In the Clouds/Act 1
IN THE CLOUDS
Plainly furnished dining-room of Doña Carmen's apartment.
As the curtain rises, Ramona enters with a cup, and Julio appears directly afterward.
Julio. What are you doing? Is it my sister?
Ramona. Yes, Señorita Luisa has an attack. She was taken after dinner. Maybe something hot'll do her good.
Julio. Is mother with her?
Ramona. Yes, Señorito Julio.
Julio. If she asks, say I am out. I have an engagement and can't wait. It's nothing, I suppose, as usual?
Ramona. Of course not. But there are times when you just have to yell, though it might be hard to say why you do it.
Julio. Nerves, too, eh?
Ramona. Have I?—only I work mine off singing. Whenever you hear me sing, you can be sure there's something wrong with Ramona.
Julio. There must be something wrong with you all the time.
Carmen. [Inside] Ramona! Ramona!
Ramona. Ah, the mistress! Coming, señora…
Julio. Don't tell her I was home. [Goes out.
Ramona. Trust me.
Doña Carmen enters.
Carmen. What are you doing? Does it take all this time to get a little hot water?
Ramona. Why, I…
Carmen. Who was that you were talking to?
Ramona. Me?
Carmen. Señorito Julio, wasn't it? He has gone out without seeing his sister. The house might fall for all he cares, and the rest of us be buried under it. How can a young man be so selfish? He never was like this before, that is certain. It is that girl, this precious love-affair, and it will be the death of me. He had his overcoat on, I dare say, and his top hat? Nothing I could do could ever induce him to dress. Give me the hot water, and clear the table; finish as soon as you can. Did you leave word for Don Hilario?
Ramona. Yes, but he wasn't home. They'll give him the message as soon as he comes in, and he'll be down right away.
The bell rings.
Probably he's here now.
Doña Carmen and Ramona go out, the latter at the rear. After a moment Ramona re-enters with Pepe.
Ramona. Señorito Pepe… behave yourself!
Pepe. Not so loud…
Ramona. Where did you learn manners? In a boarding=house from the servants?
Pepe. Why? Are servants in boarding-houses different from other servants? How do you know?
Ramona. I worked in one.
Pepe. Oh! That's different.
Ramona. And one was enough.
Pepe. Good girl! What do you say to dinner with me some Sunday at Las Ventas? Rice is their specialty.
Ramona. Why? You haven't put in your order, have you? Because nobody is going to shower us with rice. Señorito Julio isn't home, I tell you.
Pepe. I know; that's the reason I called. I'm calling on his mother. Doña Carmen.
Ramona. Step into the parlor, please.
Pepe. I'm satisfied where I am; I feel more like one of the family. Announce me.
Ramona. I don't know whether the señora can see you. Señorita Luisa has an attack.
Pepe. Tell her I am here, and my duty will be done. I am not so keen about this interview, anyhow. She is going to question me.
Ramona. Yes, about Señorito Julio. She doesn't like the idea of his being engaged, not to speak of his getting married. That is all she ever talks about nowadays, just as if it wasn't the most natural thing in the world for a young man to get married. If he didn't have a sweetheart, you know yourself it would be something else. Some people when they get old forget they were ever young themselves. There's a time for everything, and we know it.
Pepe. Yes, we know it. [Embracing her] It would be an awful shame, too, to let it slip.
Ramona. Be careful what you're doing!
Pepe. My dear, you feel to me like a hundred and eighteen in the shade.
Ramona. I call that a pretty warm young gentleman. [Goes out, right.
She re-enters immediately with Doña Carmen, and then disappears again at the rear, toward the left.
Pepe. Doña Carmen!
Carmen. Good afternoon, Pepe.
Pepe. As Julio was out, and you sent word that you wanted to see me, I thought perhaps we might have a quiet talk.
Carmen. Yes, I appreciate your coming very much. Won't you sit down?
Pepe. The maid tells me Luisa is not well.
Carmen. Her nerves, as usual. I am in despair over that child. The best physicians have examined her, and you know what that means to people in our circumstances in the way of sacrifices, with only my son's salary and what I had from my husband to depend upon. The cost of living in Madrid was never so high.
Pepe. No, never, Doña Carmen. Everything nowadays is going up, prices are in the sky.
Carmen. Although apparently you get along very comfortably. Your salary is the same as my Julio's, but you are alone. Besides, you have had experience; you have no idea of getting married.
Pepe. None whatever, Doña Carmen, none whatever. Why! Why should I?
Carmen. A man is always in his best years, as I tell my Julio. He has plenty of opportunities. But what is the use of talking? That is the reason I wanted to see you. You are his most intimate friend; you were inseparable.
Pepe. We were, yes, indeed. Doña Carmen, until this complication.
Carmen. What do you think? Is he in love? I never ask any questions; we never mention the subject without ending in a quarrel. But you must know something. What is he doing? Has he any idea of getting married?
Pepe. Well, frankly, he has gone pretty far. I tell him he is becoming more deeply mired every day. The girl is goodlooking; that is some consolation.
Carmen. But if he marries, what has he to look forward to? He is just in his prime. Now, with his modest salary—I ask you how far it will go in Madrid? Of course you don't know what it means to support a family.
Pepe. Oh, yes, I do; perfectly. There were five of us at home. I never was able to understand how anybody could support us.
Carmen. Julio has no conception of what his poor sister and I have been through so that he might not want. We sew, we cook, we wash, we iron, and on top of that my poor Luisa takes in sewing to help out with her pocket-money, at the cost of her health. Naturally, as he always finds things in their places, his clothes cared for, his shirts done up more neatly than if they had been sent out to a laundry, and all his favorite dishes on the table, such as he could not possibly expect from any hired cook, he takes it as a matter of course. How could we do all this if we didn't tend to everything ourselves? He will find a great difference when he marries a young lady who is no better off than he is, because the girl simply will not bring him one penny. Her mother's income is as modest as mine, although she has relatives who have means, and they help out occasionally, but what does that amount to? On the other hand, she is not accustomed to this life, as I am, or my daughter. Anybody can see it. Isn't it pure madness to marry under such circumstances?
Pepe. Yes, Doña Carmen, pure madness; to marry without money is always pure madness. When a man is in Julio's position and can live at home with you and be comfortable, it is unthinkable. Take me, after years of landladies, buffeted about from boarding-house to boarding-house, and yet even I have never considered it. You can make up your mind when I do, that it will be with my eyes open, and in full possession of my faculties.
Carmen. You have common sense, you understand life; but my son! Do you suppose he intends to marry very shortly?
Pepe. He has some such idea.
Carmen. God bless us!
Pepe. I have done what I could to discourage him, but he takes no interest. Some girls who are friends of mine entertain, don't you know, and everybody enjoys themselves there—girls from the country, who are not serious, because they haven't any idea of getting married; they have figured it out, don't you see, and can do better… Well, he won't look at them. He doesn't care for the theatre, either. The chorus at the Eslava is nothing to him.
Luisa enters.
Luisa. Oh, mamma!
Carmen. What is it, my dear? Are you more comfortable?
Luisa. Yes… much… thank you.—Hello, Pepe!
Pepe. How is this, Luisita?
Luisa. I heard you talking… I wanted to be sure not to miss anything.
Pepe. I appreciate it.
Luisa. We don't see as much of you as we did.
Pepe. Julio is never home; besides, you are busy…
Luisa. Yes, and you are busy yourself. We know where.
Pepe. Oh, here and there!
Luisa. That is not what I mean; you are in love.
Carmen. Not a bit of it! Pepe has more sense than your brother Julio.
Luisa. No, Pepe aims higher. I don't need to mention names; her father made a fortune in Cuba.
Pepe. In the Philippines; but it makes no difference. The point is that he made it.
Carmen. Well, you amaze me. I certainly wish you luck.
Pepe. Don't take it too seriously. What have I to look forward to—a clerk upon starvation wages? To appear decently in the circles in which she moves would be beyond the reach of my salary. There are men who can borrow on the strength of a fiancée's property, but I never could. Besides, if I could… Well, the girl is fond of me. Why should I tell you anything else? And her father is not unfavorable; neither are her sisters—so much so that there is one who is more taken with me than the one I am taken with, but the mother—the mother is terrific! Whenever she sees me coming, she turns her head the other way, and then I know she is watching us, for the darn thing is cross-eyed.
Luisa. The daughter is pretty, though.
Pepe. That depends upon which you call the daughter; there are three of them, and a wide variety. Mine—I call her mine to distinguish her—is fair, only fair. They dress well, they follow the styles, and are tighter about the waist than a pass by the bull-fighter Machaco. I never know whether I have hold of a woman or a rolled-up umbrella.
Luisa. You must think you are smart.
Pepe. I do my best to keep my end up. There are so many young fellows about town with plenty of money and plenty of automobiles, and so little else besides, that I see no reason why I shouldn't compete. I shall never marry except for money; I have made myself that promise.
Luisa. But how mercenary!
Pepe. Am I? No, other people are. Money is nothing to me. Others appear to want it—the landlady, the tailor, the tobacconist. When they stop asking it, I shall stop making it, and lose no time about it, either. Marriage, it seems to me, was designed to make a man more complete; it is a means of acquiring what a person has not. I don't need a wife, thank God, not every day; what I need is money. Now, on the other hand, if there is a woman anywhere who has a daily income, and requires a husband, although it may be only on part time, here I am. We can complete each other.
Luisa. How could you sacrifice yourself, living forever with a person that you did not love?
Pepe. Marriage with money is like a formal call. If I had money, do you suppose I would trouble my wife with my society, any more than I do now my chief at the office? However disagreeable a wife may be, there is no comparison between her and an employer. When you have money, you are enjoying yourselves while you are together, at the theatre, at dinner, riding out in the motor, or travelling. Believe me, it is safe to laugh at all this talk about incompatibility of temper among married people. What you actually find is incompatibility of expense.
Luisa. It is dreadful for a young man to talk like that. You are not the only one, either; there are many. What is a poor girl to do?
Pepe. If she is good-looking, marry a rich husband, as I just said. Complete yourself.
Luisa. But if she is ugly and insignificant?
Pepe. I should advise you not to be too modest.
Luisa. If she is merely honest and humble and industrious?—to prove to you that I am not too modest.
Pepe. Not all men feel as I do, or as I say that I do, to keep my courage up. I am more romantic at bottom than a lake in full moonlight. The truth is that I am afraid of life, of love, of the want of means. At home, I have witnessed many a harrowing scene, although my parents loved each other, and they loved their children dearly. But demands were many and resources few. It is cruel that love should depend upon anything but love. I recall an incident which I shall never forget as long as I live. There were five of us when we were small, and the youngest fell sick; his illness became serious, and my parents, in their anxiety, wished to leave nothing undone. One day, when we were all at table, we missed the dessert. "Isn't there any dessert?" one of us asked. "No," my mother answered. "We can't afford it. We have to buy medicine for your baby brother." Soon afterward the baby boy died. Time passed, conditions became normal again, and the dessert reappeared on the table. We children clapped our hands. "We have dessert again! We have dessert!" My father and mother looked at each other sadly—it was a look that imposed silence upon us all, agonizing silence. We felt as if we had been eating our baby brother instead of the dessert. Now you understand why the thought of a family of my own in which these childish ferocities might be repeated, appalls me. Their cruelty is so elemental that it does not outrage, but brings tears.
Carmen. Yes, life is cruel. If these things produced so deep an impression upon you that you have never been able to forget them, think what they must have meant to your father and mother. A child can never know the anguish that parents feel when they see their children suffer, when they hear them complain of life, of the lack of so many things, to which they believe themselves entitled simply through having been born, because they see others about them who have them, simply because they were born. At such a time, even the love through which we brought them into the world, weighs upon our hearts like remorse. We have not the courage to call them ungrateful, we prefer rather to blame ourselves. If our children could only know that we are so eager to see them happy that even their ingratitude, horrible though it may be in a child, does not wound us so deeply as it does to see them suffer, and to realize that we are powerless, with all the love in our hearts, to assure their happiness.
Luisa. Why, mamma!
Carmen. Forgive me. Now you understand why the prospect of my son's marriage appalls me. I have lived as I am not willing that he should live, as I am not willing that my daughter should live. Luisa might have married her cousin Manolo when she was still very young. It is easy to see what the result would have been, because he has married, and has five children. Everything spells trouble and anxiety in that house. The wife is ill, the children are delicate. No love is strong enough to hold out. The gentlest nature must become crabbed and distorted, and patience is exhausted at last. Bitter disputes take place at all hours; words are exchanged, as a mere matter of habit, which give offense. If love had been all of life, there would not have been a happier woman in the world than I; none was ever loved more dearly by her husband, or was more fortunate in her children. And yet, if you were to ask me: "Would you be willing to live your life over again?" I should reply: "No, no! A thousand times no! I have had enough!" And now to think that my life may be lived over again, that it may be lived again by my children… Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!
Pepe. Who knows? Julio may be very happy—it depends upon his disposition, and upon circumstances. Suppose that he should be fortunate enough not to have children? Or he may be lucky in the lottery, or they both may die on their honeymoon, and be satisfied!
Carmen. That is a terrible thing to say.
Pepe. In all probability nature will take her course, and it will be merely one marriage more. The world has no intention of coming to an end, Doña Carmen, and to face the question squarely, if only the rich were to marry and only the rich to have children, it would not be long before they could no longer tell that they were rich, because they would be walking the streets barefoot for want of anybody to make them a pair of shoes. I must hurry now; it is time to go, Doña Carmen. I should not like Julio to surprise me here, and to imagine that this was a conspiracy.
Carmen. Do not worry upon that account; he never returns before eleven at the earliest. But we must not detain you; you have engagements, and our tertulia would not prove amusing.
Pepe. Probably you expect company?
Carmen. Only some neighbors, who spend the winter evenings together. We meet in a different house every night. To-night it is our turn.
Pepe. I suppose you play games?
Carmen. Not even that. We talk, we read the paper. Some of us go to sleep.
Luisa. You may feel like a dull evening some time yourself.
Pepe. Yes, I shall drop in if I do. I hope you improve, Luisita. Now don't blacken my reputation. I may pursue the rich girls, but you don't know how shocked I should be, if one of them were honestly to sit up and take notice.
Luisa. I wish I could believe what you say.
Carmen. Good-by, Pepe. Adios! Remember to speak to Julio.
Pepe. Never, Doña Carmen. When a man has made up his mind, it is useless. It would only create feeling. I think too much of Julio, as he knows—and you know what I think of you.
Carmen. Thanks, Pepe; many, many thanks.
Pepe goes out.
Carmen. Pepe is a nice boy, after all.
Luisa. After all?
Carmen. At first sight you might think he was lightheaded, talking as he does, and pretending that all the girls are in love with him.
Luisa. He is not bad-looking, so no wonder. Besides, he is clever. I must get my sewing.
Carmen. Don't sew any more, my dear. You are not well. How are you now? Why don't you go to bed?
Luisa. No, I couldn't sleep.
Carmen. Well, don't sew. I don't want you to overdo; you have enough with the housework. I wish the weather would improve, and then we could go out for a walk in the afternoons. We stay indoors too much—not that I care, I don't feel it myself; I grow stronger every day, by God's grace, apparently. But you, my dear, are nothing but bones; you don't eat.
Luisa. I haven't any appetite.
Carmen. That reminds me, your tonic has given out. We must send for another bottle to-morrow.
Luisa. No, mamma, it doesn't do any good; it is only an expense. I'll be better soon; I must get strong, so that I can help you, and work.
Carmen. My poor child, you mustn't think of such a thing.
Luisa. Yes, mamma; when Julio marries, he won't be able to help you any more, although he may not admit it. Even if he could, his wife wouldn't let him. A daughter-in-law isn't the same thing as a daughter.
Carmen. No, and, anyway, I couldn't accept it. Does he think that is what I have on my mind? What difference does it make? I might be willing to swallow my pride for your sake, but I am accustomed to it. You were babies in arms when your father died. Now, he is the one I am worried about. A son, a brother, doesn't know what it means to keep house, to support a family. He imagines his wife will be just like we are; but Emilia will have her ideas…
Don Hilario's voice is heard outside.
Luisa. I think I hear Don Hilario.
Don Hilario enters.
Carmen. Don Hilario!
Hilario. What is this? How is the invalid? They told me she had had a violent attack.
Luisa. I only frightened mamma.
Carmen. Yes, doctor, it was rather violent. Fortunately, it passed quickly.
Hilario. Come, come! Do you feel distress? Any oppression? Palpitation?
Luisa. No, not now.
Hilario. How is the appetite?
Carmen. She hasn't any; she doesn't eat. I am dreadfully worried. Isn't there anything that we can do for this child? Can't we cure her somehow, Don Hilario?
Hilario. Ah, Doña Carmen, we could open this balcony to the sea or to the green fields, instead of on this narrow, dirty street; we could throw those inner windows wide to the sunshine and fresh air, instead of opening them upon a dusky, murky court, heavy with kitchen smells; we could bring a little love and a little happiness to Luisita's heart along with the sunshine and fresh air!
Carmen. Yes, you are right. That is the only cure.
Hilario. But sunshine and fresh air, sea breezes and the scent of the fields, love with its illusions and desires, which are so necessary to the young, are gifts which God has scattered through the world, but which man has made so dear. Believe me, the diseases which science has not yet been able to master, those familiar maladies whose causes and whose cure are unknown, although there are many, are not so much the despair of physicians as those other ills, in which life, not death, is the enemy, those maladies which we know so well and whose cure we also know, which have but a single name—poverty. I should not speak to others as frankly as I do to you, it might give offense; there is so much false pride. But here I am a friend. Since we have been neighbors, and I have had the pleasure of attending you, I have come to be deeply interested in you all.
Carmen. We appreciate it, Don Hilario; you have been kind and generous to us. You must forgive us if we abuse your generosity, but your visits are a consolation.
Hilario. Say no more. Doña Carmen. As I have told you, there is but one word for Luisita's illness, poverty, poverty of blood, poverty of life, poverty of everything. Even though you were to make a great effort, and to change your manner of living for a time completely, what would be gained by it? The inevitable reaction would ensue, accompanied by greater suffering, greater privations. I know there are physicians, and I envy them, who look upon the patient as an abstract being, and have the temerity to prescribe expensive travels and costly diets, fillets and champagnes of rare vintages, whether they ride up in an elevator and trip over soft carpets, or clamber up a hundred steps to an attic, clattering over broken tiles. It is my misfortune to be considerate, and there are those who do not thank me for it. There are persons who say: "Don Hilario does not diagnose my complaint; he prescribes nothing." Whereas I say: "What am I to prescribe here? Bank-notes of a thousand pesetas?" All I can do is appear forgetful, and neglect to send in my bill. If I cannot bring health, at least I have no right to take it away.
Carmen. Not all physicians are like you.
Hilario. No, Doña Carmen, there are doctors who receive more for a successful operation—successful except for the patient, who usually dies—than a matador does whose name is at the head of the bill. There are money-changers in all temples. To us, who respect our profession as a holy priesthood, it is sorrowful indeed.
Carmen. You see so much suffering that you are powerless to relieve.
Hilario. Yes, we do. I have seen much during my professional career. I began as a country district doctor, if you know what that implies. For ten years I wandered through those Spanish villages, as abandoned of God as of man, the country places of Castile, whose soil is the color of Franciscan sackcloth, and verily one might believe that they were consecrated to the asceticism of the Seraphic Saint. We say in Madrid: "How healthy it is to live and to be brought up in the country!" Marvellously healthy, indeed! As for the children, no more need be said. Every one of those towns is Herod's own kingdom. As ceaselessly as the reapers cut the grain in the summer, death harvests its infants throughout the course of the year. It could not be otherwise. The children are dirty, undernourished; the exhausted mothers are obliged to wean them prematurely, for one is scarcely born before another succeeds to its place, to sap her vitality. Yes, death may move quickly, but life, too, does not rest. In consequence, a child who grows up, a stroke of lightning could not harm. As these are the ones visitors see as they pass through the villages, they exclaim: "How healthy, how strong these children are!" But those of us who have lived in these towns, who have seen what they are, who have been victims, as I have been, of their desolation, entertain a different opinion. I lost three children, my three children on my wanderings through those abodes of ignorance and neglect. In each case, an epidemic carried one off. Then I determined to move to Madrid, at whatever cost. I felt that in Madrid my profession would prove more agreeable, that the poverty would not be so devastating nor so dour; but it is worse, a thousand times worse, because the sensibility of those who suffer is more refined, because the contrasts are greater, and the almost animal resignation of the man who has seen nothing else, of the man who is not able to compare, of the man who, without rebellion, accepts, is no longer possible. While I remained there, I myself was more humble, more resigned in the presence of another's grief, or before my own. I was able to say: "It is God's will. God has decreed it." But here I am not; here, I feel differently. Many a time, indignantly, I have burst out: "No, no, it is not God; it cannot be! Man, man is responsible." It is his cruelty, his injustice, because we call ourselves Christians, and we live, as you must admit, like wild beasts. The pretense has endured a long time. But are we Christians? Then we should live as brothers, and, as Christians, love one another. Are we wild beasts? An end then to this hypocrisy! Let us fall to and devour each other, and may that one prevail who has most force. Anything rather than this injustice as a social state, propped up by devious arts and worse laws, the rule of the few based upon the weakness of the many, who are not able even to rebel like wild beasts, because they have been cowed and debilitated by starvation, and have learned at last to call their cowardice resignation. These things cannot, they must not be. God has not ordered them, they are the bungling work of man, and man can fight with man. Forgive this peroration. "What has happened to Don Hilario?" you ask, "that he has turned orator, and addresses us like a town meeting?" To-day has been one of those days with me when a man must cry out to himself, if he can find no one into whose ears to pour his wrath. This morning I lost a patient, a working man, honorable, the father of a family, which he left, as the saying is, only day and night to remember him by. On the other hand, I cured another, a monstrous rogue, rotten with money, who is so solicitous to avoid even the appearance of virtue that he has not so much as one vice that might induce him to part with a penny. Yet to-day, when I dismissed myself, he said to me, highly satisfied: "By the way, I forgot to tell you. In spite of not being able to attend to business, I have had a rare stroke of luck. I have cleared a hundred thousand pesetas. Have a cigar?" It is the one I am smoking now, or rather biting in bitterness. We all know that death shoots in the dark, but, man alive, now and then he ought to display at least blind instinct! Then I come to this house, I see you, who are so deserving of happiness, from every point of view, and I find you sad, preoccupied; and I know the reason. Your son is about to marry. You, his mother, foresee fresh privations, direr hardships than before. You see your daughter suffer, and it wrings your heart. It is only natural. But your son suffers, too—yes, he does; I know, because he has talked with me, not more than a few days ago. But is this right? Is it human? Should an honorable love become a reproach, almost a source of remorse to a young man, who acts simply in obedience to the law of nature? Can it be a mother's duty to oppose the love of her child? Why, it is like a betrayal of motherhood itself! Is there not something iniquitous, something monstrous in all this?
Carmen. But, Don Hilario, am I not right—not to oppose it, I should not attempt that, and it would be useless—but to prevent if I can the shipwreck of my son's happiness, the ruin of my poor family which I have preserved until now?—and at what sacrifice!
Hilario. The iniquitousness, Doña Carmen, lies precisely in this: that you should be right. The realities of life are all on your side. With the marketing book in your hand, you are more potent than two hearts who are embarking upon life's adventure, the pursuit of happiness, prepared to give their all, owning allegiance only to youth and to love. How can you expect them to listen to you? "Be careful," you say, "bread is so much, potatoes so much; beans are at this figure. They are all going up, everything is in the clouds." But love, too, is in the clouds, as they think because it is divine. How can we make them understand that it is also because it is dear, and that there is a more intimate relationship between love and vegetables, between the heart and the marketing book, than there is between the illusions of youth and the realities of life?
Adelaida. [Outside] Yes, he is coming directly. Are the ladies in here?
Ramona. [Outside] This way, Señorita Adelaida.
Carmen. Adelaida.
Adelaida enters.
Adelaida. How do you do? How are you, Don Hilario?
Hilario. How do you do?
Luisa. You are all dressed up.
Adelaida. I have spent the afternoon making calls. Cristóbal had nothing to do, so he was able to come along. We were under obligations to so many friends, whom we have known all our lives—the Benítez, the González Flores, and dear General Borrego's widow. Such friendships simply cannot be sacrificed. How are you feeling to-day? Ramona tells me you are not well. Goodness gracious! What 13 the matter with her, Don Hilario?
Hilario. She seems much brighter.
Adelaida. Don't you think a change would do her good?
Hilario. A change would do every one of us good. I must be going; I still have two or three visits to make.
Adelaida. Do you find much sickness?
Hilario. Much as usual. I have no reason for complaint.
Adelaida. You are not losing many patients?
Hilario. The death-rate is not as active as might be wished.
Adelaida. Heavens! What a dreadful thing to say!
Hilario. Not that I wish any man harm. Few should die, but let them be well selected. That is what I had in mind when I said that it was not as active as might be wished. Good night, Doña Carmen. Good night, Luisita. [To Adelaida] My regards to your brother and to your intended.
Adelaida. Thanks. I shall remember you to them both.
Hilario. He is still your intended?
Adelaida. Oh, yes indeed! Our engagement, as you may suppose, is quite serious. We are not children.
Hilario. Don't come to the door. Doña Carmen. I insist…
Carmen. [At the rear] Ramona, open the door for Don Hilario. Good evening, Don Hilario.
Don Hilario goes out.
Adelaida. Don Hilario is a nice man.
Carmen. He is so honest.
Adelaida. As a physician, I should say he was entirely out of date.
Carmen. We are not in a position to judge. At least Don Hilario does not deceive us; he recommends no unnecessary expense.
Adelaida. Yes, that is more than can be said of all doctors. We always suffered from a perfect plague of diseases at our house. Poor papa went through three operations in eight years, which he never recovered from; the misfortunes of our family date from that time. As for Aunt Virginia, everybody knows she was insane for five years after her husband returned from the Philippines, when she thought he was dead. Naturally, it was a good deal of a shock. My brother and I, fortunately, do not know what it means to have a doctor in the house, nor to take medicine either, except a little Carabaña water now and then before retiring at night. So no wonder I am apprehensive. Generally, the person you think is the strongest and healthiest is taken, and he is lucky if he ever gets up. González Flores's wife was telling me yesterday about one of their friends. They subscribed to a box at the Opera together. When their turn came, there she sat with them in the box, but by the time their turn came round again they had a corpse on their hands, so now they are trying to change the box. The number is thirteen and they are becoming superstitious.
Carmen. We must avoid these sad subjects on Luisita's account.
Adelaida. Oh, yes! I beg your pardon. All the same, they are fascinating.
Carmen. How is it that you are alone to-night?
Adelaida. My brother and Galán are right on my heels; I left them at home working. My brother was dictating some papers to Galán, so I decided not to wait. Ah, I have good news for you! Galán receives his promotion next month; he has the Minister's promise.
Carmen. Congratulations.
Luisa. I suppose, then, you will marry at once?
Adelaida. No, we plan to do nothing rash. Until his salary has been increased to sixteen thousand pesetas, it is out of the question. I have wailed seven years already, so we shall not mind an additional three or four.
Luisa. If you are not congenial, it will not be through lack of opportunity to become acquainted.
Adelaida. All that you can know, my dear, is little enough when it comes to a man. One does hear such stories. Only to-day, General Borrego's widow was telling me about a young girl, the daughter of some intimate friends, who came back to her parents after she had been married two months, because her husband, a young man of excellent family—they mentioned no names, but I can find out from Galán, he has inside information—well, her husband just spoiled her. And you must have heard, too, about the Molineros, who have been carrying on in the newspapers, and had their pictures published in a triangle, with the corespondent included, all taken together in the same group?
Carmen. We scarcely have time to keep up with the society news nowadays.
Paquita and Manolo enter at the rear.
Luisa. Here come Paquita and Manolo.
Carmen. Good evening.
Manolo. Good evening, aunt. How do you do, Luisita? Adelaida… Where are Cristóbal and Galán?
Adelaida. They will be here directly. Hello, Paquita. How are you?
Paquita. Quite wretched, thank you; I am fading away. Apparently my husband is resigned to my death.
Manolo. Don't say that, my dear. They might believe you.
Paquita. It is true, just the same. You know the doctors agree that I will die if I live in Madrid long enough; they advised you to take me to the suburbs, or to hurry and find a suitable place in the country before it was too late.
Manolo. But I have to find the suburb or the country that agrees with you first. Where did we go last summer? You know yourself that we only held out four days.
Paquita. Because you picked the craziest house in the most impossible town that was ever conceived by a man.
Manolo. I leave it to you if a villa on the Côte d'azur can be hired for twenty-five duros a season? I told you to get anything that would suit, and then go there and stay with the children. I can't ask for another vacation; I wouldn't if I could, to spend it with you and the boys. I need a vacation myself.
Paquita. You do? And where would you send me with those five little devils? Talk about murder! We couldn't come down before because of the row they raised when we started to put them to bed. They haven't the slightest respect for their father.
Manolo. Little pitchers have big ears.
Paquita. We have a new maid.
Adelaida. Yes, the one who came yesterday.
Paquita. No, she came to-day; the one yesterday left last night. She seemed to feel strange with the children. She took a prejudice against them because they yelled she was homely.
Adelaida. Are the poor dears all well and strong now?
Paquita. When did you ever hear of their all being well together? Five of them? The two oldest have indigestion. They never miss a day.
Luisa. Why do you let them eat so much?
Paquita. How can I help it? Their father has no authority; it isn't my place to wring their necks. Let them die a natural death. The baby is cutting his teeth. Now we have music all night.
Adelaida. Evidently. Manolo is falling asleep.
Paquita. He isn't the only one who is losing sleep.—Don't make yourself conspicuous.
Manolo. Eh? I beg your pardon… I…
Carmen. Yes, you! We noticed it.
Paquita. Why didn't you stay home if you wanted to sleep?
Carmen. Home is the one place where the poor man cannot sleep. Don't disturb him.—Make yourself comfortable. Lie down in the other room if you want to.
Paquita. Don't bother about him, he is used to it. He is perfectly well; he can get along without sleep. I am different. As it is, I am so thin you would hardly know me. My face isn't bad, but I wish you could see my legs.
Manolo. They can judge by mine.
Paquita. There is no comparison. He only wants to attract attention.
Manolo. Don't you believe it. If you encourage her, she will be at death's door. I not only lose my sleep, but I get up early in the morning and go to the office and work there all day, and then, when I come home, all this is extra. I get no relief.
Paquita. At least you have the variety. Here I am, shut up all day inside of four walls, with five wild animals and a servant girl, when we happen to have one. None of them sticks it out more than four days.
Manolo. Now you have a description of a terrestrial paradise.
Cristóbal and Paco Galán enter.
Cristóbal. Good evening. Good evening, everybody.
Galán. Sit down; oblige me. Don't disturb yourselves.
Manolo. But I must. I cannot usurp your position.
Adelaida. Gracious, Manolo! We are not sentimental. Did you finish your work?
Cristóbal. Yes, Galán kindly offered to take my dictation, so we were able to conclude earlier.
Galán. Your brother tells me that you made a number of calls during the afternoon. With what success?
Adelaida. Ah, I was expecting that question! We stopped first at the González Flores's
Galán. Saúco 32, second floor. Correct? I know the house. A friend, who is a magistrate, a most worthy person, lives in the apartment on the left on the first floor. There are plants in the entrance, the doorman wears livery, and the stairs are carpeted. An excellent establishment! The apartments rent at three thousand pesetas, running up to three thousand five hundred, except for the Fombonas's, those American ladies, who occupy the two lower apartments, which have been thrown into one, and pay four thousand—I am wrong, four thousand five hundred.
Adelaida. I never saw a man with such a head for business.
Galán. How did you enjoy yourselves at the González Flores's?
Adelaida. I was waiting for that question.
Paquita. [To Luisa] Lovers' confidences are always amusing, but none ever equalled Adelaida's and Galán's. She admits herself they are unique. Do you hear what they say?
Luisa. But, my dear, after having been engaged seven years, the wonder is that there is anything left to be said.
Paquita. By the time they are married I think myself the edge will be off. Suppose I had thought it over so carefully?… There sits my husband fast asleep.
Luisa. I am sorry for the poor man; the boys give him no rest.
Carmen. [To Cristóbal] These are busy days for you, too; we are drawing near the end of the month.
Cristóbal. Extremely busy indeed. Remember, I am agent for seven estates in Madrid, having charge not only of real estate but of the personal property, tangible as well as intangible; and all seven belong to widows, or to single ladies in the eye of the law—for all practical purposes, that is, they may be regarded as single—which increases a man's responsibility; not that I wish to complain, but you know women are exacting. I have more than I can attend to, and it has affected my health. But there is no help for it until my sister has been provided for, which I trust will be within three or four years. Adelaida has had the discretion to wait; she had the good sense to deliberate. Fortunately, she has encountered an honorable man. I am greatly pleased with the progress of the engagement. We have had time, as it were, to become acquainted; not, of course, as thoroughly as we shall be, because one never becomes thoroughly acquainted; nevertheless, it is a guaranty. Adelaida is older than I am, although she pretends the contrary, so there is little danger of their loading themselves up with children enthusiastically, which is the bane of most marriages.
Carmen. No, I should scarcely apprehend a mistake in that direction.
Cristóbal. What is this talk about your son? This idea of Julio's—pardon my introducing the subject if it is disagreeable—is sheer folly. It is a man's duty to be reasonable. Otherwise, how does he differ from the dumb animals? Marriage means nothing to the rich, and it means very little to the poor; in fact, they are frequently better off married. The woman adds the man's wages to her own, and the children take care of themselves. They require no clothes nor education; the poor get along without them. Marriage is a serious problem to persons in our walk in life. This is not a romantic age.
Adelaida. [To Galán] I have told you absolutely everything I did this afternoon. How have you spent the day? Thinking of me?
Galán. Adelaida, don't ask such a question, even in jest. First, let me give you a detailed description of my day.
Adelaida. No, reserve that until later. Make a little general conversation, or they will accuse us of forgetting our manners. Say something.
Galán. Did you notice what remarkable weather we are having to-day? Nobody pays any attention… Did you notice the weather?
Paquita. Yes, it was hot, and then it seemed to cool off.
Cristóbal. This Madrid climate!
Galán. It accounts for all the sickness.
Adelaida. And all the deaths. Galán, before I forget it—did you bring the paper?
Galán. I always do.
Adelaida. Run over the deaths, if you don't mind. I can scarcely wait…
Galán. No, nothing fresh to-day. Only anniversary notices.
Ramona enters.
Ramona. Señorita Paca! Señorita Paca!
Paquita. What is the matter? I thought so. I am needed…
Ramona. Your girl is here, and she says the baby's awake, and he's crying. Nothing she can do will keep the poor boy quiet.
Paquita. He wants his mother.—Manolo! Manolo!
Manolo. [Asleep] Do something, can't you? Walk up and down with him, dear.
Paquita. He thinks he is home.—Manolo!
Manolo. Eh… Ah!… You frightened me to death.
Paquita. It serves you right for sleeping when you're out. The maid is here and she says the baby's awake. What shall we do? Will you go or I?
Manolo. I will, I will; don't you bother.
Paquita. Can you find the soothing syrup? It's on top of the dresser. Don't make a mistake and give him anything else. It wouldn't be the first time.
Manolo. My dear, to hear you talk people would think
Paquita. Not that you nearly paralyzed the little angel last time with gum arabic. Hurry, if you insist upon going!
Manolo. I fly. Ladies, excuse me. [Goes out.
Paquita. [At the door] Be sure the maid has put out the fire in the brazier, and look in the canaries' room and see whether she has closed the blinds. If she hasn't, they will begin singing as soon as it is daylight, and drive us all crazy.
Cristóbal. Paquita, goodness gracious! After sitting up all night with five children, how have you any stomach left for canaries?
Paquita. It does seem foolish, I suppose. Just a fancy—the only relic of my girlhood I have left.
Cristóbal. Galán, do me a favor; look at the condition of the market. How is the new loan?
Galán. Ah! 103.
Cristóbal. Going strong!
Galán. No, pardon, I skipped a line. 84.
Cristóbal. Not so bad, if she can hold that figure.
Paquita. What an enticing conversation!
Cristóbal. I am not interested, unfortunately, in the recent issue.
Adelaida. Neither am I, unfortunately.
Paquita. Nonsense, both of you have more than you know what to do with. Why not? You have no one to consider—a brother and sister living alone.
Adelaida. Goodness gracious! Remember what it costs to live in Madrid. The first word you speak here is dear.
Paquita. You might look in for a moment at our house, if you think so.
Cristóbal. Thanks for the invitation, Paquita.
Paquita. Although, of course, married people have compensations which you bachelors do not enjoy.
Cristóbal. Evidently.
Adelaida. Now you must tell me every single thing that you did to-day.
Galán. I got up, to begin with, very early; it might have been seven. I saw it was cloudy; then I was afraid it was going to rain…
Voices outside, at the rear.
Carmen. Who is talking in the hall? I hear Julio.
Ramona enters.
Ramona. Señora! Señora!
Carmen. What is it?
Luisa. Don't be so excitable.
Paquita. Word from my husband!
Carmen. No… [To Ramona] Ask them into the parlor. Light the lights. Hurry!
Ramona. They said they would rather come where you were; they are friends. They are taking off their things. [Ramona goes out.
Luisa. Who is it?
Carmen. Prepare for a surprise, a tremendous surprise: Doña Teresa and Emilia calling with my son.
Paquita. God-a-mercy! I am a perfect sight! I'll slip out this way, and slide down the hall. Don't let them know. Enjoy yourselves; I am needed at home, anyhow. Here they come… Ah! I am going to peep through the door as I go, and see what they have on. [Goes out, at the rear, left.
Luisa. This is an unusual hour for a call.
Adelaida. My dear, it is in the family.
Julio. [Outside] Mother! Mother!
Carmen. Julio!
Doña Teresa, Emilia, and Julio enter.
Julio. See whom I am bringing with me.
Teresa. Good evening, Carmen. Good evening, Luisita.
Carmen. Gracious, this is a surprise!
Emilia. How are you, Luisita?
Luisa. Emilia…
Carmen. Why didn't you go into the parlor?
Teresa. No, we only dropped in informally; we prefer it where you are. But we interrupt…
Carmen. Not at all.
Teresa. How are you, Adelaida? It is a long time since I have seen you.
Adelaida. You have moved so far away. I was explaining to Emilia…
Teresa. Your brother and Galán are both looking well.
Cristóbal. Señora!
Carmen. Do sit down.
Teresa. Julio called at our house, as he does every evening—I trust that I am not betraying any secret?
Carmen. No, indeed.
Teresa. Not that I wish to be understood as encouraging visits from a young man, even in the light of suitor, but a mother, as you realize, is not always in a position to oppose a daughter's wishes, especially when her mind has been made up, although it may not be for her own good. Anything is preferable to these exhibitions upon the streets, or in public places, or to hanging over balconies.
Carmen. I quite agree with you.
Teresa. Julio tells me that Luisita has had another attack.
Carmen. Oh, he did tell you? I had supposed that he hadn't noticed it.
They continue the conversation.
Emilia. [To Luisa] I have quarrelled with your brother.
Luisa. Not in earnest?
Julio. Yes, she is angry with me. She is taking your part.
Luisa. Mine?
Emilia. He told me that you were ill, and that he hadn't even gone in to ask how you were, because he was so anxious to see me. He seemed proud of it—imagine! He expected me to be pleased. I told him that he was a bad brother, and that I was coming to see you this very evening. Now I am going to make Julio ask you to forgive him right here before me.
Julio. She says I don't love you.
Luisa. Of course I forgive you. Thanks very much.
Emilia. You don't know how fond I am of you. Ask Julio. I am always talking about you.
Julio. She is, really.
Luisa. I know, Emilia. I am very fond of you, too.
They go on talking.
Adelaida. [To Galán] She is beautiful; anybody ought to be able to see it. Although if you don't think so, I take it I am to be congratulated.
Galán. Regularity of features means nothing to me; the expression is everything. An expressive face never seems to be ugly. Absolutely not…!
They continue talking.
Teresa. We are invited to the theatre this evening, but my daughter insisted upon stopping here first to inquire about Luisita. As you see, we do not stand upon etiquette. We drop in informally, although you do not take the same liberty with us.
Carmen. We almost never go out, as my daughter's health is so delicate. Julio will explain
Teresa. It is quite unnecessary. Of course, I appreciate that you are not pleased, but it is not any too pleasant for me, either. You do not have to convince me that our children have been foolish; in fact, it is downright madness. But what can their mothers do? However you may have discouraged your son, you may be sure it is nothing to what I have done to my daughter; I never miss an opportunity. It is no reflection upon us, nor any disparagement to our children, and I should not care to be understood as insinuating that either of them might have done better elsewhere. It is simply that, in my opinion, this affair is impossible.
They continue the conversation.
Julio. [To Emilia] I am listening to our mothers blossoming out into mothers-in-law. We are tempting fate.
Emilia. Mamma is offended because your mother hasn't called since we moved. You saw how hard it was to make her come. I had to exaggerate dreadfully about poor Luisita.
Julio. Perhaps we had better intervene. It begins to look serious.
Emilia. Yes, start a general conversation.
Julio. Mother…
Carmen. What is it, dear?
Julio. Where are Manolo and Paquita this evening?
Carmen. They were here, but they left. Word came the boys were crying.
Julio. Great news!
Teresa. Yes, five children at their age! Isn't it a calamity? How can they expect any peace?
Carmen. You can't put that too strongly.
Teresa. Some people might profit by their example.
Julio. Pebbles on our roof. Well, what progress, friend Galán? When is the happy day?
Galán. Soon, very soon. The Minister has pledged his word.
Julio. No, I mean when do you pledge your word? I was referring to the matrimonial prospect.
Galán. Oh! You had me. Whenever an opening comes.
Adelaida. There is no great hurry, as we have waited seven years.
Julio. I admire your constancy.
Teresa. They have had time to think.
Cristóbal. And it deserves thought. I have thought myself.
Julio. You are fortunate to be able to think. All we do is feel. Don't we, Emilia?
Emilia. [Aside] Be careful! We are in the enemy's country. The best thing will be to remove mamma. Otherwise this will inspire her, and we shall have a continuous session to-morrow, beginning when she gets up.
Julio. Quite right. Don't you really want me to come to the theatre?
Emilia. No, not to-night. Stay home with your sister, as a punishment. Besides, if you come now, your mother will get the idea that I only brought you so as to let them see how you follow me everywhere, and I don't want to think that. Stay home this evening. Anyway, come up to the box.
Julio. No, I am not popular with your aunt and cousins; they have their own candidate.
Emilia. No, they have heard only nice things about you; it would be awfully foolish to come. I am only going to please mamma. If I didn't, she would make a scene. "Your cousins will be offended. You will get yourself disliked by everybody."
Julio. Yes, I know. I think you had better go.
Emilia. You won't mind, will you?
Julio. No, I have confidence in you.
Emilia. You are perfectly wonderful.
Teresa. What time is it?
Emilia. Time to go, mamma—if you are ready.
Teresa. Good night, Carmen. Good night, Luisita.
Carmen. One of these days we hope to return your call. You must not hold it against us if we are a little remiss.
Teresa. Adelaida, I shall accept no excuses from you, either.
Adelaida. Don't mention it, please! Whenever I look at you, it makes me blush.
Teresa. Good evening, everybody.
Adelaida. It is time for us to retire. Are you ready, Cristóbal? Are you, Galán? You know you have to be up early, and you are not a man who can get along without sleep.
Galán. I accommodate myself to your convenience.
Carmen. Ramona! [At the rear] Light the lights in the hall.—Good night, good night, everybody.
Emilia. Until to-morrow, then, at the usual hour?
Julio. Not before?
Emilia. I was just going to ask.
Julio. I shall sit down and write the very instant you leave the house. Our four pages!
Emilia. I shall write as soon as we get back from the theatre.
Julio. I might wait, then, so we can be writing at the same time. We shall be thinking of each other at the same time!
Emilia. The same time? I think of you all the time.
Julio. I have time for nothing else.
Teresa. Does it take those children forever to say goodby? Emilia!
Emilia. Coming, mamma.
All go out at the rear. Presently Doña Carmen, Luisa, and Julio re-enter.
Carmen. Aren't you going to the theatre? What is the matter? A lovers' quarrel?
Julio. No, mamma. I suppose you think I have nothing to do but run after Emilia? She has gone to the theatre with her cousins this evening. I have met them, but only casually.
Carmen. Yes, you must seem insignificant enough to them, just as you do to her mother.
Julio. That may be, mamma; I ask no questions, it is nothing to me, anyhow. You are simply impossible.
Carmen. I can't even open my mouth. You always take offense.
Luisa. Julio! [A pause] Emilia's dress was lovely.
Julio. She makes all her own clothes.
Carmen. Who ever heard of an unmarried woman who didn't make her own clothes? When she marries, something seems to happen; she immediately forgets how.
Julio. Oh, mother! As a mother-in-law, you will be terrible!
Carmen. I suppose I am nothing more than a mother-in-law to you already. I am no longer your mother?
Julio. No, mother, don't you say such things. The mother-in-law will stick out, though. When a mother once becomes a mother-in-law, she is a mother-in-law even to her own children.
Luisa. Emilia is such a sweet girl.
Julio. You are not prejudiced.
Carmen. So she has been too much for you, too?
Luisa. She is so affectionate.
Carmen. Probably to everybody but me. Of course I am not fair to her.
Julio. There you are again! You are the one who treats her unfairly. She has spoken to me about it, and that is the reason she is afraid to be demonstrative. You would accuse her of trying to flatter you if she was. What is the poor girl to do?
Carmen. I realize how fond she is of me.
Julio. Nothing of the sort. The sooner we drop this subject the better. It is becoming offensive. Are you feeling better, Luisita?
Luisa. Much; I am more cheerful.
Carmen. Thanks to your efforts.
Julio. I know that I ought not to have gone out without asking what I could do. I have heard that already.
Carmen. Can't I make an innocent remark? Do you have to be insulted by every word your mother says? Can't I express myself if I don't approve? You were not always like this. No wonder I think somebody has been twisting you around her little finger!
Julio. You are the one who is different. You can't speak without hurting me, without wounding me in what is dearest and best.
Carmen. That is the last insult! What ingratitude! In my child! Oh, what ingratitude!
Julio. There you are.
Luisa. Oh, come, mamma! Julio!
Julio. Tell me, did I invite this? Have I committed any sin? Are you afraid that you won't be able to get along without me? It will be just the same. I will work harder than I ever did, and you will have everything you need. I have been offered another position already, at hours which do not conflict with the one I have now.
Carmen. Yes, kill yourself working! Do you expect me to sit here calmly and look on? I don't care myself, I ask nothing. I would be satisfied if I thought you would be happy, but it cannot be, it cannot be! A mother never knows what is best for her own children. I was so proud that my son was good, that he had never occasioned me one moment's concern, but now I don't know—I could wish that you hadn't been so well behaved, that you had had more experience of life.
Julio. Yes, instead of an honorable love, you would prefer a liaison, some discreditable adventure. Is that what you mean? I will not listen to you; don't demean yourself in my eyes. Let me preserve my illusions at least. Why shouldn't I be happy? Were you and my father millionaires when you married? Did you consider anything but your love, which is what I am doing now?
Carmen. There is no comparison. Times have changed; we could live upon less. I was not brought up to luxury like Emilia. She is going to the theatre to-night to sit in a box with her cousins, as well dressed as they are. Who would imagine to look at them that their position was not the same?
Julio. You are mistaken. Emilia is a sensible girl; she understands that we cannot afford display. We shall be happy, and you will be very fond of her. Now don't torment me any more; let us not distress ourselves. Never doubt my love, nor compel me to doubt that I love you, when I know that there is not a dearer mother in all the world.
Carmen. No, my boy; we must not distress ourselves. Luisa, why don't you go to bed? I am going to bed myself.
Luisa. Very well, mamma.
Carmen. I'll bring you a cup of broth; you must swallow something. You haven't eaten all day.
Luisa. Good night, Julio.
Julio. Good night. I know that you love me.
Luisa. Because I say nothing, because I don't shout. I have said nothing all my life! [Goes out.
Carmen. You might take something yourself.
Julio. No, I'm not hungry. I may drink a little orange-juice. Don't you bother; I'll find it.
Carmen. [Calling] Ramona! Ramona!
Ramona. [Entering] Señora?
Carmen. Let me have the account.
Ramona. Here it is, señora. The twenty centimos are from yesterday; I forgot to put them down. There was the postman, and a roll sent in last night.
Carmen. Good. Then I owe you eighty centimos. I'll give them to you now. It would be a miracle if you weren't short.
Ramona. What shall I get for to-morrow, señora?
Carmen. We can plan it while you are helping me undress. What would you like to-morrow, Julio?
Julio. Don't ask me. Whatever there is.
Ramona. One is as bad as the other. They never eat.
Carmen. I am going to bed. When the señorito goes, be sure the brazier is out. Bring me the broth for the señorita. Did you lock the door?
Ramona. Yes, señora.
Carmen. Have you put the cat in the kitchen? I don't want him jumping on me like he did the other night.
Ramona. No, señora.
Carmen. Good night, Julio. Don't forget the light. I hope you sleep.
Julio. Good night; I hope you sleep. Remember now, no bad dreams.
Carmen. It's bad enough while I am awake. [Goes out.
Ramona. Good night, señorito. [Goes out.
Julio. Good night, Ramona. [Absent-mindedly, he picks up the account and glances over it] Bread… potatoes… a half-kilo of meat… fruit… Total, six pesetas, eighty centimos. To feed an entire family! Yet mamma says that living is dear!
Curtain