Autumnal Roses/Act 1
Salon in a house in Madrid, furnished with refinement and taste. As the curtain rises, Gonzalo is speaking with a Servant.
Gonzalo. Have my clothes at the club before seven. Should any letters arrive
Isabel enters.
Isabel. Are you going out? Do not be long.
Gonzalo. How is that?
Isabel. You are the most irresponsible man I ever saw. Have you forgotten that María Antonia and Pepe are coming to dinner? And we have asked a few friends.
Gonzalo. Do you know, it had quite slipped my mind?
Isabel. Did you plan to dine out?
Gonzalo. Yes, at the club. I have some business with Aguirre and his partner in reference to that affair at Bilbao. I must drop him a line. [To the Servant] You may wait. [He seats himself and begins to write.
Isabel. I hope you are not disappointed?
Gonzalo. No, although I am sorry I did not think of it before. I am in no humor for company this evening.
Isabel. We expect only a few—in fact, scarcely any one but the family.
Gonzalo. Who is coming?
Isabel. María Antonia and Pepe, Laura, Ramón and Carmen with their daughter, besides Manuel Arenales. I have asked your correspondent's son and his wife, the bride and groom, as well. The dinner is in their honor, so that makes it more formal. I am surprised that you should forget it.
Gonzalo. The bride and groom? Ah, yes! I remember… I am so sorry.
Isabel. Perhaps you will conceal your feelings, as you almost prostrated yourself to entertain them when they first arrived in Madrid; the change would come as too much of a shock—although I never cared for them myself. He seems foolish, and she—well, she is too forward. To convince us that she talks Spanish, she employs the most objectionable language.
Gonzalo. May I have a moment? I have made two slips already…
Isabel. I beg your pardon. You should have said so.
Gonzalo. [To the Servant] Take this letter to the club. Never mind the clothes. Lay them out in my room. [The Servant withdraws] At what hour do we have dinner?
Isabel. At half after seven—half an hour earlier than usual, so as to accommodate the young Parisians. In Paris they dine early. When Arenales drops in at about nine, that French girl will say that all Spaniards have bad manners.
Gonzalo. What French girl?
Isabel. The bride. A foolish question to ask!
Gonzalo. She is not French. Besides, I consider it bad taste to call people names. No one could be more thoroughly Spanish—she has lived in Paris all her life, so that I find her intelligent, indeed especially delightful.
Isabel. I had no idea that you felt so strongly.
Gonzalo. Nonsense. Do we have to go through this all over again?
Isabel. All over again? How about me? How do you suppose I feel?
Gonzalo. You are a martyr of course; this is intolerable.
Isabel. Gonzalo, you are not willing to let me say a single word. You don't like it if I am silent, either.
Gonzalo. No, I prefer to have you talk—talk all the time, only be direct about it; don't insinuate. I know why you don't like that girl: it is because you think I am fond of her; you think that I am in love with all women.
Isabel. Not all women.
Gonzalo. No doubt you would be happier if I possessed the manners of a boor. Laura is the only woman you are willing to receive in the house; in your eyes, apparently, she is perfectly safe.
Isabel. You will never fall in love with Laura. She is too fond of you.
Gonzalo. I seem to have heard that story before.
Isabel. It is truer than most of your stories.
Gonzalo. Yes, my stories! Don Juan Tenorio! No woman is safe in my hands. Don't you see that your jealousy only makes us both ridiculous? We are not children; I was not a child when I married you—I was a widower when I was a mere boy; I have a married daughter. Nobody imagines that I was looking for a nurse when I proposed to you, like most widowers who have children. If my heart had been so fickle and flighty, why should I have married again? What good would it have done me?
Isabel. None; except that you had set your heart on it.
Gonzalo. On what?
Isabel. There was no other way with me.
Gonzalo. You could have refused me if that was your opinion of me; you had another way.
Isabel. I thought that you loved me.
Gonzalo. Loved you? Don't I love you?
Isabel. Yes, you do. It is very easy to love me.
Gonzalo. Why are you so fascinated with the rôle of martyr? Do you think it becoming?
Isabel. I don't know; it is very trying. The hardest thing about it is trying not to show how hard it is. Your only excuse is that you don't know how much you make me suffer.
Gonzalo. Although some day I am likely to find out. I am a tyrant, a monster, an evil genius—I, a poor, inoffensive gentleman, who thinks of nothing but his business, his wife, his daughter, his home, who never cared for nor even dreamed of anything else!
Isabel. As for myself, I say nothing, because I am used to it. But you owe something to your daughter—yes, our daughter—I love her as much as if she were mine. I suppose you think that she is wedded to the role of martyr like I am, when she has everything in the world to make her happy?
Gonzalo. María Antonia? Never! That is, unless… But no, you would be incapable…
Isabel. Yes, Gonzalo, and it is not her fault either; it is yours, her husband's—men's. You are as God made you, or else as opportunity has, or as bad as the law will allow, for you have made it yourselves. It is as lenient with your faults as it is intolerant of ours.
Gonzalo. Are we elevating the discussion to a moral and philosophical plane? It is time to dress. I cannot afford to get into any worse humor.
Isabel. You certainly cannot. Don't you care to hear about your daughter?
Gonzalo. But what am I to hear? That she is jealous of her husband, as you are of me, and upon precisely the same grounds. I am sorry for poor Pepe.
Isabel. However, María Antonia is right, and it is my duty to warn you. I talk to her exactly as you do to me, although you will never believe it; I tell her that it is of no consequence, that Pepe is neither better nor worse than other husbands; it is no disgrace and nothing to feel badly about, anyway.
Gonzalo. Do you talk like that to María Antonia? It does seem incredible.
Isabel. I not only talk to her, I convince her. María Antonia is not a woman of my disposition; she is excitable, her temperament is not one to resign itself. Besides, she does not love her husband as I do you. She was in love with another man when she married.
Gonzalo. Whom she might just as well have married; there was no objection. I never was able to understand why she broke off with Enrique so suddenly. His mother and you had your heads together by the hour; then María Antonia made up her mind that she did not love him overnight, and the boy left Madrid. The ways of women are inexplicable.
Isabel. Ignorance is your invariable excuse. Do you mean to tell me that there was no obstacle to the marriage of your daughter with Carmen's son?
Gonzalo. I thought that was coming. Now I have been too friendly with Carmen. I explained how that was; that was before we were married—in fact, before I was a widower.
Isabel. Which is a great comfort to me. Yes, Carmen is my most intimate friend. She has suffered dreadfully, and her confession was not only more sweeping, it was far more sincere than yours. She has told me everything; she could not rest until she made me promise by all that was dear to me, to spare no effort to persuade María Antonia to give up Enrique, while she did whatever she could to influence her son.
Gonzalo. Why, does she think
Isabel. She was not sure. Prejudice and the law are very well, but we cannot avoid the consequences of our acts, wholly irrespective of sex. A man may doubt what children are really his, but a woman never knows whether her children's brothers and sisters may not become their husbands and wives. Did you know that you had made your daughter very unhappy? A trifling matter may become of importance; thoughtlessness has its results. But I am sorry that I told you—I intended to keep this to myself, but I was afraid for your daughter's sake, and little by little, without meaning it, I have let you see what was in my heart, I have told you everything, because I am afraid, yes, afraid, that you may mistake my resignation for indifference; for if you only knew how deeply it hurts me whenever I detect that uneasy look in your eye or discover a fresh insincerity—and I always do discover them—you are not good at deceit, you are too jauntily insolent—ah, you have no idea how you make my heart bleed, or you would never again be so cruel as to torment me! But that is how you are. If you don't hear the cry, you do not realize that you have inflicted the wound; unless you see my tears, you cannot believe that my life is unhappy.
Gonzalo. [Deeply affected] Isabel! Why, Isabel!—Come, come! This is no way to dress for dinner.
Isabel. No, it is foolish to complain. But I have suffered so much, and now
Gonzalo. Now? What do you mean?
Isabel. You know what I mean. I am not blind. I can see what you are thinking about.
Gonzalo. Business, my affairs— How ridiculous!
Isabel. No, you take your business very calmly, but now you are irritable; your mood changes hourly, not daily. I love you too much not to know that you are disappointed when you seem happiest, or happy when you wish me to believe that you are sober and dignified.
Gonzalo. Pure imagination! However, I have no right to complain. You knew my life as a bachelor.
Isabel. As a married man.
Gonzalo. I married very young…
Isabel. As a widower.
Gonzalo. I was a very young widower.
Isabel. It made no difference to you.
Gonzalo. Difference? But then I married you. How was it then?
Isabel. Gonzalo, let us not pursue the matter further. I made up my mind long ago to shut my eyes, neither to hear nor to see; but I have seen and heard—everything. Why will you raise questions when you know inevitably that you must lie out of them? I detest nothing so much as a lie.
Gonzalo. When did I ever lie to you? Who told you my adventures?
Isabel. You did; I admit it—but not in confidence. It was imprudence.
Gonzalo. Imprudence is a species of confidence.
The Servant enters.
Servant. The mail from the club, sir. [Goes out.
Gonzalo. Circulars, advertisements… Hello! A note from Aguirre. He cannot dine with me this evening. Suppose I had gone? I should have enjoyed myself.
Isabel. You are enjoying yourself.
Gonzalo. But this? What is this? Ah, yes! I remember… Here, run through them if you like. Look them over…
Isabel. Thank you. I said you were imprudent, not that you were a fool. Of course, there is nothing in those letters; I am not a fool, either. It is not necessary to compromise oneself in a letter in order to make an appointment or to cancel one in case of need. All these communications are as innocuous as the tailor's announcement of the season's styles, or a circular letter from the President of the Council, presenting his compliments and soliciting your vote. They are precisely as innocent.
Gonzalo. I must give you credit for ingenuity, which, on the whole, is extremely flattering. When I feel older, mentally and physically, every day, to find that at my age you still consider me fascinating—it is delightful!
Isabel. No, fascinated, which is not the same. Your vanity is your undoing, as it is with all men. So why be vain? You are spoiled from the cradle. Parents, relatives and friends, down to the last gossiping old crone who is attached to the house, all flatter you: "What a cunning little dear!" "And how manly!" So the poor boy is lured on. I was always sent out of the room when I was a girl, when they began to talk about you.
Gonzalo. You hid behind the door and listened to every word.
Isabel. I was so inexpressibly shocked that I hated all men because I thought they were like you.
Gonzalo. All men but me, apparently. I made love to you before we were married.
Isabel. And I boxed your ears.
Gonzalo. You did, and it was tremendous! I never forgot you. And I don't believe that you ever forgot me, either. I was your sweetheart from that hour.
Isabel. I was as great a fool as you say.
Gonzalo. It is not easy to forget me.
Isabel. Oh, how I wish you were bald and gray-haired, with crows'-feet about your eyes, and a paunch to make you respectable! I pray God for one every day—I give you warning. But nothing happens. Apparently, you are the devil's, and at forty
Gonzalo. Come, come! Stop at forty!
Isabel. You are a gay deceiver. Do you know, I suspect your hair and mustache…
Gonzalo. No, upon my word of honor! A shampoo, a shampoo!
Isabel. The hair-dresser's art has made rapid progress. I wish you would teach me the secret. If that color were natural, it would be an insult.
Gonzalo. Would you really like to see me old?
Isabel. So old that no woman would ever look at you again, so ugly that they would all laugh when you attempted to presume. Then at last I could say: He is mine, thank God, all mine!
Gonzalo. But whose am I? What other woman has ever been able to call me hers, before God and before man, and in my own heart? Only you, my Isabel! [He kisses her.
Isabel. You don't know how I love you, nor how you make me suffer!
María Antonia and Pepe enter,
Pepe. Applause! Bravo! Bravo!
Gonzalo. Hello!
Isabel. Why, María Antonia!
María Antonia. Isabel…
Pepe. But we interrupt. Go on, go on!
Gonzalo. We were setting you an example, which, needless to say, was unpremeditated, as we did not see you coming. You surprised us, as it were, although these little episodes are not unusual with us, otherwise it would have been surprising had you happened on one of them. My dears, unless a man is married, unless he has children, he does not know what true love means, absolutely he does not. This is happiness. There is nothing else like it.
María Antonia. Papa is in fine humor.
Isabel. [Aside to María Antonia] Yes, since the mail arrived from the club. Fortunately, it was the last one.
María Antonia. Poor Isabel! Isn't it terrible to be a woman?
Isabel. No indeed. How silly!
María Antonia. I am awfully anxious to see you alone.
Gonzalo. By the way, Pepe, we must have a serious talk.
Pepe. Name your own time.
Gonzalo. Oh, there is no hurry! That reminds me: what was that play you recommended the other evening? I dropped in as I was passing the theatre, but I did not see the girl. It seemed to me rather tame.
Pepe. She has been out of the cast for a few days. The manager discharged her because of some trouble, although I must say that I sympathized with the girl. Her parts were impossible. La Vélez has the company completely under her thumb, although she sings like a cat and wears clothes
Gonzalo. She will never make a hit with her clothes.
Pepe. We might compare notes, however, about the other one. The town has gone mad over her—it is a hit every time she appears. She has—how shall I put it? Oh, you know—personality; there is something about her…
Gonzalo. I know. You talk like the girl's mother.
Pepe. Was that what you wanted to say?
Gonzalo. No; speaking seriously, Isabel thinks… We might take it up later. Did you say she was still out of the cast?
Pepe. No, you can see her any night in "Impulse" and "A League of the Garter," the second and fourth zarzuelas. Highly sensational.
Gonzalo. I suppose you drop in every night?
Pepe. No, when I have nothing else to do.
Gonzalo. But you never do anything else. You are making a great mistake. Women are hypersensitive about the theatre; it is so public. I never specialized in theatres myself; I do not recommend them to others.
María Antonia. What is papa telling Pepe?
Isabel. He is calling him to account. It was only right that he should know.
María Antonia. Who? Papa? You ought never to have told him. He will think that I am silly.
Isabel. You would be silly, if you were not right; and you are foolish to be unhappy because you are. The silliest thing in the world would be for you to make your husband unhappy.
María Antonia. I am not making my husband unhappy.
Isabel. But what is the matter? What are you trying to do.?
María Antonia. Do you suppose that I married to be humiliated and neglected by my husband?
Isabel. Has he done anything else.?
María Antonia. Has he? Only to-day
Isabel. Hush! They may hear us…
María Antonia. Yes, wait until we are alone…
Pepe. I must step out for a moment, my dear; I hope to return shortly—that is, if I can slip away.
Isabel. Oh! Don't you know whether you can return or not? Aren't you going to stay to dinner.?
María Antonia. Of course he is not.
Pepe. I shall do my best—if possible…
María Antonia. What is the use of this farce? You know perfectly well that you are not coming back.
Pepe. María Antonia!
Gonzalo. I think, perhaps, you take these matters too seriously. I understand his position. In fact, I feared for a moment that I might be prevented from dining with you myself. Women have an idea that men have nothing to do but keep engagements which they make for them. They plan and settle it all beforehand, days ahead; such a night we go to the theatre, such an evening we have guests to dinner. A man cannot be expected to burden his mind with these petty details. You are the very first to find fault with us when we neglect our business or our other affairs, yet you expect us always to be sitting at home, waiting on your pleasure, I cannot understand women; positively, I cannot understand them.
María Antonia. Yes, women are all unreasonable. Nobody understands them. He has known perfectly well since Monday that we were to dine here this evening, yet he must select this very evening
Pepe. Don't you want me to go? Very well, then, I won't go; I am perfectly agreeable.
María Antonia. Yes, you are! You are going just the same. I insist upon it. I don't care to have you sitting around all evening if this is what you are going to look like.
Pepe. Whether I go or not, I shall make it a point to provide a little opportunity, shortly, for you to look pleasant.
María Antonia. It will take a great deal to make me look like you do now.
Pepe. Whenever I turn around, it seems I am responsible.
Isabel. You are two children.
Pepe. Why didn't you tell me that you had prepared this little scene before we left home?
María Antonia. You can stop it by leaving if you don't like it—and the sooner the better. If you had let me come alone, as I wished, you would have avoided it altogether.
Pepe. I didn't want Isabel and your father to think…
María Antonia. What do you care what they think? Papa always sides with you, and Isabel has too much sense to interfere.
Gonzalo. I am at a loss to know how you can say that. I side with him because he is right; I put myself in his place.
María Antonia. Exactly! In his place.
Gonzalo. Yes, in his place—why not? I am sure that Pepe would remain to dinner unless some very important engagement took him away.
María Antonia. No doubt it seems important to him, which is sufficient. Why does a broker have to be present at a reading of a zarzuela?
Pepe. I told you the author is a friend of mine and it is my idea, substantially. I know the manager. Great heaven, can't a man go to the theatre? I must have some relaxation after a long and tiring day. If I had had my way, I should have been an actor, and I might have written plays, too, if I had had time, which would not have been worse than other popular successes. I have plenty of ideas—original ideas—and I never make a mistake as to what will prove acceptable. One rehearsal is ample for me to judge. If I were a manager, I should make money, naturally.
María Antonia. Who ever heard of such foolishness? All he thinks of is the theatre—a theatre.
Pepe. A theatre, a theatre! Yes, because the manager is a friend of mine.
Isabel. Pepe, I had no idea that you were so fond of the theatre.
Pepe. It is my hobby—as innocent a hobby, I suppose, as a man could well have. Don't you agree with me?
Gonzalo. All hobbies are innocent, although I must say I had supposed that you had some better reason for not remaining to dinner.
María Antonia. You see that even father deserts you. The reading must be important if they want to have you at it.
Pepe. I shall return immediately. I will ask my friends to postpone it until another day, or else go on without me. Unless I hurry, I shall be late… What is the matter? Don't make a scene. God knows nothing could be more unpleasant!
Gonzalo. [Aside to Pepe] Yes, hurry as much as you can, you may slip away later. We shall not sit long at table, as I have an engagement myself. Better humor María Antonia.
Pepe. I shall be back directly—directly, I promise you.
María Antonia. Suit yourself.
Pepe. Good-by, then. Now don't make up any stories about me.
María Antonia. I shall not make up any stories.
Pepe. Isabel, make it all right with María Antonia. You know how it is…
Isabel. Of course, although if you are not coming back, I advise you to say so.
Pepe. No, I am coming—on my word of honor! Directly! [Goes Out.
Gonzalo. Now you can tell us the truth. Isabel says that you are unhappy, that you are dissatisfied with your husband. How is that? Have you any ground for complaint?
María Antonia. No, none whatever. I was joking with Isabel. It amuses me to see how fond Pepe has suddenly become of the theatre. Because his friend Castrojeriz, who is keeping some soprano or other, wants to exhibit his mistress in public and ruin himself as a manager, is no reason why Pepe should haunt the playhouse day and night. He isn't the prompter or leader of the orchestra. Now we have a steady stream of actors running to the house asking for recommendations, to say nothing of authors who want a good word said for their plays. Only yesterday, I received an applicant for the chorus, chaperoned by her mother…
Isabel. How exciting!
María Antonia. She insisted upon the girl's singing the romanza from "The First Officer."
Gonzalo. If that was all, it was not so bad, though no doubt it was trying. You must remember that Pepe has seen very little of the world. His father brought him up very strictly; he was put to work when he was a mere boy. Naturally, he is interested in these light girlish frolics. An opportunity has offered to peep behind the scenes in a theatre—behind the scenes, just imagine it! And up to that time the boy had seen practically nothing. He was delighted, as was to be expected. A great many thoroughly respectable persons who have no connection with the theatre professionally, spend their time about the dressing-rooms and behind the scenes, studying the performances and observing what goes on at rehearsals. When we wish our own doctor, for example, we always send to the theatre for him, and his diagnoses have become purely theatric. If nothing is the matter, he says: "Pshaw! A performance will do you good to-morrow evening." If it is serious, he says: "This is too bad! I advise you to remain away from the opening." And our doctor is a sober and dignified man, a gentleman, and a fine physician.
María Antonia. Do not exert yourself to convince me. I knew, of course, that you were going to side with Pepe.
Gonzalo. My point is that if you wish to prevent him from taking his relaxation away from home, and from you, sulking and complaining and making it thoroughly unpleasant is about the worst system you could adopt for the purpose.
Isabel. Your father is right about that.
Gonzalo. Are you jealous? Do you suspect that he is deceiving you?
María Antonia. Suspect? Not at all; he is not deceiving me. I made up my mind before I married, exactly what I would do when the time came—and I proved it.
Isabel. It is foolish to make up one's mind in advance or to map out a course of action in life. We become wedded unconsciously to the attitude which we expect to assume, and the event often happens because we expected it. Never decide anything in advance. Life takes us by surprise, and determines the future without our advice, and life is always wise and always just. We may be deceived and betrayed, it may even seem that our lives have been wrecked completely, yet if we can truly say with a clear conscience that it was undeserved, we are happier by far than those who brought misfortune upon us. The only sorrow for which there is no consolation is the sorrow we have brought upon ourselves.
Gonzalo. She is perfectly right. Remember what she says. Gracious! It is time to dress. The guests will think that they are attending a funeral.
María Antonia. No, it was foolish of me to complain. I was very silly. I ought to be—and I intend to be—happy.
Gonzalo. I see no reason why not. [Goes out.
María Antonia. Why did you say anything to papa? I did not wish him to know.
Isabel. Am I closer to you than your own father?
María Antonia. Certainly. You understand how I feel. A man's point of view is entirely different. A love-affair means so little in their lives, and they put so little heart in it, that they imagine that it means even less to us. But they are mistaken. I can understand how a great love, an irresistible passion, might sweep everything before it, until the pain, the anxiety, and the humiliation of the woman might count as nothing and be forgotten—for this a man might have some excuse; but when he does not hesitate to give a woman pain merely to gratify a passing caprice, that is inexcusable; it shows exactly what men think of us.
Isabel. Has Pepe?…
María Antonia. Yes, he has; and his unfaithfulness is more cowardly because it began at a time when of all others I was most deserving of his respect, if not as his wife, as the mother of his child. Who knows but that the horrible mortification of his cowardly, cruel behavior, may not have been the cause of our terrible sorrow? And all for a low, vulgar woman, who is the attraction which he finds in the theatre!
Isabel. Oh! So she is the one?
María Antonia. Yes, and he thinks I suspect nothing. His friend, Castrojeriz, wheedles his money out of him to pay the expenses of his theatre. We shall be ruined and become public laughing-stocks at one and the same time, which I can never submit to, I promise you. I have not your patient disposition.
Isabel. My patient disposition?
María Antonia. Yes, poor Isabel! You are like my own dear mother, as good and as patient as she. Life has had no secrets for me since I was a child. I was brought up alone with my father, or rather without him, for I seldom saw him at all. Nurses and servants did not hesitate to gossip when I was present, nor spare me the details of what they had heard. Aunt Rosario was the only person who really cared for me, and her affection consisted chiefly of an implacable hatred of my father. She was my mother's sister, so she could never forgive him. Her undying hate took no thought of my innocence, she never considered the harm which she did me by destroying my respect for my father, and the faith which I had in his love. She even carried her resentment beyond the grave, and when she died she put into my hands my mother's letters, which she made me promise never to open until I had married myself.
Isabel. What was in those letters?
María Antonia. They were terrible beyond words. My mother's life was torment and hell. When you see them, you will understand why I cannot confide in my father. So I open my heart to you, and cry my eyes out in bitterness when I realize that I have thrown myself away upon a contemptible cur, who, like all men, is a deceiver.
Isabel. Not like all men.
María Antonia. Then let me believe that all men are like him, because I should be even more unhappy than I am if I thought that there was one who was not.
Isabel. Why? Are you keeping something back?… Are you trying to deceive me? This bitterness seems more like rebellion than regret, and I am frightened by it. I know that you loved another man before you did Pepe, you loved him with your whole soul… It may be, as you say, that life has never had any secrets from you since you were a child, yet perhaps you have never understood why you were obliged to give him up, perhaps you have never been able to forget…
María Antonia. No, I understood. How could I help but understand? I accepted your reasons without question. It was not necessary for Enrique to go away in order to induce me to forget him.
Isabel. If that is true, you are in love with another man! He pursues, he torments you—and you struggle to defend yourself. Who is he? No, you need not tell me—I know who he is. His name has been too frequently upon your lips for me not to guess where the danger lies. But you cannot believe in his love! You could not be so false to yourself, although in the bitterness of disillusionment you may feel that revenge is the only relief. You will not do it, because you believe in your mother and you believe in me. You have faith in us both—she is in heaven, and I am still here at your side. If you have read your mother's letters, you understand what my life is; we have both borne the same sorrows. Yours cannot be greater, so do not let your resignation be less… Dry your eyes; here comes Laura. She will see that we have been crying.
Laura enters.
Laura. My dear Isabel! María Antonia…
Isabel. How effective! Your new gown is most striking.
Laura. Do you really like it? The taste of my maid. I have not had a moment to look in the glass. This has been a terrible day for me—seven hours spent in a coach, which I paid for myself, all for the love of my fellow man.
Isabel. Are you still so active in benevolent work? You belong to all the charitable societies.
Laura. I am vice-president of two, secretary of three, and treasurer of four, which goes without saying. The most difficult assignments invariably fall to me. "As you have no family, Laura, no children to take care of"… "As you have nothing to occupy your time"… They forget that I have children on all sides of me, while the whole world is my family, and I feel responsible for them all. I console myself as best I may for the misfortune—or the crime—of remaining single.
Isabel. Gracious! In your case it has been neither a misfortune nor a crime. One home and one family were not enough for you; you have embraced a wider field.
Laura. A vulgar misapprehension. I keep house myself; I am a model housekeeper. I need scarcely remind you of the demands society makes upon my time.
Isabel. No, you go everywhere; I admire you for it.
Laura. I am not narrow-minded like
María Antonia. Like us, you were going to say?
Laura. No, like most women. From the woman's point of view, home and family are of first importance, as is proper; on the other hand, it is not well to be excessively domestic. If I had married, I should have urged my husband on to glorious exploits, instead of intimidating and holding him back, as do most women, including yourselves.
María Antonia. Including us?
Laura. Yes, including you. A man of your father's ability and social position ought to amount to something; he should have had his fill by this time of being cabinet minister, or whatever it is that he would like most to be. Do you know what has always been lacking in your father's life? A woman.
María Antonia. We had had a different idea.
Laura. A woman who should be as unwomanly as possible. Exceptional men cannot be loved like ordinary men. Love watches beside genius as beside a sick bed, in silence and at a respectful distance, waiting until the patient calls, and is satisfied. To pester such a man with attentions or domestic trivialities is a crime, if you will pardon the suggestion. When I came in, I scented at once domestic discord in the air. You have both been crying.
María Antonia. No, indeed—although memory brings tears to our eyes; we have no differences.
Laura. You need not tell me. Was it serious? Has he had a letter? Or did your husband go out and neglect to tell you where he was going? Perhaps he stayed out too long. You have been quarrelling with your husband…
María Antonia. In any event, my conscience will never reproach me with ruining a genius, however much I may quarrel with my husband.
Laura. I was not thinking of your husband. Pepe is a nice boy, apt to learn; but that is all. Your father is an intelligent man; he has knowledge of the world, he has address…
Isabel. We realize it fully. All he lacks is inspiration, which I have been unable to supply.
Laura. However, do not distress yourself. He has just been offered the direction of the new company in Paris, which, in fact, was his idea. It will control the world very shortly, because of the nature of its business, dominating the banks and consequently the politics and destinies of Europe; yet, instead of encouraging him to accept, you are in a panic for fear that, possibly, you may be obliged to move, to leave Spain.
Isabel. María Antonia and I are not ambitious. We are sufficiently well-to-do to be able to afford the luxury of remaining here at home among our friends, and the associations which have always been ours. Gonzalo has accepted the chairmanship for Madrid, and is entirely satisfied.
María Antonia. Yes, why go to Paris? Do you wish us to separate?
Laura. Oh, go along. Your father might find Pepe employment in some confidential capacity.
María Antonia. My husband in Paris? No, thank you. His theatrical tastes have already been cultivated.
Laura. Theatrical tastes? You surprise me.
Isabel. María Antonia is very silly.
Laura. How absurd! I suppose you are jealous because your husband has attended the theatre once or twice, and one of your friends has had the bad taste to mention it. Ridiculous!
María Antonia. Yes, I am ridiculous, I am jealous, and I am a woman! I should like to have my husband stay at home alone by me, and be satisfied. I have not the skill to make a Napoleon out of my husband, or a Bismarck, or any other genius now in fashion. When he goes out and stays later than he should, it is no consolation to me to think that he may be conquering new worlds or conducting experiments in navigation.
Carmen, Luisa and Ramón enter.
Isabel. Carmen and her husband with Luisa… Good evening, my dear! Luisita…
Carmen. Do not tell us that we are late. Ramón insists we are to blame.
Ramón. Obviously. A woman's toilette is inexhaustible: it takes three hours for them to dress—to no purpose. Now they are trying to persuade me to subscribe for seats at the theatre. But what is the use? If I wish to see a play or hear an opera, I must leave them at home. We are lucky to arrive in time for the second act if they go. Isn't it foolish to spend a fortune not being on time?
María Antonia. Luisita, you are adorable this evening.
Luisa. Naturally—you heard papa; I have been three hours dressing. How he does love to exaggerate!
Ramón. Where is Gonzalo?
Isabel. He is almost ready. What do you hear from Enrique?
Ramón. Nothing; he never writes. I cannot understand what is the matter with that boy.
Carmen. [Aside to Isabel] I am dreadfully worried; I must tell you about it later, Isabel. I don't want to disturb Ramón. You know what he is.
Laura. Were you on the Exchange this afternoon?
Ramón. Yes, but there were no developments. It was unusually quiet.
Laura. I must consult you about a plan which I am taking under consideration. It may be foolish
Ramón. No, Laura, you are a competent judge; you are unquestionably capable of taking care of yourself.
Laura. Yes, I have acquired the habit, thanks to your advice and friendly assistance.
Carmen. Your talent for business has always been astonishing. The mere idea of business is appalling to me. If I were a widow, I am sure I should not have courage to make any advances, or to speculate upon the Exchange.
Laura. I should have fared poorly had I shared your reluctance. What I had from my father was modesty itself, which would have disappeared long ago had I displayed no taste for affairs. Fortunately, I trusted my principal to Gonzalo and he has doubled my income with incredible rapidity.
Ramón. We hope to surprise you shortly now that the new company has been organized. The scope of the business has been broadened, and at the same time the foundations have been made more secure. We shall no longer be dealing in castles in the air.
Laura. So I trust, as does everybody. I am enchanted with the prospect; it is entrancing. [To Isabel and Carmen] I am amazed that you do not take any interest in business.
Ramón. Yes, discuss business with a woman! My wife has preserved some notion of economy in the management of the house, as she knows what it means to begin, but Luisita, who was born in days of plenty, seems to believe that the sky rains down money. If she had her way, we should be ruined in less than two months.
Luisa. Do you wonder that I am not engaged? The young men listen to papa, and then decline absolutely to make advances.
Ramón. Engaged? Engaged? Show me the young man who has the hardihood to venture with one of these girls. Naturally, a young man's position is none too brilliant; he is struggling to establish himself in his profession, or in business, and as yet he has not had time to inherit. Encumber yourself under these circumstances with a young lady who is accustomed to shine, and to spend money without any idea of what it costs to make it! A few years ago marriage meant a girl's first gown from the dressmaker, her first lingerie that was not the plainest of the plain; it meant her first jewelry that was of value and her introduction to society as well, and this was true even if she belonged to the uppermost classes; but now this is all changed. Marriage is a step down for a girl, it is to restrict herself, to have a poorer house, a worse table, inferior service; it is to ride in a hack or a trolley-car, instead of her own carriage; it is to remodel a dress ten times and a hat fourteen; it is to listen to her husband preach that she is spending too much money, that it is impossible to continue like this, and these things sound very differently from a husband than they do from a father. If there should be children, wives nowadays can only bring them up upon money. What with nurses and governesses and doctors at every turn, the infant does not have an opportunity to sneeze. A fortune is squandered upon laces and batistes, so as to accustom him to the refinements from the cradle, and I don't know what else besides—yes, a French priest to teach him to pray, because mothers cannot even do that nowadays. Show me the young man who is willing to marry upon a salary such as we pay men in Spain, and an income which we are pleased to call modest.
Luisa. Father seems to think that money is the supreme end of existence.
Laura. And he is perfectly right. Money cannot make us happy, but it is the only compensation that we have for not being so.
Gonzalo enters.
Gonzalo. My dear Laura, I am delighted… How are you, Carmen? And Luisita… Hello, Ramón. Anything new? Are we making progress?
Ramón. Excellent.
Laura. I am angry with you, because you have proved yourself an ingrate.
Gonzalo. Ah, doubtless because I neglected to answer your last letter! You must not sell at the present figure under any circumstances. I should have placed myself at your disposition at once should you have done so.
Laura. Remember, I have blind faith in you.
Gonzalo. I fear that you are unduly confiding; I am not infallible.
Laura. I should gladly face ruin, following you.
Gonzalo. I should not feel any less guilty, even though you were following me.
Luisa. [Aside to María Antonia] Laura is mad over your father, but at least her attitude is perfectly open. How does Isabel tolerate it?
María Antonia. Oh, she is harmless! It is a platonic attachment, upon the Exchange. Laura breathes fire and passion into such prosaic questions as: "How is the foreign loan?" "Was it strong at the close?" "Quote me prices on redemption bonds." Fancy Romeo and Juliet discussing quotations upon the Bourse at the window, instead of debating whether it is the lark or nightingale which sings!
Luisa. What difference does it make? It would be a love scene just the same. No words are too prosaic to express what love means.
Josefina and Adolphe enter.
María Antonia. [To Luisa] The young couple from Paris—on private view.
Adolphe. Ladies and gentlemen… [To Isabel] Ah, madame!
Isabel. How do you do, Josefina?
Gonzalo. Allow me to present our friends. Ramón, this is Adolphe Barona, our correspondent's son.
Ramón. Yes, yes indeed. His father is a great friend of mine. Great man, Barona!
Gonzalo. His wife.—Introduce your wife and daughter.
Ramón. My wife, my daughter. Although we have not had the pleasure before, we may consider ourselves old friends. Your father is like a brother to Gonzalo and myself. We entered business together when we were boys.
Adolphe. I believe you did. Papa talks about you incessantly. Apparently you had rare sport in your day; you were up to—what is it?—tricks.
Ramón. Tricks?
Adolphe. Yes, de… bêtises. I mean you made damn fools of yourselves.
Ramón. You don't say so.
Gonzalo. Although he speaks Spanish perfectly, without trace of foreign accent, as he has lived in Paris all his life he is unfamiliar at times with the precise meaning of words.
Adolphe. I always speak Spanish at home with papa; but the habit of thinking in French makes me commit—how shall I say? I cannot help it—une gaffe, Josefina, une gaffe…
Josefina. You break badly. Is that what you say?
María Antonia. Yes, that is what you say. [Aside to Luisa] Say and do.
Gonzalo. Josefina speaks charmingly, like an unadulterated Madrileña.
Josefina. Oh, please don't accuse me of anything quite so shocking, or your expectations may be forfeited.
María Antonia. Evidently Spanish has no secrets for her.
Gonzalo. She is pure joy. Are you becoming more reconciled to Madrid?
Ramón. Don't you like it here?
Josefina. Yes, it seems rather pleasant. We have made our formal calls and found everybody polite and agreeable.
Adolphe. Ah, very! But what wretched houses! There is an utter lack of comfort, of taste—although yours is an exception.
Isabel. You must not say that.
Adolphe. Ah, yes, indeed! It displays taste, a delicate, feminine touch, which is artistic, harmonious. Where was it that we saw a salon empire with paintings Louis quinze? Horrible! They were… how do you say, Josefina? Un mélange?
Josefina. Upside down. Am I right?
María Antonia. You are. [Aside to Luisa] With whom has this girl been talking Spanish in Paris?
Adolphe. Such bad taste quite takes my nerve away. I find the toilettes of the ladies a trifle criardes.
María Antonia. Crude and loud.
Adolphe. Exactly—howling. What lady was it who received us in a blue tea-gown and a burst of gigantic yellow bows? I yearned to rip it off her.
Josefina. Adolphe's temperament is so artistic.
Adolphe. Life would be sad without art. The toilette is half the woman. Surprising a rare toilette may in itself be a poem.
Luisa. [Aside to María Antonia] Which is the madame in this Parisian couple?
Ramón. [Aside to Gonzalo] Is this the boy you wish to put at the head of our Madrid office?
Gonzalo. I see no reason why not. He is highly intelligent, as you will soon be convinced. He talks like this to please the ladies.
Ramón. In that case he is more of a fool than I thought. He shows absolutely no knowledge of women.
Gonzalo. How should he?—after having been in business all his life under the eye of his father. The position requires no intelligence.
Ramón. It is one of great responsibility. When we already have Jiménez
Gonzalo. Jiménez is satisfied with the post which he occupies. How can we refuse Barona what he asks for his son?
Ramón. Asks for him? He asks nothing. He wrote me that his son was coming to Madrid on a pleasure-trip, on his honeymoon.
Gonzalo. Well, the boy told me that his father's purpose in sending him was to obtain this position. It seems that he had contracted relations in Paris before his marriage with a woman of certain character, and it is not wise at present for him to reside there. His wife insists upon a change.
Ramón. Is that so? His wife—and yours, I suppose? I understand perfectly. The moment that she entered I saw that you were interested.
Gonzalo. Absurd! I have no idea what you mean. Do you suppose that I would dare… With a girl who has just been married? The wife of a sou of my friend?
Ramón. Yes, yes, that makes a great difference to you.
Gonzalo. Eh?
Ramón. I believe my wife is the only woman you have ever respected, and that is not because I trust you; I trust her.
Gonzalo. Don't be a fool. To-morrow we shall present his name at the meeting of the Junta together. A word will suffice.
Laura. [To Adolphe] What is the opinion of Panama shares in France? I bought a number at a most flattering figure. Everybody agrees that I am long now on futures.
Adolphe. They are a dormant security—but with the water let in it, Panama will be a second Suez. [Noticing Laura's earrings] May I examine those pearls? They are exquisite. I have seen few of such clear lustre, and I am familiar with pearls. Par excellence, the pearl is the feminine jewel.
Laura. I inherited these from my Aunt Leonor, who left me the few jewels I possess. I regard it as wasteful to lock up money in jewels, where it is no longer liquid. They cost a fortune to buy, but when one comes to sell…
Josefina. I see that your disposition, like mine, is severely practical. My husband is quite the opposite. He has the soul of an artist; he spends all his money on things which are useless.
María Antonia. Yet he has devoted his life to business, among men of affairs.
Adolphe. That is the reason I detest them so thoroughly. Ah! What is life without poetry, without an ideal?
Josefina. We exchanged roles, as you see, when we married.
María Antonia. [To Luisa] We were confused for a moment ourselves.
Josefina. Life slips by Adolphe like a beautiful dream.
Gonzalo. He is making a tremendous mistake.
Josefina. Do you think so?
Gonzalo. If he dreams, he must be asleep—not a proper attitude in a young husband.
Josefina. Shocking! But men are never serious in Spain. Do you know, I am beginning to have my doubts about you?
Gonzalo. About me?
Josefina. Yes, I distrust your word. Have you urged Adolphe's appointment upon the directors, as you promised?
Gonzalo. We were discussing it now. You may consider it assured.
Josefina. Time will tell. I should be sorry to quarrel, but if you plan to take advantage of me…
Gonzalo. Ha, ha!
Josefina. Are you laughing? I warn you: you will be obliged to win your spurs in advance…
Gonzalo. I was laughing at the turn of your speech.
Josefina. Was it improper?
Gonzalo. It was inviting.
Josefina. But it is not safe to laugh at me. I find you are a deceiver who perverts the moral sense.
Gonzalo. Adorable! You are adorable! What more could be wished?
María Antonia. Oh, how shamelessly brazen! She flirts with papa just as if this were a country which permitted divorce. And I must say her husband takes it calmly. Apparently he is explaining to Laura and Luisa the hang of a skirt… How revolting!
Ramón. Isabel, I wish you would speak to your husband. He insists upon appointing this boy to a position of grave responsibility. I suppose he told you that he was recommended by his father? His father knows well enough by this time that the boy is a fool. He married him in a hurry to this girl, whose family and antecedents will not bear inspection, and packed him off to Madrid to settle down, but not in a position of such importance. Use your influence with Gonzalo.
Isabel. I? Carmen knows me better. I should not dream of advising him, much less of opposing his wishes. He might be never so sincerely affectionate, yet I should not believe one word that he said. To effect more than promises of reform, to be forgotten with the week, I should be obliged to do more than talk.
Ramón. Yes, but what do you do, Isabel?
Isabel. I? Resign myself—and wait.
Ramón. Poor Isabel!
A Servant enters.
Servant. A letter for the señorita. [Offering it to María Antonia.
María Antonia. If there is an answer…
Servant. The messenger did not wait.
María Antonia. Very well. [The Servant retires] From Pepe. There is no need to read it; he is not coming, of course… I knew it, I expected it.
Isabel. No, read it
María Antonia. What is the use? You read it. Does he excuse himself?
Isabel. Substantially. His friends refuse to let him come. The reading is important…
María Antonia. Yes, yes, no doubt. Pass the letter around.
Luisa. Isn't your husband coming?
María Antonia. Here, take it and read it to your fiancé when you have one. It will serve him as a model after you are married. All men are alike.
Luisa. No, that is not true; I don't believe it. If you had only married Enrique
María Antonia. Hush! Don't talk to me about Enrique, if you love me. Please! It hurts.
Luisa. My poor brother is so sad when he writes.
María Antonia. Sad? Yes, we are all sad. God forgive those wretched creatures who, for a moment's pleasure, a caprice, for gratification of the sort in which my husband is now engaged, are willing to wreck the happiness of their dear ones for all the rest of their lives!
Luisa. I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about.
María Antonia. Oh, nothing! I am not talking.
Manuel enters.
Manuel. Good evening. Am I punctual? Ah, Isabel, you don't say so…
Isabel. For once you are, and I appreciate it. We have guests this evening.
Manuel. So I see. Present me.
Isabel. Don Manuel Arenales, M. Adolphe Barona… His wife.
Manuel. A great pleasure, a very great pleasure!
Gonzalo. At last you have met an unadulterated Madrileño. He is just up and beginning the day.
Manuel. Have you any objection? Time is purely arbitrary. There is no reason why the day should begin with the sun. I am more gallant; I concede the privilege to the moon. I render homage to the eternally feminine.
Laura. I have often been astonished to see you up early in the morning as I hurried to a lecture or a charitable affair.
Manuel. Were you making your rounds so early? Well, I was returning from mine. One may easily judge who had the better start of the day.
Laura. Silence! I despise you. You are a reproach to the state of bachelorhood. Of what use are you in the world?
Manuel. A question, perhaps, that others might ask. To permit you to send me tickets every Monday and Tuesday for your benefits, and subscription-blanks for every manner of good works, to all of which I contribute most gladly, my dear Laura, and believe me when I tell you that this is no joke.
Laura. True. Through this tiny door, perhaps, we may succeed in saving your soul, and you find indulgence for your multitudinous sins.
Manuel. So Pepe is not dining with us this evening?
María Antonia. Why? Did you see him?
Manuel. Yes, a moment ago
María Antonia. Where?
Manuel. In the Calle de Alcalá.
María Antonia. Oh! With some friends?
Manuel. No, he was alone.
María Antonia. Alone? Why, his note said…
Manuel. What did his note say?
María Antonia. Nothing.—Alone! Did you hear that? He was alone!
Gonzalo. Be careful! Never see a married man anywhere unless his wife is along.
Manuel. Careful? Because I said I met him alone on the street? Did you expect me to tell her that I saw him running up-stairs at the Restaurant Fornos with a party of friends—his friends, your friends, and mine?
Gonzalo. Not mine, no! Do me that favor.
Manuel. At least I suppose they were friends of yours. What woman is not your friend?
The Servant enters.
Servant. Dinner is served.
Adolphe. Le dernier cri this season runs the gamut of yellows: sulphur, lemon, orange, apricot—one may even wear yolk of an egg…
Ramón. This fellow's conversation is limited to diet and clothes.
María Antonia. To diet, it seems, as applied strictly to clothes.
Isabel. [To Gonzalo] Gonzalo, I have placed the bride by you. Undoubtedly, she will introduce the question of her husband's appointment.
Gonzalo. Do we have to go into that?
Isabel. Ramón is against it. He will oppose it at the meeting of the Junta.
Gonzalo. I thought that you were up to something.
Isabel. I? I simply wish to prevent you from making a mistake; I am thinking about you, do you hear?—about you. What do I care? It is only another one, and I am used to it. However, do as you please—as you will.
Curtain