_The scene represents a room in the country seat of_ DON JUAN, _on
the banks of the Guadalquivir, in accordance with the description
in the earlier part of the first act, although with some pieces of
furniture of a more recent period and of more sober taste. There
still remain some divans, the carpet and various objects of art.
Furthermore, a little table and a low chair. In the background is a
balcony or terrace, which is understood to encircle the building.
There is an ample view of the sky and of the horizon. If the
balcony can be made to slope somewhat towards the left, so much the
better for the final scene. A door at the right, another to the
left. A lounge to the right: to the left a sofa: a lighted lamp on
some table to the side or at the back. It is night: the sky blue
and starlight; as the act proceeds the lights of dawn gradually
ascend._
DON TIMOTEO, JAVIER _and_ PACA _are discovered; the last named
walks about the back and on the terrace as if to arrange something:
she is dressed in a black or very dark costume: mantle[2] of black
crape and with fringes_.
TIM. And so Dolores wrote to you?
JAV. Yes, señor. Lazarus wished to see me: my company was very much
wanted to hasten on his convalescence: he was talking constantly about
me. Finally, I said: “I must go there,” I took the train, and two hours
ago I planted myself at the door of this country seat, of this
delightful country seat; which ought to have admirable views, as far as
I have been able to judge by the feeble light of the stars.
TIM. But didn’t you know it? Weren’t you acquainted with Don Juan’s
country seat?
JAV. No, señor.
TIM. (_waggishly_). I was. I have known it for many years. I knew
it--ay, when Juan and I were young men! When I used to call him Juanito,
and he called me Timoteito. Ah, ah! (_mysteriously._) What a number of
reminiscences these venerable precincts awaken! All that you see is
impregnated with love and madness, with alcohol and merriment. I could
tell you: on this divan Juan one day fell down drunk: in that corner I
fell one night in the same condition: and on that balcony we both fell
one morning in a similar situation. Oh, most sacred memories! Oh,
beloved images of the past! (_To_ PACA). What are you doing here?
PACA. I am putting everything in order, señor.
TIM. And now you will see such a panorama. That balcony looks toward the
East, and you see the Guadalquivir--“Sevilla, Guadalquivir, how you do
torment my mind!” The loveliest girls of the Sevillian land have
breakfasted here, have danced here, have sung here, and have got drunk
here.
JAV. Ah, ha! you amused yourselves here in fine style.
PACA _sighs_.
TIM. (_turning round in ill humour_). Have you not done? Have you not
done, Paca.
PACA. Well, I remained to see--if you gentlemen wanted anything, that’s
all.
TIM. Nothing, you may go to the kitchen.
PACA. Very well, Don Timoteo: to the kitchen. Ah! my God! (_She takes a
low chair on to the terrace, sits dawn and fans herself._)
TIM. I tell you that I can look at nothing which surrounds me without
being moved. The girls from Sevilla, the girls from Malaga, the girls
from Tarifa! But let us make a full stop. I am perverting you, young
man: and at my age that’s a villainous thing. But the fact is that there
were certain girls from Sevilla and Malaga and Cadiz, and certain girls
from Tarifa.
PACA _gives a very big sigh on the balcony_.
Who’s that sighing? The devil of a woman, there’s nothing dismal in what
we are saying--are you here still?
PACA (_from the balcony and without rising_). To see if Don Timoteo
wanted anything.
TIM. I do want something, and this gentleman wants something. Bring us a
few glasses.[3]
PACA _rises and approaches_.
JAV. Many thanks: they gave me supper a short time ago: it is now very
late--and I take nothing at such an hour as this. (_To_ PACA.) Don’t
trouble yourself on my account.
PACA. Then.
TIM. Then, trouble yourself on my account. Go go, and bring that.
PACA. Yes, señor, yes; I am going, Don Timoteo.
JAV. Good heavens! Manzanilla at this hour?
TIM. Yes, yes, of course, I know that you are very steady. Lazarus
writes dramas; you write history; but, my friend, a glass is taken at
any historical moment whatever.
JAV. At any historical moment? But one o’clock in the morning, although
it be an exquisite morning of summer, is that an historical moment or a
moment to go to sleep?
TIM. For the pleasure of tasting, eh? for the pleasure of tasting a
sweet little drop of Manzanilla, the twenty-four hours of this day, and
the twenty-four of the following, and those of the next, are marked down
in all treatises, young man. Admit that there are no young men nowadays.
JAV. How can it be helped? There are young men who are old, and there
are old men who die quite young.
TIM. It’s true. Since I came eight days ago to the country seat, my
remembrances have become refreshed, and I feel as if I were fifteen
years old.
JAV. And in a few more days you’ll feel as if you were fifteen months.
TIM. Halloa! Halloa! that figure of speech is called irony.
JAV. A respectful irony, Don Timoteo. But I did not think to meet you at
the country seat of Don Juan.
TIM. I had brought poor Carmen to Sevilla. She is very delicate. With
those unfortunate events--with the illness of Lazarus--and what you
know already. But when once at Sevilla, Juanito was anxious that we
should come and pass a few days here. And I, to give that pleasure to
Carmen, and to contribute to the recovery of Lazarus--who, they
declared, was going on very well--I consented and here we are.
JAV. Restored to youth.
TIM. Believe me, Javier, in what I told you just now: there is no longer
any youth now: Carmen with her afflicted little chest: Lazarus with his
disordered nerves; you with your sedateness and your megrim. We were of
another stamp.
JAV. Perhaps it’s because you were of another stamp, that we are made
after this fashion. But let us change the subject, Don Timoteo. And so
there is a complete reconciliation, and a wedding in perspective?
TIM. I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you. But that Paca is not bringing the
Manzanilla. (_Looking to see if she comes._) Really there was no cause
to be offended. Lazarus said what he said--in a fever! You saw him fall
senseless at the feet of Carmen. What the devil was the meaning of that?
Go and learn that. In my time when a man fell down thus, it was decided
to be drunkenness or apoplexy, and so medical science became simplified
and was within the reach of everybody. But in these days, interpret you
who can what’s the matter with the man who falls insensible.
JAV. Poor Lazarus was very ill. However, they say that he is now getting
on perfectly: the malady has passed the critical point.
TIM. So they say and he seems very much restored: but he is always a
very extraordinary person--like all men of talent.
JAV. And so we shall have the wedding.
TIM. Hum--wedding--that’s flour from another sack. I say nothing so as
not to distress Carmen, not to be disagreeable to the parents, and
because I would not give the boy another fainting fit. If Lazarus
recovers completely and comes back to what he was, and writes something
that will bring him considerable fame--sufficient to prove that his
brain is quite sound--then the way is clear--eh? Because Carmen, poor
Carmen. But this Paca is not coming!
JAV. Carmen is very fond of him, is she not?
TIM. I don’t know--I don’t know that girl, God help me! I am taking her
away soon: within four or five hours we shall set out to catch the
train. And before going away I shall speak to Bermudez.
JAV. I only saw Lazarus for a moment, and he seemed to me----
TIM. How?
JAV. Much better. Youth works miracles. (_Aside._) Poor Lazarus!
TIM. It’s true, it’s true. I myself had--I don’t know what--and I was so
to say--crazy for more than a year--much more; and it passed off.
JAV. Well nobody would think it--I mean nobody would think that you had
ever had--anything--of that kind of infirmity--eh?
TIM. Well, I had it, I had it--they believed that it had left me an
idiot----
JAV. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
TIM. But that devil of a woman who is not coming! She knew quite well
that the Manzanilla was only for me, and she delights in mortifying me.
She has a most perverse mind. And she was always the same; you don’t
know what that woman has been!
JAV. Who? She who was here just now?
TIM. Exactly; that was one of the most magnificent women in all
Andalusia. She was called Paca the Tarifeña.
JAV. Ah ha! who would have said so!
TIM. I should have said so, Juanito would have said so, Nemesio would
have said so, and everybody would have said so. The Tarifeña! the girl
from Tarifa!--she who acts in this house to-day as a servant or little
better, twenty or thirty years ago commanded like a mistress.
Afterwards, as always happens, she rambled about--rambled about--and
farewell beauty, farewell grace, farewell magnificence. Old age,
ugliness and misery, the three enemies--I’ll not say of the soul, but of
the bodies of pretty girls, fed themselves upon the gay Tarifeña. Five
or six years ago Juan got to know of it; he felt sorry, and he took her
into this country house, as mistress of the keys or something--as a
matter of form. In short, she is in service in the country seat; but she
will not be of much service, for she was always very lively, but very
lazy.
JAV. Yet, so beautiful?
TIM. A sun! But women break down early. We men preserve ourselves
better. Who would say that I am fifty-eight years old?
JAV. Nobody! Whatever else you may be accused of--(_Aside._)
Seventy-five!
TIM. I should think so. Halloa! I think Lazarus is coming.
_Enter_ LAZARUS _on the left. Behind comes_ Doctor BERMUDEZ, _but
at a certain distance from_ LAZARUS, _as if observing him and being
on the watch_.
LAZ. (_looking at_ DON TIMOTEO _and_ JAVIER). This night we are all
sitting up, the sitting up of the farewell.
TIM. I am obliged to you, but there was no need for you to trouble
yourself. Let us say farewell now: you go to bed: and Carmen and I at
daybreak, very quietly, without rousing anybody, will set out for the
train.
LAZ. So, so; very quietly, without waking anybody, in the silence of the
night: so you wish to steal Carmen away. And so happiness is stolen
away. Treachery! But I am watching and I shall watch: Lazarus has risen,
and now he will never sleep any more. These eyes are very wide open to
see everything (_tenderly_): the dear little head of my Carmen
(_laughing_), the great, villainous head of Don Timoteo. To see the day
with its splendour and the night with its gloom. (_Going to the
balcony._) How beautiful is the morning star--is it not? It is always
there. We seem to have made an appointment with each other. “I shall
appear in heaven,” she says, “and do you appear at the balcony, and we
shall gaze upon each other.” I cannot gaze upon you, forgive me; Carmen
would be jealous. She not being at my side, I do not wish to gaze on
anybody, I do not care to see anybody. (_Withdraws irritably from the
balcony and sees_ BERMUDEZ.) Halloa, dearest doctor, were you here? Did
you follow me? Did they send you to take charge of me? Well, look you,
it annoys me to have a sentinel always in sight--(_Restraining himself
and changing his tone_) unless he be so kind-hearted as my dear doctor.
_They all advance to the first entrance._
BERM. I came with you to beg you not to sit up. Now go to bed, take some
rest, and at daybreak I shall awaken you that you may bid good-bye to
Carmen and to Don Timoteo.
LAZ. That’s what you want! I am not a child: I am not to be deceived.
How does he who sleeps know what he will see on his awaking? If he does
awake! (_Sits down._)
TIM. However. (_Approaching him._)
JAV. (_approaching still nearer_). I give you my word....
BERM. (_All surround him._) We all promise you solemnly----
LAZ. It is useless--don’t trouble yourselves. Besides I neither believe
anybody, nor trust in anybody. I don’t trust myself, and I am always
observing myself whether perchance--in short, I understand myself: then
how should I trust you? You perceive that that’s asking too much. And
enough, enough--I have said no.
BERM. As you please, Lazarus.
LAZ. Moreover, sitting up is delightful. What a sky! what a night, what
a river! Just now we were downstairs in the drawing-room that looks on
to the garden, my mother, my father, Carmen, the doctor, I--(_counting
on his fingers_) and Paca likewise. All seated, all resting, and
somewhat sleepy, excepting Paca. In an angle a lamp: the doors on a
level with the outside: the sky in the distance: the garden with its
twining plants and its rose trees making itself a portion of the saloon,
as if to bear us company: the penetrating perfumes of the lemon flower,
and the freshness of the river impregnating the atmosphere: little
insects of all colours, a few butterflies among them, as if engendered
by the air, came from without, attracted by the lamp, and fluttered
between the light and the gloom, as ideas revolve within me now; and
Paca too was fluttering amidst us all. (_A pause._) What, you are
laughing? (_To_ JAVIER.)
JAV. I am not laughing.
LAZ. Yes; you laugh because I said that Paca was fluttering between my
father, my mother, Carmen and myself. Well, I maintain it: is it only
butterflies that flutter about? Flies and gad-flies flutter as well. And
so, as I lay there with eyes half closed, Paca, with her black dress and
her black mantle with its fringe, seemed to me an enormous fly. She
fluttered ponderously from my father to my mother--serving my father
with sherry and my mother with iced water--and between Carmen and
myself, to worry me with questions, and to fix a flower in Carmen’s
hair, rustling against us both with her mantle and its fringes, as a fly
rustles with its dark and hairy wings. She is a kind woman but I felt a
repugnance, a loathing, and a chill, and I came up to stand and breathe
on yonder balcony.
JAV. And to contemplate the stars.
LAZ. One, no more than one. And such extravagant ideas! But we
apprentices of poetry are thus. You are right, Bermudez,
extravagant--very--very--. I was thinking of Paca, I was gazing at the
star, and I felt an insane, ridiculous, but unconquerable desire. It was
to seize one of my foils, to run it through the gad-fly with her fringed
mantle, as one runs an insect through with a pin, and to burn her at the
light of that most beautiful star. Like what? The putrescence of
humanity which is consumed and purified in heavenly flames. You don’t
understand me, Don Timoteo?
TIM. Well, I don’t think there is much to understand--and even though a
man may not be a genius----
LAZ. Don’t be vexed: these are jokes: I offend you? The father of
Carmen? when for her sake I am ready to go down on my knees and to
declare that you are young and beautiful and that you have brains, and
to compel the whole world to declare the same. Your arms, Don Timoteo,
your arms. (_They embrace._) You bear no grudge against me, do you?
TIM. Dear me, why should I?
LAZ. Then don’t take away Carmen; don’t separate me from her. A sick man
should have his way in everything--and it would make me worse, let
Bermudez tell you. Is it not true that it would make me ill? Say it--say
it?
TIM. But you are well now?
BERM. Quite well.
LAZ. And you, what do you say?
JAV. My boy, I find you as well as ever.
TIM. And I really must go to Sevilla. But we shall soon come back to be
reunited. You are not a convalescent: you don’t require to stay here.
Away home to work!
LAZ. (_in the ear of_ TIM). Then when shall the wedding be?
TIM. For my part--any day--but that, let the doctor say.
LAZ. Not that man--not that man--ah--I know him--and yet let him say.
BERM. It depends on the state of mind that you are in: if you are in a
sound state of mind, very soon.
LAZ. Well, before you take Carmen away you have to decide it. The
morning approaches--it will be here in less than two or three hours. You
see that brightness? It is beginning to dawn already, and we must sit up
by all means. Therefore you go in there, into that cabinet--and you fix
the date. I shall not be in your way. Now you see that that I can do no
more. But you must say when and let me know; when I know it I shall be
more at ease. With to-day there will be one day less: two less:
three--it is not far off now: very little short of the time: three days
off, two days off, one day off, it is to-morrow, it is to-day--she is my
Carmen for ever--she is mine--(_vehemently_). Now, let who dare force
her from my arms! Oh! Carmen now belongs to Lazarus. (_Changing his
tone._) I am saying what will happen--when you fix the day--because by
the fixing of the day we only want two--now we are only short of
one--now it has arrived--all happy! (_Embracing_ TIM. _and_ JAV.). It’s
true, it’s true! And now, in there.
TIM. For my part, with much pleasure, and it seems to me a good idea.
Will you have it so, Bermudez?
BERM. I am at your orders--and if Lazarus insists----
LAZ. No more--no more--enter--here--and in all freedom. Your little
cabinet--the balcony open--the flowers of that terrace which are
beginning to take colour--the Guadalquivir which commences to waken with
its silver lights. Very good--very good--you are going to be perfectly
comfortable--and all this will incline you to good nature. Don’t be very
cruel--don’t fix too long a term--for in this world, what is not to-day
is never.
TIM. Shall we go in?
BERM. Yes, señor.
_They move slowly and speaking in low tones toward the right._
LAZ. (_in a low, energetic voice to_ JAVIER). And you, too, go. I don’t
trust them. The wretches, they would say never: go, go, with them.
JAV. But I----
LAZ. (BERM. _and_ TIM. _are now at the door_). Eh? wait. Javier is
accompanying you, I have requested him--because I wish to have some one
who may plead for me and for Carmen. This you cannot deny me.
TIM. I should think not--come--come.
JAV. (_to_ LAZ.). If you insist.
LAZ. In there, all three--all three--and afterwards we shall give an
account of all to my mother and my father and Carmen. Quick--quick----
BERM. (_at the door_). You two go in----
TIM. You go in first.
BERM. By no means.
LAZ. Go in any way: I am waiting----
BERM. We shall soon have done. Be calm, Lazarus, be calm.
LAZ. (_alone_). Yes: he is right: I have need of much calm. Outside
there all is calm: then why should I not be calm as well? Without there
is twilight (_pressing his forehead_): within here is another twilight.
But yonder half obscurity will end by filling itself with light. And
this--this? I seem to see beyond the luminous little clouds a great
gloom. There without are worlds and suns and immensity--yet nothing of
that bears the least consequence to me: here within are three
insignificant persons--and it is they who are about to decide my
destiny. To be menaced with the danger of one of those orbs that whirl
through space overwhelming Carmen and myself--there would be grandeur
for us in such a fate. But to be threatened with the possibility of a
doctor and a fool putting me in a cage and leaving Carmen outside, to
fret her pale front against the cold iron bars--this is cruel, this is
humiliating--and nobody shall humiliate me. I am worth more than them
all put together. I am better than them all. (_Interrupting himself._)
Better than Carmen?--no. Neither am I better than my mother. And my
father--my father--he loves me much--more than I--silence! Yet if he is
capable of loving more than I, then he is better than I--the result is
that everybody is better than Lazarus. How is this possible? (_Walks
about in great agitation._)
_Enter_ PACA _with some cups of Manzanilla_.
Who is this? It is Paca. Why the result will be--I see it--that even
that creature is better than myself.
PACA. Is not Don Timoteo here? Then why does he give orders for nothing?
He gives orders and then he goes away.
LAZ. Whom are you looking for?
PACA. For Don Timoteo: he asked me for some cups of Manzanilla, and he
went away without waiting for me.
LAZ. Bring them, bring them. I’ll take them. Leave them here.
PACA (_putting them on a little table_). You, señorito? And if they do
you harm?
LAZ. Harm to me? Poor woman! Look--(_drinks a cup._) I drink and you
flutter about.
PACA. I flutter about, señorito? Ah! what things you say!
LAZ. What do you see out there?
PACA. Nothing.
LAZ. Just so. Nothing: that’s what we all see. And inside here, what do
you see?
PACA. Well, you.
LAZ. That’s it, the son of Don Juan drinking; and Paca whirling around.
(_Drinks another glass._)
PACA. Don’t drink any more, señorito: you are not at all well and it
will do you harm. And Doña Dolores will be grieved and Don Juan will be
grieved.
LAZ. And I’ll make the Manzanilla grieve. And you, won’t you be
grieved?
PACA. Why yes: for I am very fond of the señorito.
LAZ. The result is that everybody is fond of me. Everybody is fond of
me, and I am fond of nobody. Ah! of Carmen--yes: and of my mother as
well: and of my father: and of poor Javier--well, then I am fond of
everybody--This (_taking a cup or glass._) must make it clear. (_Giving_
PACA _a glass_.) Let us both make it clear.
PACA (_stopping him_). Señorito, for God’s sake!
LAZ. No; it isn’t for God’s sake, it’s for mine.
PACA. If you insist. (_Drinks._)
LAZ. And now I. (_Takes up another glass._)
PACA (_stopping him_). No; not you.
LAZ. Well then, you.
PACA. Ah! by the most Holy Virgin, you see I have lost the practice.
LAZ. You fool, why this is very healthy. It gives you strength. I now
feel capable of anything. Awhile ago you seemed to me all funereal; now
I perceive your black cloak to be all overspread with spangles of gold,
and fragments of rainbow, like the wings of a butterfly.
PACA. Ah, señorito, I have been that. Ask----
LAZ. Ask whom?
PACA. Nobody--anybody whatever. Ugh, I am stifled. (_Lets fall the black
handkerchief from her head over her shoulders._) Yes, señorito--when
people said--the Tarifeña--there was no need to say more.
LAZ. That was a climax, eh? Well, take another and you shall begin
again.
PACA. You see we shall both be getting upset.
(_They take the glasses._)
LAZ. Listen, Tarifeña, sylph of former times, enchanting siren of our
forefathers, moth-eaten memorial of their joys, will you do me a favour?
PACA. I should think so. I am loyal to the house, and to all that’s in
the house, and to you, señorito, because you are of the house.
LAZ. Good; and to those who are not of the house, no. Well, inside there
are three who are not of the house: Don Timoteo, Bermudez, and Javier.
And those three are working so that I may not be married to Carmen. They
say that I am ill, that I am a bad fellow, that I would cause much
misery to Carmen; in short, they propose to break off my wedding--see
what infamy!
PACA. Old men never wish young people to be married; old men are great
scoundrels. Old women are quite the contrary; we old women would like
everybody to get married. Why, what does the human race exist for? To
get marred; exactly. And you and beautiful little Carmen will make such
a pair!
LAZ. You are very kind, very tender-hearted; you don’t wish any one to
suffer pain. Take this (_gives her another cup_)----
PACA. Ah! yes, señorito, although it doesn’t become me to talk about my
being tender-hearted, I never harmed any one.
LAZ. So ought all women with good hearts to be. Take----
PACA (_refusing it_). I can’t take any more. I can’t take any more.
LAZ. Then listen. That cabinet leads to the terrace, and the terrace
goes round the house--you understand?--and the window which looks on to
the terrace is on a level with it, so that if you go on to the terrace
by here, and approach, you can hear everything; and if they wish to
separate me from my own little Carmen, you come and tell me, and I’ll
know what to do.
PACA (_Laughing_). What good ideas you have, señorito. I should think I
would do this!--the vagabonds! But Don Juan wishes you to be married?
LAZ. Does he not wish it! The one who does not wish it is Don Timoteo.
The one who wishes to carry off little Carmen as soon as daylight comes,
is he! The one who means to strangle them all--is myself. And the one
who has to make fools of them--that’s you.
PACA. With the very greatest pleasure.
LAZ. But first of all go down to the garden, enter the drawing-room--my
father and mother will be sleeping, Carmen will be awake; Carmen does
not sleep, I know that!--and without any one but herself hearing you,
tell her--that I am waiting for her; tell her to come up, that at dawn
her father is taking her away, and that I want to bid her farewell. You
understand?
PACA. Yes, señorito----Farewell! Farewells are very sad. I have bidden
farewell many times, and I have always wept.
LAZ. Good. Well now you shall weep again. We shall all weep.
PACA. Don’t say that.
LAZ. Yes, you simpleton, weeping relieves you. Take note: laughing tires
you, and weeping relieves you.
PACA. Well now it’s true. Ah! what you do know, señorito!
LAZ. Take this (_giving her a glass_). You and I are also going to bid
farewell to each other: clink--clink ex-Tarifeña.
PACA. To the health of the Señorita Carmen.
LAZ. To the health of the man whom you have most loved--when you were in
love.
PACA. Then to the health--to the health of all the family!
LAZ. (_reversing the glass_). Look, not a drop!
PACA. The same with me.
LAZ. And now to call Carmen--and afterwards to listen to what those
people say.
PACA. I am going there; give me another to take breath.
LAZ. Drink, my dear, drink.
PACA. You shall see what I am. (_Goes towards the cabinet._)
LAZ. No, not that way; I told you by the terrace. (_Making her go out by
the terrace._)
PACA. Ha, ha! Yes, I shall know it all some day. He wants to show me the
way of the house (_laughing_).
LAZ. Now quick; and first of all let Carmen come.
PACA. At once, at once; but don’t make her cry, poor little thing, poor
little thing; men like to make women cry; but she--she--is such a sweet
little thing. Jesus, how warm it is! [_Goes out by the terrace._
LAZ. (_alone_). I feel more confident--I find the strength flowing into
my arms. To defend Carmen I need much strength. Well, I have it now.
Everything is dawning--everything is rising--everything is returning.
Light on the horizon, life to my muscles, and Carmen to me. Lazarus is
Lazarus. The moment has arrived for the struggle--for the supreme
struggle. But here one cannot struggle. Everything is soft and yielding.
The carpet soft, the divans soft, the East filled with gauze and tufts
of cotton wool. I want rock whereon to lean back, a sword to cut, a mace
to crush--hardness, angles, metals that may offer resistance to me--and
let me reduce all to powder (_pressing his forehead_). I feel the blood
whirling round within my temples! (_pressing his bosom_) fire in my
breast! engines of steel in my arms!
(CARMEN _appears on the terrace with_ PACA _who points her out to_
LAZARUS, _then disappears_.)
Carmen!
CAR. Lazarus!
LAZ. (_strains her frantically in his arms_). Carmen, my own Carmen. Now
let them say what they like, those imbeciles, and let them come to seek
you.
CAR. But what’s the matter with you? My God! I don’t understand.
LAZ. You don’t understand that I love you more than my life, and that I
have never told you so?
CAR. Yes, you have many times told me so.
LAZ. But in very poor fashion--coldly, lifelessly. The fact is that
there is no way of saying these things. Commonplace words, commonplace
phrases! “I love you more than my life, more than my soul; you are my
happiness, you are my hope, my dream....” Pshaw! Everybody says that. It
has become profaned on all lips.
CAR. When I heard you speak so, it seemed to me that you were the only
one in the world who said such things.
LAZ. No, you little goose, they all say them. And I don’t wish to say
what everybody says; because you are not like other people, and for you
it is necessary to invent other things. Let me see, what shall I invent?
CAR. What you like. But while you are inventing, you may go on saying
what you used to say, for it sounds well to me--and if it doesn’t
trouble you....
LAZ. You will never have understood how I love you, for I have not
known how to explain myself; I have not understood it myself until now.
I saw surrounding me an immeasurable horizon, and I was lost in the
contemplation of it: worlds and marvels and splendours and sounds and
melodies. But now all is obscured, all has become confined: a sombre
background which folds itself up, something like a stupendous eyeball
which becomes contracted, and in the centre nothing is left but a small
circle of light, and in that circle is an image--it is yours;--now all
has become blotted out, and there remains no more than Carmen, and in
Carmen I reconcentrate all that lies before me of life, of longing, of
thought, of love. Let not the eyeball close up finally, for then I shall
be left in darkness.
CAR. Then you love me more than I thought? What joy for me!
LAZ. There is no reason to be joyful, for they wish to separate us.
CAR. Who?
LAZ. They. (_Pointing to the cabinet._)
CAR. Why?
LAZ. Because I have not known how to explain to them what you are to me,
and neither have you understood; and they believe that we shall console
ourselves, that we shall grow resigned, that there is nothing more to be
said than, “Lock up Lazarus, take away Carmen.” Do you consent?
CAR. I? No, never; no, Lazarus, I am not resigned. I cannot do more than
one thing: die. Well, I shall die. Can I do more?
LAZ. No; that will do well; that’s enough.
CAR. But you can defend me.
LAZ. Defend you? How? Yes, I’ll defend you; but how?
CAR. Why, who threatens us?
LAZ. I don’t know. I can’t well explain. I am now as it were on the
boundaries of a desert; a desert contains much sand, which never ends;
much solitude which is never filled; much thirst which is never
quenched, and a sky which becomes flattened in the centre as if it were
about to fall, and which never falls. At least if it did sink down all
would be at an end.
CAR. Yes, much sadness which never ends. I felt that when I had doubts
of you. It is true, the world was a desert.
LAZ. Well in that desert you gather up a handful of sand and you begin
to count the little grains--one, two, three, hundreds, thousands--and
you never finish counting. Yet there is no more than a handful--and you
gather up another--and you gather up another--and the sand never ends.
And you run and run; but no,--onward to the horizon all is overwhelmed
with sand.
CAR. But what’s the meaning of this? I don’t understand.
LAZ. It means--it is very clear--don’t you see? It seems clear to me,
yet you don’t understand. It means that I, who had wild dreams of
applause, of glory, of gaining still more glory and applause with my
Carmen, I see before me the fate of having to count grains and grains,
handfuls and handfuls of sand, for days and nights and years, until the
end--if there be an end. I don’t know if there be an end.
CAR. Lazarus, Lazarus, don’t talk so; don’t look in that way!
LAZ. Then save me! Why what did I call you for except that you should
save me?
CAR. Yes, I will save you; but how?
LAZ. Consider now whether you love me so much. Suppose that we are about
to say farewell for ever--because we are on the confines of that
desert--both together at a little fountain--the last! It holds fresh
water, the last! On the falling of the tube into the water it forms
flakes of foam--the last--and I wish to drink for the last time and to
cool my face and to sprinkle foam upon my lips that they may become
wreathed in smiles. Help me--look at me--speak--laugh--sing--weep--do
something, Carmen, for I am now being hurried away from you. I am now
going into the desert; do something; throw me at least what your hands
will hold of water, that a few drops may fall upon my face.
CARMEN _folds him in her arms_.
CAR. But why do you say that? I don’t understand. Are you sad? Are you
vexed? Are you ill? These few days past, this very morning, you were so
well, so cheerful, Lazarus.
LAZ. They say--that I am going to forget you--that soon I shall not know
you--that you will be close to me, and I--without suspecting it--like a
child--like an idiot----
CAR. No, not that!
LAZ. But if it should be so?
CAR. It will not be so.
LAZ. Why not? (_His look begins to wander and he scarcely hears what
follows; he assumes the face of an idiot and his arms fall to his
sides._)
CAR. Because I shall be close to you--and will you not see me? Because I
shall call to you “Lazarus!”--and will you not answer me? Because I
shall weep much, my tears will fall upon you--and will you not feel
them? I am weak as a child, but children too can hold on strongly.
Lazarus, attend to me; are you not attending to what I say? I am Carmen.
Look at me! That pale little head which you used to speak of is touching
your lips. Look, I am smiling at you. Laugh yourself. Answer me.
Lazarus--Lazarus--Awake! Do you hear me? What are you looking at?
LAZ. Yes--I know--I know--but call my mother.
CAR. No--I alone--they would separate us: we two alone. Why do you want
your mother to come?
LAZ. I want to sleep.
CAR. (_looking on all sides_). Then rest on me. Sleep in my arms.
LAZ. You little fool, no. If I sleep it must be in the arms of my
mother. That’s what mothers are for. When I awake I shall call you.
CAR. Lazarus!
LAZ. Call her! Don’t I tell you to call her? Obey, you selfish girl.
Don’t you wish that I should have rest neither?
CAR. Yes. I’ll call her. (_Walking to the door._) My God!
LAZ. Are you going or not? Or must I go myself?
CAR. No; wait; it is that I am not able. (_Standing at the door._)
Dolores! Don Juan!
LAZ. I said my mother--I only want one person; one.
CAR. Well, I was that one.
LAZ. No, she--I can’t say to you--Mother!
CAR. (_calling_). Dolores!
LAZ. (_going towards her and calling_). Mother!
CAR. They are coming now.
LAZ. Several are coming. I did not say so many. I shall have to defend
myself, and, to defend myself I need to have much courage. (_Drinks a
glass._)
CAR. Quick! Here! Dolores!
_Enter_ DOLORES _and_ DON JUAN.
DOL. Why did you call? Is it that Lazarus----?
JUAN. What’s the matter with Lazarus?
LAZ. Nothing; Carmen was frightened--I don’t know why, and she called.
CAR. He seems better. Lazarus, they are here now. Do you wish me to
remain also?
LAZ. Why not? Yes, everybody about me. As we were downstairs. My mother,
my father, sweet little Carmen, I! There’s one short--ah! Paca. I still
keep my memory. (_Laughing._) Well, yes, we are short of Paca. Ha! Let
us sit down as we were before, and let us wait till the day arrives. It
is now about to dawn. Look, look what brightness there is in the
distance. A great sitting up! And why are we sitting up?
DOL. You wished it----
JUAN. Yes, my son; it was you that insisted upon it; and when you desire
anything, what are we all for but to give you pleasure?
LAZ. We have to bid farewell to Carmen. A farewell is a very sad and
solemn thing, a thing beyond all consolation, and I have need to be
consoled. Come, mother, to this side; come you also (_to his father_) to
the other side; I must be between the two; and you must both tell me
that this separation is a passing one, that we shall soon be all
reunited to Carmen for ever--and, such other things as are said; though
they may not be true they are said.
DOLORES _and_ JUAN _are seated at either side of_ LAZARUS.
DOL. But they are true.
JUAN. Why, nothing else was to happen.
CARMEN _approaches_.
CAR. Yes, Lazarus, we shall be reunited very soon.
LAZ. (_angrily_). You must not come near. You keep off.
CAR. (_withdrawing in pain and anguish_). Lazarus!
DOL. Lazarus, look how poor Carmen is grieved.
JUAN. Nay, come, my daughter, come; Lazarus wishes you to come.
LAZ. It cannot be. It is she who is going away. If she is going away she
must be at a distance. And from a distance I say “Adieu, Carmen, adieu;
I love you deeply.” (_With passion._) Do you see? It is not that I do
not love her; it is that things must be as they are.
CAR. (_restraining her grief, aside_). Impossible! Impossible! My
Lazarus!
DOL. (_to her son_). What’s the matter with you?
JUAN. How are you, Lazarus?
LAZ. Very well; between you two, very well, as when I was a child, with
the same calmness, the same peace as then.
DOL. You remember?
LAZ. Yes, for my head is very sound. With what clearness I remember
those times!
JUAN (_to_ DOLORES). You see? he is well, the same as during all those
days. Carmen has alarmed herself without cause.
CAR. That’s true, without cause.
JUAN. His head is far more steady than ours. This way--between the two.
LAZ. No. I remember everything now; between the two, no; I was alone
with my mother; you were not there! Go away, go away. (_Putting his
father away without violence._)
JUAN. You don’t remember that well, Lazarus. (_With humility._) We were
both beside you many times. (_In a tone of anguish._) Is it not true,
Dolores? (_In a supplicating manner._)
DOL. Yes, my dear.
LAZ. No--I must not be contradicted. I was alone with her. (_Embracing
her._)
DOL. My son.
JUAN. Why do you put me away? Can I love you more than I do?
LAZ. Ah! yes--well, you are right, father.
JUAN. You see? I was right!
LAZ. Yes, once we were as we are now--ha, ha, ha!
JUAN. The same as now.
CAR. Oh, his look--his look! (_Aside._)
LAZ. Hush--hush. As now--no, not as now. My mother was dishevelled,
weeping, but very beautiful, and you haughty and disdainful, but gay and
elegant. Away! and she weeping, sobbing, and you laughing; and you
quarrelled--how you quarrelled!--it was terrible.
JUAN. No.
LAZ. Yes. I see it now.
CAR. (_aside_). His look! How he stares on every side!
JUAN. Don’t be angry--but you don’t remember well.
LAZ. (_angrily_). I must not be contradicted. You quarrelled. I know
it--I see it--as I still feel that terror.
JUAN. Lazarus!
DOL. (_to_ JUAN). Be quiet.
JUAN. Well, then we quarrelled--a little dispute.
LAZ. (_laughing_). No--no--it was not a little dispute. It was a
desperate fight; you quarrelled in deadly earnest. And you, father,
wished to take hold of me--and you took hold of me--and gave me a
caress. (_Laughing._) Come, come, you were not so bad.
JUAN. You see, Lazarus, you see?
LAZ. But my mother tore me out of your arms, and she pressed me in her
own, and said to you: “Off with your hold; go away; go and enjoy
yourself; go and get drunk. Leave him to me.”
JUAN. No, Lazarus--I think not--as you were such a child you don’t
remember.
DOL. (_to_ JUAN). Silence!
LAZ. And you cried out: “Well, then, remain with him, and much good may
he do you! Much good!” What contempt! and you pushed me away.
JUAN. No, no, that I did not. I never did so.
LAZ. Yes.
JUAN. No.
LAZ. (_angrily_). I say yes. You pushed me--leave me, father; leave me
alone with my mother. (_Putting him away._) There, there, far off--far
off--with Carmen.
JUAN (_withdraws and embraces_ CARMEN). Oh, my Lazarus, my Lazarus!
LAZ. (_laughing, to his mother_). There are the exiles in their valley
of tears.
CAR. It is not possible--it is not possible! Let them come--let them
come; let them save him!
JUAN. Yes--let them save him.
LAZ. (_to his mother_). Now, with you.
DOL. With me--always with me.
LAZ. Always with you! No, that’s not true neither. Why, Lord, you people
don’t remember anything; here nobody remembers a thing but myself. You
sent me away--very far--to an accursed college. I wished to stay with
you, and you said, “Let them take him away, let them take him away!” He
(_pointing to his father_) said, “Stay with your mother,” and he went
away. You said, “Let them take him away,” and you remained alone. Both,
both of you separated yourselves from me. Oh, I remember all this very
well, and until now I had never called it to mind. Something seems to be
melting within my brain; something goes on sweeping away the ruins of
all ideas of the present; and, as amid soil which the torrent drags
along, there spring to light ancient moulds, so within here there rushes
up the entire world of my childhood. So it is, and I remember
everything. I fell asleep night after night without a kiss from either
of you. Morning after morning I awoke without a caress from any one.
Alone I lived--alone I shall continue to live; go, mother to those
yonder. (_Putting her away gently._)
DOL. (_to_ JUAN). Ah! through you! (_Turning back._) Lazarus!
LAZ. I have said that I wish to be alone. I love you dearly, but take
notice that things have to be precisely as they are.
DOL., CAR., _and_ DON JUAN _are together_; (LAZ. _contemplates them
with a vague smile; then he continues_.)
Thus we are as we should be. Each one in his place--to every one his
own. But I don’t want to be so lonely either. Let Paca come--Paca!
JUAN. Whom is he calling?
LAZ. Her. Paca!
_Enter_ PACA.
PACA. Señorito.
LAZ. Come; here--very close. (_To the others._) Now I am not alone, you
see, father? Now I have company, and merrier company than yours--you
who are sad and gloomy as death. Take a glass, Paca, and give me
another, and let us drink as we did a short time ago.
DOL. Lazarus!
PACA. Señorito, I drank a great deal, and now I don’t know--now, my head
is----
LAZ. Yes, I insist on it--you and I.
JUAN. Good God! No.
LAZ. Why not? Ah, you egoist, that have your own enjoyment and don’t
wish others to enjoy themselves. Well, I too wish to enjoy myself. My
life is drawing to a close, and I must take advantage of that! Drink,
Tarifeña, drink, and laugh, and dance, and twirl about. And tell me of
your merry, youthful days--something that will cheer me, something to
fire my blood, which I now feel turning cold. Laughter, orgies, dances,
loves--something that may shake my nerves, which I now feel to be
growing torpid. Come, Tarifeña, give me life, for I am young, and I wish
to live.
JUAN. No more, no more--I cannot see this. I cannot hear this.
DOL. Oh, God!
JUAN (_rushes away from the others and approaches_ PACA, _seizing her by
an arm_). Go!
LAZ. (_holding her also_). She shall not go.
JUAN. I command it.
LAZ. And I also.
JUAN (_to_ PACA). By the salvation of my soul, if you don’t go, I shall
throw you from that balcony into the river. Look, you don’t know yet
what I am. Quick!
LAZ. (_fiercely_). I have said no! Do you take a delight in tormenting
me?
JUAN (_falling on his knees at the feet of his son_). Lazarus, for the
love of God let this woman go away.
LAZ. Poor man! Ah! those white hairs. (_Fondling them._) And he is
weeping. Poor dear father! Well! you now see how grieved he is. Go away,
woman, go away--since it must be so.
PACA _withdraws_.
JUAN. Oh--my Lazarus--my happiness--my chastisement!
LAZ. I don’t want to chastise you; I don’t want to chastise anybody.
What I desire is that we should all be merry. Come, woman, you now see
that nobody wants you; go away. Have you not heard?
PACA. First of all, I have to tell what those people (_pointing to the
cabinet_) are saying; you ordered me.
LAZ. (_in astonishment_). I?
JUAN (_rises_). What do they say?
_They all surround_ PACA.
PACA. Wicked things. That they won’t let these two be married.
CAR. My God!
JUAN. Why? Speak!
DOL. Quiet!
JUAN. Say it low!
PACA. Because the señorito is about to have his last attack, and all
will be at an end with him; and you--(_to_ CARMEN) your father is now
going to take you away.
DOL. Ah! (_runs to embrace her son, who has followed with his gaze the
group._)
CAR. (_desperately_). No! I--with him--for ever.
JUAN (_rushing to the cabinet_). Bermudez! Here!
PACA (_aside_). It’s well that they should know it.
_Enter_ BERMUDEZ, DON TIMOTEO _and_ JAVIER.
JUAN. Bermudez--save my son and demand of me my life, my soul--all that
you wish--what shall I not give you?--but save my Lazarus.
DOLORES _runs to meet_ BERMUDEZ; CARMEN _alone remains with_
LAZARUS.
DOL. Bermudez, one hope! One hope!
BERMUDEZ, _followed by_ DOLORES _and_ DON JUAN, _approaches_
LAZARUS. TIMOTEO _advances towards_ CARMEN. JAVIER _stands apart_.
TIM. Come, Carmen; my daughter, come. It is getting late.
CAR. No. With him; I’ll not leave him so.
TIM. It is necessary--for heaven’s sake, girl. (_Separating her from_
LAZARUS.)
CAR. Lazarus, they are separating us.
LAZ. (_gathering himself together with a supreme effort._) Who? That old
man! That scum of the earth! Away, scum, to your heap of refuse! I pass
on to life! I pass on to love! Carmen, to my arms! (_Rushes towards her,
catches her, and takes her to the balcony. The others follow them_).
Look, what an horizon! What splendour! Come, melt your soul in mine,
enfold your body round mine, and let us mingle ourselves among yonder
rays of light. Yes, come, Carmen, come!
_They are separated by force, and_ LAZARUS _is drawn away, and
falls at last on the sofa_.
BERM. The last ray of light!
_The characters are disposed of in the following manner_:--LAZARUS
_on the sofa to the right_, DON JUAN, _staggering, falls on the
sofa to the left, hiding his face in his hands; as if to help
him_, PACA _stations herself at his side. Toward the left_ TIMOTEO
_and_ CARMEN; JAVIER _with_ DOLORES _in the centre_. BERMUDEZ
_stands contemplating_ LAZARUS. _A pause._ LAZARUS _is motionless_.
JAV. (_in a low voice to_ BERMUDEZ). Is he dead?
BERM. Would to God he were!
JUAN. How many mornings have I myself awakened here!
PACA. True!
JUAN. Silence!--And my Lazarus is not awaking.
DOL. (_to_ BERMUDEZ). I have nothing left in life but Lazarus. In God’s
name, Bermudez, think of that.
TIM. Carmen!
CAR. It is useless, father. I shall not leave him.
BERM. Silence--silence! The day breaks--the sun begins to rise--Lazarus
seems to be returning to himself. He lifts his gaze--he fixes it on the
light which springs forth. Let us listen--let us listen!--This is
decisive!
JUAN. To hear what he will say? Will he call upon me?
DOL. It is on me that he will call.
CAR. He will not call on me!
LAZ. (_with his face towards the rising sun_). Mother!
DOL. (_running to him and embracing him._) Lazarus!
LAZ. (_pointing to the sun_). How beautiful!
JUAN (_falling on his knees by the sofa and raising his arms_: PACA
_holds him_). Lord! Lord!
DOL. Lazarus!
LAZ. Most beautiful! most beautiful! Mother--_give me the sun_!
DOL. Ah!--My God!
LAZ. The sun!--the sun!--I want the sun!
JUAN. (_still on his knees; falls against the sofa_: PACA _holds him_).
My boy!
DOL. (_embracing_ LAZARUS). My darling!
CAR. (_wildly embracing her father, who subdues her_). Lazarus!--My
life!
BERM. For ever!
LAZ. Mother--the sun!--the sun!--give me the sun! (_He says this like a
child, and with the face of an idiot._)
JUAN. I also asked for it. Jesus!--my Lazarus, my Lazarus!
LAZ. Give me the sun! Mother, mother--the sun! For God’s sake--for God’s
sake--for God’s sake, mother--give me the sun!
THE END.
The Gresham Press,
UNWIN BROTHERS,
CHILWORTH AND LONDON.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The original “al higui! al higui!” is a term of rejoicing peculiar
to children in their games. It is only used in the South of Spain.
[2] The original “pañolon” is a sort of cloak or shawl or blanket-like
covering worn by Andalusian women.
[3] “Glasses.” The word in the original, throughout this act is cañas
or canitas. These are conical-shaped glasses from which Spaniards
drink Manzanilla--a lighter wine than sherry.