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.

[Exit fanning herself.

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.