Scene.

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.

[Exeunt Carmen and Timoteo.

Dol. (approaching Javier.) Did he work long?

Jav. A short time, but with great ardour. A great effort of intellect.

Juan (approaching also and contemplating Lazarus). Lord, to think of what this boy is going to be! The face foretells it. The aureola of talent!

Dol. He is very pale—very pale.

Juan. What would you have him to be? Fat as a German, and red as a beetroot? Then he would not be a genius.

Dol. However—such pallor!

Juan and Dolores are bent over Lazarus contemplating him with
affectionate care.

Juan. I am decidedly the father of a genius, and then (to Javier) they come to me with——

Jav. With what?

Juan. With nothing. (Aside.) With moral sermons, and with the law of heredity, and with all that stale trash. The father a hare-brained fellow, and the son a wise man.

Dol. But has nothing been amiss with him? Was it nothing more than fatigue?

Jav. Nothing more. You may withdraw: I shall stay until he awakes.

Juan. I shall not withdraw. I was wanting nothing better. I shall sit down here (sitting at the other side of the table), and from here I shall watch the sleep of Lazarus. You remain on foot, in honour of the genius. Keep away, keep away from before him, that you may not prevent me from seeing my son.

Dol. Yet the sleep is not very restful.

Juan. How should it be restful, woman, since he must be busied with great matters in his dreams?

Dol. My Lazarus.

Jav. (aside.) Poor Lazarus.

Juan (laughing quietly). Don Juan Tenorio—watching the sleep—of the son of Don Juan!—silence—silence—let’s see if we shall hear anything from the son of Don Juan. (With pride and tenderness.)

END OF ACT I