father.

NEM. One father at least.

JUAN. Yes, but I was the libertine; I was the man that drained the cup

of pleasure and the cask from the wine-cellar: the invalid of the orgie.

“That fellow is consumptive,” they used to say. “That fellow will die

some morning,” you thought. And suddenly I became restored to life in

Lazarus. Lazarus is my resurrection. And how robust and strong he is.

And what talent he has! A prodigy--a Byron, an Espronceda, an Edgar

Poe--a genius. That’s not what I alone say: you have it written in all

the journals of Madrid.

TIM. Yes, the lad is able.

NEM. He is able.

JUAN. Well, now, frankly--he who has led the life that I have led--he

who while saying: “I must rest for a time,” has a son like Lazarus: that

man--is he not a man, indeed?

TIM. Fine subject of rejoicing for a Tenorio.

JUAN. What subject?

TIM. This of yours. Does it not come to this that you are the father of

a genius?

JUAN. And what then, dotards? Strength is strength, and becomes

transformed: you don’t understand this. I make no doubt that I had all

the genius of Lazarus concealed in some corner of my brain; but as I

gave it neither time nor opportunity it could not exhibit itself. At

last it grew tired of waiting, and it said: “Eh! I am going with the

son, because with the father I can make no headway.” (_Laughing._)

TIM. Don’t delude yourself, Juanito. The talent of Lazarus, for indeed

he seems to have great talent, is not inherited from you: he must have

derived it from his mother. The paternal heritage will have been some

rheumatism, some affection of the nerves.

NEM. The sediments of pleasure and the dregs of alcohol. (_Drinks._)

JUAN. Blockheads! I went through my school-days badly, and I lived

worse; but there was something in me.

TIM. Quite a genius frittered away on a lost soul.

JUAN. It may be so.

NEM. And by what did you recognise this something?

TIM. When was it?

NEM. And where?

JUAN. It was on awaking from a drunken bout.

TIM. Now that you are going to ascend to the sublime don’t say a drunken

bout.

JUAN. Well then, on arising from an orgie.

NEM. That’s well. “To Jarifa in an Orgie,” Espronceda. (_Drinks._)

JUAN. Yes, señor, the very thing. I once felt that which neither of you

ever experienced.

NEM. Tell us, tell us. This ought to be curious. Another little glass,

Timoteo.

TIM. Come. To the health of the disappointed genius. (_Coughing._)

NEM. Of the unsuccessful genius. (_Drinks._)

DON JUAN _is thoughtful_.

TIM. Begin.

JUAN. You remember the season we passed at my country seat in Sevilla,

in the year--in the year----?

TIM. The year I don’t recollect--but very well do I remember the

country-house, on the banks of the Guadalquivir, with an Oriental

saloon, divans, carpets--those famous carpets.

NEM. True, true! I was always walking on them. Aniceta, the little

gipsy--you remember?--used to cry out, “I am sinking, I am sinking.”

TIM. True, true! and as she was so little she used to sink out of sight,

really.

NEM. Delightful time. Don Juan’s country seat--so we called it.

TIM. What I liked was that running balcony or gallery, or whatever it

was. What a view! The Guadalquivir! And it looked towards the East--you

saw the sun rise--it was enchanting. (_To_ JUAN.) Have you fallen

asleep?

JUAN. I? I never sleep. That’s what I should like--to sleep. For this is

the way I pass the night--with a wrench of this nerve and a wrench at

the other. The little pain which is in the neighbourhood of my elbow

goes for a walk. My cough appears before it and says, “Good evening,

neighbour.” My head cries out, “I am going to waltz for a while, stand

away there.” And my stomach heaves, “No, for God’s sake; I shall be

sea-sick.” Sleep, indeed! It’s ten years since I have slept.

NEM. But you are not telling us the story.

JUAN. What story?

TIM. Why, man, that about the fiery outbreak of genius. When you learned

that you had something inside here. (_Touching his forehead._) Something

sublime, eh?

NEM. I should think so, corrosive sublimate. Ha, ha! Another little

glass.

TIM. Come. However, we are left at where you got to know once upon a

time that you were a larva-like genius--like the pulmonary larvæ.

JUAN. I got to know it. There’s nothing to laugh at.

NEM. In your country seat by the Guadalquivir?

JUAN. The very same.

TIM. In the Oriental saloon--the one with the divans, the balcony

looking towards the East and the Persian carpet?

JUAN. Exactly.

TIM. During a night of orgies?

JUAN. No--next morning--on awaking.

TIM. On awaking from the orgie! “Bring hither, Jarifa, bring hither

thine hand--come and place it upon my brow!” (_Taking the hand of_ DON

NEMESIO.)

NEM. (_withdrawing his hand_). Your brow is all right. Ha, ha! Don’t

make me laugh.

TIM. Then look--thine hand--a pure branch of the vine.

JUAN. Don’t you want to hear me?

NEM. I should think so. Tell your story.

TIM. But you must tell it seriously, solemnly, dramatically. The awaking

of Don Juan--after a night of orgies.

JUAN. Then here goes.

NEM. _and_ TIM. _take convenient positions for listening to him_.

It was a grand night--a grand supper. There were eight of us--each with

a partner. Everybody was drunk--even the Guadalquivir. Aniceta appeared

on the gallery and began to cry out, “Stupid, insipid, waterish river,

drink wine for once!” and she threw a bottle of Manzanilla into it.

TIM. She was very lively, Aniceta. She once threw a bottle of wine at

my head--but it was empty.

NEM. Your head?

TIM. The bottle. Continue, continue--but, seriously--eh?

JUAN. Well, I was lying asleep along the floor, upon the carpet, close

to a divan. And on the divan there had fallen by one of the usual

accidents, the Tarifeña--Paca, the Tarifeña. Nobody noticed it, and on

the divan she lay asleep. Amidst her tossings to and fro, her hair had

become loose--a huge mass! and it fell over me in silky waves--a great

quantity.

NEM. Not like Timoteo’s. (TIMOTEO _is bald_.)

JUAN. Not like Timoteo’s. But if you interrupt me I shall lose the

inspiration.

TIM. Continue--continue, seriously, Juanito.

JUAN. We leave off at where I was asleep on the carpet, when the

loosened hair of the Tarifeña fell over my head and face, enfolding me

as in a splendid black mantle of perfumed lace. Would you like anything

more serious?

TIM. It goes well so.

NEM. Keep yourself to that height.

TIM. To the height of the carpet?

NEM. Each one mounts to the height of which he is worthy. Go on.

JUAN. The dawn arrived. It was summer.

TIM. And yet it rained.

JUAN. No, my dear fellow, a delightful morning: the balcony open: the

East with splendid curtains of mist and of little red clouds, the sky

blue and stainless, a light more vivid kindling into flame the distant

horizon.

TIM. So, so--to that height.

NEM. Very poetical, very poetical--don’t fall off.

JUAN. Slowly the crimson globe ascended. I opened my eyes wide, and I

saw the sun. I saw it from between the interwoven tresses of the

Tarifeña--it inundated me with its light, and I stretched forth my hand

instinctively to grasp it. Something of a new kind of love, a new desire

agitated me. Great brightness, much azure, very broad spheres, vague yet

burning aspirations--for something very beautiful. For a minute I

understood that there is something higher than the pleasure of the

senses: for a minute I felt myself another being. I wafted a kiss to the

sun, and pulled aside in anger the girl’s hair. One lock clung about my

lips--it touched my palate and gave me nausea. I flung away the tress--I

awoke the Tarifeña--and vice dawned through the remains of the orgie,

like the sun through the vapours of the night, its mists and its

fire-coloured clouds.

TIM. Good for Juanito. We are moved, profoundly moved.

NEM. Unfathomably moved. (_Drinks._)

TIM. But with what object have you told us all that I don’t remember.

JUAN. To prove to you that there have existed within me noble

aspirations.

TIM. Ah! yes, sublime desires.

NEM. Superhuman longings.

JUAN. Quite so: and that everything which was deprived of the

opportunity of making itself known in me, or which ran to waste through

other channels will revive in my Lazarus in the forms of talent,

inspiration, genius, wing that flutter, creations that spring forth,

applause, glory, immorality. Ah! you’ll see--you’ll see.

TIM. Your posthumous blowing off of steam.

JUAN. My last and most pure illusion--no, the only pure illusion of my

existence. And you ought to be glad that my son is getting on so well,

you scapegrace. (_Giving_ TIM. _a playful slap_.)

TIM. I?

NEM. Ah, ah! I understand you. Another glass to the health of the bride

and bridegroom.

JUAN. Eh? What do you say? (_To_ DON T.)

TIM. Ah, yes; no, it is impossible. My poor Carmen is very much in love:

but I don’t know if Lazarus----

JUAN. Lazarus is mad about her. He is reserved enough, but he is mad.

TIM. Well, look; if the son is going to resemble the papa I should be

very sorry to form the relationship, frankly.

JUAN. Much obliged to you, venerable grandfather.

NEM. No, Lazarus is very steady.

TIM. The fact is 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.

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?

NEM. No! Like the 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!

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.

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. 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._)

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.

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.

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!

_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._

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._)

END OF ACT I