In the Clouds/Act 2
Another room in the same house. A door at the rear and another on the left. A balcony on the right.
Luisa is giving orders to Ramona.
Luisa. Put the hat in my room and bring a jar of water for the flowers. Has mamma gone out?
Ramona. Yes, señorita, to mass, and on her way back she was to stop at Señorito Manolo's. One of the boys isn't well, so I hear. [Goes out at the rear.
Luisa. It's no miracle, either.
Julio enters.
Luisa. Are you home?
Julio. You can see.
Luisa. Didn't you go to the office?
Julio. Not thi morning. What have you been doing out so early, alone?
Luisa. I wasn't alone. Mamma was with me.
Julio. Don't lie to me.
Luisa. What are you talking about?
Ramona re-enters, carrying a glass jar filled with water.
Ramona. Here's the water, señorita.
Luisa. These flowers are for the dining-room, and set these in my room. I love to see flowers everywhere.
Ramona. They smell as sweet as can be. [Goes out.
Luisa. What a beautiful day! I couldn't resist the temptation of buying these flowers; they are cheap now. Choose the ones you like best, and take them to Emilia as a present. Aren't these wonderful roses?
Julio. Don't try to change the conversation. I know where you have been, and it isn't the first time, either. This has been going on for some days.
Luisa. Do you mean to scold me?
Julio. Scold you? No, but I tell you you are doing wrong. Besides, I can't permit it.
Luisa. Why not? I am happy. I feel much stronger than I did. You must have noticed…
Julio. Does mamma know?
Luisa. Oh, don't be so suspicious! Of course she does; I told her. It isn't any secret; it's not a crime, anyway.
Julio. Is she willing to allow you to go out alone into the streets, to expose yourself to insult, to a thousand coarse remarks?
Luisa. Nothing of the kind. Nobody ever speaks to me.
Julio. Why should you give lessons, and subject yourself to the whims and exactions of strangers?
Luisa. Nonsense! They are nice people, who don't like to send their little daughters to school, and prefer a governess in the house. The essons I give are not very profound; only reading writing, sewing, and, then, I tell stories. I never saw children who were so fond of stories. I have exhausted all I ever knew, so that I've had to learn others, and sometimes even to make them up. All the same, my pupils are very fond of me. It is so easy to please children.
Julio. Do you suppose that I will sit here and consent
Luisa. To what? To my leading a life that is no longer altogether useless? Can't I contribute something, though it may be very little, toward relieving the anxiety of my mother as to what will become of me, as to what will become of us both?
Julio. Yes, and to add to mine. You know I am right. Do you want me to feel that I am an egotist, who hasn't hesitated to sacrifice you, when you have sacrificed yourselves all these years on my account, so that I, the young gentleman, might have my career, so that the señorito should want for nothing? I admit it; you don't have to insist. It isn't necessary to throw it like this in my face.
Luisa. Why do you talk like that?
Julio. Because I see your object plainly. Will you tell me what good these lessons can do, with the four or five duros they bring you? It is mamma's strategy; her campaign has been evident for some time. She says nothing, she scarcely speaks to me any more, but she takes care to insinuate at every opportunity what she thinks it best not to say.
Luisa. That isn't true. Mamma didn't know; she scolded me when she found out. But if it makes you feel badly, I will give it up, although—you don't know what it means. I was so happy! You say you have been the young gentleman of the family, but I have been the young lady all my life. You have studied, you have worked, and whatever you have earned has been for us, while I—I have been the most useless of beings, the vapid young lady with nerves, a care and a burden to you, and to every one else. If only I had had a religious vocation, I might have been a nun, and our difficulties would have been solved. I don't believe I even have a vocation to marry—and it isn't enough for one to have that, there must be two. Yet now, now, I really thought I had found my vocation, teaching little children. The girls don't call me Doña, they call me just Luisa, or Luisita, and they tell me I am their big sister. Sister Luisa. It sounds holy, don't you think so? I almost feel as if I had taken my vows.
Julio. You don't impose on me with this show of false gaiety. There is an undercurrent of sadness in what you say.
Luisa. Don't you deceive yourself; I have never been so happy. When did you ever see me laugh as much as I do now?
Julio. There are two ways of smiling, of pretending to be happy when a person is sad. One is bitterly, that is irony; the other is gently, that is resignation; and it is your way. Either is as cheerful as flowers on a tomb where one's illusions lie buried. Your cheerfulness does not deceive me. Confess it, dear Sister Luisa, I am right—gentle and resigned as you are!
Luisa. Are you going to cry?
Julio. I wish you could teach me your gentle resignation, which smiles so that others may have no occasion to cry.
Luisa. It is very simple. You suffer because you have done wrong. It is remorse, because you make others cry.
Julio. But what can I do? Give up Emilia? Is that what you ask? Is that what you want me to do?
Luisa. No, Julio, surely not. But don't you dream of what you have been planning again. Don't you suppose that we know? To go away, to leave us, to try your fortune in some strange country, far away! To be sure, mamma knows, although she won't admit it. That is why she has been so depressed these past days. We could resign ourselves to anything but that—to have you leave us forever, because it would be forever.
Julio. But life here has become impossible for us all. However I might wish to believe the contrary, no illusions upon that point can be had. I love Emilia from the bottom of my heart, I cannot give up her love; but I recognize also that I cannot desert you. Without me, this house would be reduced to the direst poverty. I realize that to marry under these circumstances is a hazardous step; our love itself may be the first victim to fall by the way. I have made every effort to find other employment, to discover some solution, but here all my struggles are useless. Time flies. Emilia's mother, her entire family, are plotting against us, and you are doing the same here; because you love me, I do not question it, but it is unfortunate that it should have the appearance of selfishness at the same time. Meanwhile, life has become a constant torment to Emilia and to me. A situation such as this cannot continue; it is intolerable to us all. In the end it must be resolved by violent means, and it is better to end it now, once and forever. Absolute separation, a new life—there is no other way. A different life!
Luisa. A new life, a different life! Yes, that is easy for you, because you are young, you are in love. But what will become of your poor mothers? No, you have no right to think of it, if you ever did really think of it; Emilia has no right to consent, you cannot force her to choose between your love and her mother's. Yes, and you may be sorry if you do—I am a daughter myself, and I know how I feel.
Julio. You have never been in love.
Luisa. I never have. I don't know how a woman loves a man, I don't know how far she might be carried by her love; but I understand a mother's love. For that, it is enough to be a woman. I don't know whether you will be happy, alone, far away, with your great love, but I do know that your poor mothers will be broken-hearted. Julio, you cannot do it, it cannot be. Promise me that you will never think of it again. Give me your word, Julio, my dear brother!
Julio. You, too, have turned against me. Don't you torment me like all the others! [Goes out, left.
A pause. Manolo enters at the rear.
Manolo. Good morning, Luisita.
Luisa. Good morning, Manolo. How is the baby this morning?
Manolo. Better. I am worried now about Paca; the shock was too much in her condition—I suppose she has told you? How are you? You seem depressed, you have been crying. Is it this news about Julio? Has your mother heard the talk about his going to America?
Luisa. Yes, it is no longer news to us. I was trying to persuade him to give it up, before he speaks to her. Don't you think it is madness?
Manolo. I hardly know what to say. It seems foolish, but then it is only the natural consequence of other foolishness. Foolishness is endemic, like misfortunes in my family. When he told me, to be honest with you, I was at a loss what to say. I make up my mind to emigrate pretty nearly every day. Our house is not home; this is not living. Ah, my dear cousin, you proved you had sense when you declined to marry me!
Luisa. Don't be silly again.
Manolo. Silly? Never again. We showed judgment, or rather you did. Apparently I was beyond all salvation.
Luisa. You mustn't say that. Paquita is kind; she is much more sympathetic than I am, more capable. Her disposition is better suited to putting up with annoyances. I admire the placid spirit in which she accepts everything.
Manolo. Yes, Paquita is very kind, I cannot deny it; and so am I, very. Together we make a model couple. And the boys, too, are something wonderful! However, with two saints and so many angels in the house, it may not be exactly hell, but it is a respectable little purgatory, to say the least. I assure you that if Julio could spend a week with us, he would be cured permanently. As it is, a cousin of Paca's came last year and stayed a week, and this year we hear that he has entered the church, and is saying mass. Has Julio come back from the office?
Luisa. Yes, he is home. Would you like to see him?
Manolo. If I could have a few words—on a matter of business.
Luisa. I'll call him. Wait… Here comes Adelaida.
Adelaida enters.
Adelaida. Oh, my dear, my darling Luisa! Where is your mother?
Luisa. Why, what is the matter? Something has happened to you!
Adelaida. Oh, what a misfortune! Such a terrible calamity!
Manolo. You don't mean it? Really, Adelaida?
Adelaida. I beg your pardon; I didn't see you were there.
Manolo. I beg yours; I just ran in undressed. I didn't get to bed at all last night; I hadn't time even to wash.
Adelaida. I don't believe I should have noticed it. This morning I am scarcely myself…
Luisa. But what is it?
Adelaida. Oh, you could never guess! It is too horrible! Galán is at death's door. He may even be dead while we sit here and talk.
Luisa. You don't say so?
Manolo. What was that again?
Luisa. But I can't believe it. This is so sudden!
Adelaida. For the past four or five days, as you know, he has not left the house; he suffered from a severe cold, that was all. Cristóbal stopped in to see him every day, and even yesterday we were not alarmed; but last night he sent word that he was worse, he had fever. Cristóbal hurried at once to his side, and at eleven I received a message that he was going to sit up and watch him all night; his condition was serious. This morning I became anxious when Cristóbal did not appear, so I sent the maid to inquire, and now Cristóbal says that they have had a consultation, and the doctors all agree it may be pneumonia.
Manolo. That is something at least.
Adelaida. But if they tell that to me, the pneumonia must already be advanced. He was delirious all night. All night long he dreamed that I was lying at his side.
Manolo. Pshaw! To be expected.
Adelaida. But he is so proper, so reserved. Something surely has affected his mind. He will die, I am certain.
Luisa. Don't you exaggerate his condition?
Manolo. Men have recovered from pneumonia before now.
Adelaida. He never will; he is too respectable. He is a perfect gentleman!
Manolo. I cannot see why that should aggravate the complaint.
Adelaida. No, it is never safe to predict. He will die, that is certain. Then what will become of me? Will you do me a favor? That is why I am here. You must forgive me, but in an emergency such as this, one falls back on one's friends.
Luisa. Do tell us in what way we can be of service.
Adelaida. I sent at once to ascertain whether he would have any objection, under the circumstances, to my coming to the house; I had never, you may imagine, set foot inside the door. He lives alone with two servants, a man and a woman, who are both married—to each other—besides that, they are mature. But that makes no difference. I should not have ventured even under the protection of my brother, though he had resided with a regiment.
Manolo. A regiment would have augmented the risk.
Adelaida. I am not in a trifling mood. Pardon my failure to smile.
Manolo. I was serious.
Adelaida. Since we announced our engagement, I have not even passed through the street where he lives. More than once I have caught myself on the corner, but then I turned the other way. It may appear like undue modesty, but, praise God, I was brought up with principles. In this crisis, however, my brother feels it is my duty to fly to his side. Yet I should not be willing to trust myself with a maid. A respectable person ought to be present, so I thought of your mother, if she would be so kind as to come. It will be one of those favors that a woman never forgets.
Luisa. Adelaida, hardly that.
Adelaida. Ah, yes it will! These are occasions when one discovers one's friends. Now, take our neighbors on the second floor, for example. They have heard all about my bereavement, yet they have been pounding the piano all morning top-speed, without the slightest regard for the sound of the thing. What has become of your mamma?
Luisa. I thought she stopped at your house?
Adelaida. Now I remember I left her there.
Luisa. We might both go, then, and explain. Perhaps I had better come along.
Adelaida. I should appreciate it so much if you would. Ah, if we are only in time!
Luisa. Don't anticipate.
Adelaida. We might take a cab. I never could exhibit myself on the street after the flood of tears I have shed. While you talk to your mother, I can run up-stairs and change my dress. I am at my wit's end to know what to put on—a hat or a veil? Which do you think would be more appropriate?
Luisa. A hat, my dear, as yet. But hurry, or we may miss him.—I beg your pardon. With all this confusion, I forgot to call Julio.—Julio! Julio!… I leave you to tell him the news. He may feel that he ought to come.
Manolo. And me, too. I will be there; count upon me.
Adelaida. Thank you so much! You are friends of mine. Ah, me! I shall accept it as a widow, and wear mourning for the rest of my life. We have been acquainted ten years, and engaged now for seven. They have seemed all too short!
Manolo. Brief. Hurry, or he will be out of danger; it may prove a false alarm.
Adelaida. Oh, never! You will see. It is my duty to be reconciled, but he will die—he will die, I am certain! Hurry, Luisa! Come along.
Adelaida and Luisa go out.
Julio enters.
Julio. Hello, Manolo!
Manolo. Hello, Julio.
Julio. Was my sister with you?
Manolo. Yes, she went out with Adelaida. They are looking for your mother, and then they are going to call on Galán. Have you heard?
Julio. Not a word.
Manolo. Galán is ill, Galán is dying.
Julio. Are you serious?
Manolo. According to Adelaida. She has mourned him so often during the cycle of their amours, that I assume we are enjoying another feature of the programme. Although it must happen some time. These long engagements may lead up to marriage, but while they are about it, a widow or widower is on a honeymoon by comparison. What do you think? How are your plans coming on?
Julio. My plans? I don't know. Don Hilario has written to a friend in Buenos Aires, who settled there as a young man, and has made a fortune. He is expecting a reply. Until we hear
Manolo. Have you said anything to your mother?
Julio. No. Naturally, I am anxious to delay that as long as possible.
Manolo. But Emilia? Is she willing? What does her mother say?
Julio. Her mother is not pleased, as you may imagine. Since I suggested it, she has done all she could to influence Emilia against me. You ask about Emilia. How can I answer for her? She is a woman, and I myself, although I am a man, am not certain but that I will weaken when the time comes, and find that courage fails me to go through with it all.
Manolo. It is a serious, a perilous step. Going out into the world to make one's fortune smacks too much of adventure. People do it in novels.
Julio. Unfortunately, the conditions which confront me are distressingly real. You read the papers. Thousands emigrate every day.
Manolo. Yes, but they belong to a different class. They are people who leave little behind, who have everything to gain and nothing to lose.
Julio. Nothing to lose? If you and I and others in our position could lose what we have, we should be vastly better off.
Manolo. You don't convince me.
Julio. It is true. When our position in life becomes untenable, there are two ways of improving it. One is to advance, which is preferable, and more agreeable of course, but more difficult as well. That is my ambition; I aspire to it, naturally. Yet, if it should not be possible, I shall content myself with the other, and descend in the social scale, which often is a man's only means of improving his state. If I cannot be a millionaire, I will be a working man, a day-laborer, but I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that the daily wage that I earn will be my own, whether much or little, and not be swallowed up by the false appearances to which my social position has committed me, more pauperizing by far than poverty itself. If I have a duro, I shall have it to eat, to buy a blouse and a pair of corduroy trousers, to rent a whitewashed room, with perhaps a half-dozen chairs. I shall not be as I am now, when, though I have double, it must all go for starched shirts and top-hats and patent-leather shoes, and a home as cheerless and unhygienic as any day-laborer's, but plastered over with vain display, which, while it does not make it healthier or happier, greatly increases the cost. I shall have more, having less, because it will be all mine, and not be devoted to keeping up a pretense of being what I am not, what I can never be. I shall drop out of this debilitated middle class, impoverished in body and soul by all the meals on which it has economized, by all the pleasures which it has sacrificed, by all its petty meannesses in whatever makes for largeness of life, this contemptible middle class, which might have developed into a great power, if instead of becoming a caricature of those which are above, it had set an example to those which are below.
Manolo. Yes, I suppose you are right. I agree with you. To parody the poet, we have either too little money to be comfortable, or too many necessities. And they are fictitious necessities, which a false social standard imposes. Revolution is out of the question with persons in our station. We are not poor enough to be pitied nor strong enough to be feared. Our poverty is our own fault, however we struggle to conceal it, and struggle we do in every sense of the word; it may be serious to us, but from the outside it is ridiculous. We have been laughing-stocks for years in the newspapers and upon the stage. If we were to rebel, to assert our rights, our banner would not be the black flag of starvation, nor the red flag of revolution, but, more appropriately, a young gentleman's underwear, his trousers, a symbol of our degradation at once shameful and to be greeted with smiles.
Julio. We must escape from this position, or accept it with all its consequences. As it is possible here to do neither, since in struggling against the environment I should exhaust the greater part of my energies, I shall go somewhere where nobody has any claim upon me, where I shall be as completely my own master as if I had been born without parents, without a name, without social position, without obligations or traditions. I shall become an apprentice of life, and learn of life how to live by my own efforts, to progress, and not to be what I am here, where the determining factor is always what others have done for me, and I am condemned because of errors of education, of misplaced affection, to be forever the professional young gentleman, doomed to everlasting mediocrity, without any possible hope save the lottery of influence, or, perhaps, an advantageous match. I can sell my intelligence or my heart, or sell them both. But I am not a man to do either. My intelligence may not be great, but it is my own, and my heart, because it is my own, I have given entirely. If I did not think as I do, if I did not love as I do, this life that I live would not be my life. Judge for yourself then whether or not I intend to defend it. What more can I say? You know what a man will do for his life.
Manolo. Yes, you are right; I am compelled to agree. This chronic discomfort is preposterous. Yet so many ties bind us to it. A man is beaten before he begins. For instance, I intended to ask you a favor; now, I haven't the courage.
Julio. Nonsense, man! You have courage. You must
Manolo. No, I am afraid. I know how you feel; no. But I have no one to whom I can go.
Julio. Oh, is that it? How much do you want?
Manolo. A trifle, just to help me over the next two or three days, until the end of the month. You have no idea… What with the money I borrowed last year, which I shall never repay, although it seems to me I have paid it seven times over, and the everlasting expense of running the house—why, we spend a fortune on the doctor alone, although we have gone in now for homœopathy, the medicines cost less, and we pay the doctor, too, on the same plan, in small doses…
Julio. I see. How much do you need?
Manolo. Man, I don't dare; I am afraid. I don't suppose you could spare twenty-five pesetas? Until the end of the month? As soon as I have my salary… you needn't bother to mention it. There will be no occasion to ask.
Julio. No, no, of course not. Except for what I pay, as my share, toward the family, I spend nothing—in fact, less now than before.
Manolo. Honestly, isn't it any sacrifice?
Julio. I should tell you if it was. Here you are. [He hands him five duros in silver.
Manolo. No, I'll only take three. I'll get along somehow.
Julio. Don't be an ass.
Manolo. Till the first of the month, eh? If you need the money before… But you do need it.
Julio. No, man, no. Why shouldn't I say so?
Manolo. You make me feel very uncomfortable. Thanks, my boy, thanks. You don't know the tight fix I am in.
Julio. I imagine it.
Manolo. I dare say there is no use in offering advice, not when your mind is made up; but if my experience counts for anything, I should say: "Don't you marry, my boy, don't you marry, under any circumstances." You will ask: "Why did you do it, then?" I reply: "For the same reason you are doing it now." Not all of us can hold out as long as Galán, and regulate love according to the civil service, though for that matter, if you promise not to mention it—what would Adelaida say if she knew?—I have met Galán more than once on my way to the office, taking the air in the Plaza del Carmen with a tight little maid servant.
Julio. Heigh-ho, Galán!
Manolo. Exactly. He picks out the girls who have fat places, fashionable cooks who squeeze enough out of the change to hire a boy to carry home their market-baskets, bulging over, if you please, with rich, juicy things. Think what life must be in one of those families! And what, too, must come the way of the cook! I have seen them with diamond earrings.
Julio. You don't say? You are observant yourself.
Manolo. No, I get no further than the market-basket. Take my word for it.
Pepe enters.
Pepe. Julio! Manolo! Well, boys… Caramba!
Manolo. Hello, Pepe.
Julio. What have you been up to? We haven't seen you at the office. I was going to drop in at your house and inquire how you were.
Pepe. No, I haven't been to the office. I am not going back.
Julio. What is that?
Pepe. I have had the pleasure of handing in my resignation.
Julio. You?
Manolo. Happy man to be able to indulge—assuming, of course, that it was voluntary.
Pepe. Ah, who can say? I dropped in to bid you good-by.
Julio. Good-by?
Pepe. Yes, I am leaving Madrid—I might say the world. I am getting married.
Julio. Heaven!
Manolo. I understand the reason for your resignation. A rich wife, the match you have been looking for! You are not a man to miss anything.
Pepe. No, no… this time I appear not to have missed.
Julio. Congratulations, man; tell us all about it. Our presents may not amount to much, but our congratulations will be sincere.
Pepe. You remember I was paying attention to the Somolinos?—those girls who attract so much attention.
Manolo. Yes, "Two Thousand for One" is what they call them—a tribute to the attractiveness of their father.
Pepe. Yes, he has the income. Well, I made love to them.
Manolo. The plural appeals to the imagination.
Pepe. I employ the plural, as a matter of fact, because one looked as good to me as the other.
Manolo. Presumably. In these cases, interest centres in the father.
Pepe. Meanwhile I waited, so as to allow the girls opportunity to make the choice.
Manolo. Coquette!
Pepe. And they did. One of them, I believe the eldest
Manolo. The eldest invariably develops most speed.
Julio. The poor man has no chance
Pepe. She appeared to favor me. Naturally, I said to myself, "This is mine," and from that moment I ceased to ingratiate myself with the other two.
Manolo. Your delicacy does you credit.
Pepe. We arranged interviews, we commenced a correspondence. Boys, I wish you could have seen those letters! As a talker I am only ordinary, but I am a whirlwind when I write. I hit upon some choice paragraphs. To make a long story short, the girl fell in love with me madly.
Manolo. And as soon as she was mad enough, she consented to marry you.
Pepe. Who told you she consented?
Manolo. Ah! Then she was not the one who consented?
Pepe. Never.
Manolo. Oh! That makes a difference. It was her sister?
Pepe. Neither.
Manolo. But I mean the other one. You said there were three?
Pepe. Not her either. What do you take me for? Give me credit. You don't know me.
Manolo. But you just said you were going to marry, you told us you were making love to the family; now, it appears you are marrying some one else. Whom are you going to marry?
Pepe. Does a man have to marry a woman because he happens to mention her name? Now don't you laugh! I am a thorough romantic, I am a man with a heart. Accursed heart, I say!
Manolo. If it affects you like this, your case must be serious.
Pepe. Wait, wait till you hear! What with all this correspondence, this running to and fro, "Yes, the señorita will be out to-day." "No, to-day she cannot receive." "Today, perhaps, you might call"… well, the long and the short of it was, I found myself hand in glove with the maid.
Manolo. Stop! She is the one.
Pepe. What?
Manolo. You are going to marry the maid.
Pepe. Manolo, you guessed it. The maid!
Manolo. Man alive!
Julio. My son!
Pepe. None other. And a maid! I told you I was romantic.
Manolo. Pepe! Pepe!
Julio. Pepe!
Pepe. That is all there is to it. I was taken off my guard. The poor girl outdid herself to oblige me, and, to be perfectly fair, I was not in a position to offer tips. It was sympathy, something about me—well, it appealed to us both. I was always telling her nonsense, and she was pleased, naturally, so one day I invited her to go to Las Ventas to sample the rice. A man has to say something. Well, it began to look serious, it began to be serious. I am not a man to stand by and see a poor girl in tears when she has lost her position on my account, and finds herself without a position, as she does now.
Manolo. You may suppress the details.
Pepe. Well, facts are eloquent; well, I am going to marry her. I see no occasion, however, to laugh. I should not like my friends to think ill of my wife, and as we cannot possibly live here on my miserable pay, especially as I have an idea that we are headed for a large family
Manolo. Although you never can tell.
Pepe. Anyhow, I have resigned my position, and made other arrangements; we are going away. An uncle of mine is a priest—I may have forgotten to mention it—he lives in a small town, where he has a garden and an orchard, in fact, all a man could reasonably ask. They offered to make him canon, but he has always refused. Before taking any steps, I made inquiries as to his habits, whether my sister and I were the only nephew and niece that he had. How the devil could he have had others? All the same, I did not wish to intrude; but he has none, I hear. He is a holy man, so I sat down at once and wrote him full particulars. I offered to come and live with him, and take charge of his property. He is not as young as he used to be, and he replied greatly pleased; he seemed agreeable. He said that he would await me with open arms, so I decided to run down with my wife, and, whatever happens, we shall be quiet there, while I take up farming. I am reviewing the agricultural course I had at the Institute, although, I dare say, I shan't need to know anything there. What do you think? Don't you laugh; have that consideration. I am deadly in earnest.
Julio. Laugh? Why should we? Your warm heart, or your foolish head, as others might feel, has done you a real service. You are beginning life over again. The country means health, prosperity, and you will take to the country education and breeding. What our fields need are not rough hands to cultivate them, but sympathetic care, which is a caress. It sounds like a paradox, but I believe our harvests are bad because our women and our poets have never loved the country.
Pepe. So, after all, you are not laughing at me? Don't you honestly think I have behaved like an ass?
Manolo. I will tell you. Apart from the asininity of getting married, as to which I reserve my opinion, and it is well founded, I should say that you have been extremely fortunate. You will breathe the pure air, you will eat, you will drink natural products, you will dress in comfort and live at your ease, your wife will never have nerves, which are the most expensive luxury a woman can have, but she will have a good appetite, which is cheaper, after all, than not to have any, and to be obliged to stimulate it at all hours.
Pepe. Nevertheless, it might be as well not to say anything to your mother and sister, and you had better not speak to your wife. Do me the favor. I shall write later, with the news of my wedding. I will say I am marrying a country girl, the match was arranged by my uncle. She is the mayor's daughter. It is the best I can do. We are creatures of prejudice.
Ramona enters.
Ramona. Señorito Manolo…
Manolo. What is the trouble with you?
Ramona. Your girl is here. The doctor's come, and your wife wants you home, because she's not feeling well, and she don't intend to have you saying afterward that it was nothing but imagination.
Manolo. What have I to say, anyway? I'd be better off saying nothing. I'll be there.
Ramona goes out.
Manolo. Take care, Pepe. You have my sympathy—I mean on the matrimonial side.
Pepe. Yes, if you don't mind, I'll join you; I am going your way.
Julio. And I am coming along. We might drop in on Galán. At least, we could all leave our cards.
Manolo. I'll look around later—that is, if Paquita's condition permits.
Carmen. [Outside] Do come in.
Doña Carmen and Teresa enter.
Pepe. Señora!
Manolo. Aunt Carmen…
Teresa. Good morning, Julio.
Julio. Where is Emilia?
Teresa. She is not feeling well to-day. She stayed home with one of her cousins, who ran in to sit with her.
Manolo. [To Doña Carmen] How did you find Galán?
Carmen. When we arrived he was sitting up taking a thick broth, apparently having the time of his life. Of course, I made allowances for Adelaida's exaggeration.
Manolo. Then he will be good for another seven years.
Julio. I was just going to call.
Carmen. Yes, I think you should. You know how Adelaida appreciates these little attentions.
Julio. [Going] Doña Teresa…
Teresa. Good-by, Julio. Your mother promised to let me have the address of that seamstress she recommended so highly.
Julio. I asked no questions.
Pepe. [To Doña Carmen] My best regards to Luisita. Julio will explain how it is I have been too busy to call.
Manolo. Good-by, aunt.
Julio. I'll be back directly, mamma. [Aside to Manolo, as they go out] This visit means something.
Manolo. A conspiracy of mothers-in-law. You have reason to be suspicious.
Julio, Manolo, and Pepe go out at the rear, right.
Teresa. I am sorry that Julio saw me. I came when I did because I supposed he would be out. Now, he will suspect something.
Carmen. Yes, he imagines already that we are acting in concert.
Teresa. There was no occasion to consult in order to agree. That is the reason I wished to speak to you. Not that Julio is not a fine young man, with an excellent education, and splendid character, who very likely will make a mark for himself, especially if he is careful to cultivate his connections and to build up influence, instead of dissipating his energies. You realize that a man can accomplish nothing to-day without influence. But this unseemly haste to get married—can you tell me the reason for it? They are children. While I married at fifteen myself, my husband was thirty-eight, which was a compensation. We had no means either, but then times have changed. Living has become much more expensive; there are more demands and necessities.
Carmen. Young people fail to take such things into consideration.
Teresa. In the first place, we should be obliged to live together. It is out of the question to maintain three separate establishments; a man is fortunate to be able to support one. However well-intentioned a person may be, however good-natured and patient, you know yourself what mixed families mean in the way of friction and unpleasantness.
Carmen. Yes, I do. You do not have to come here to convince me.
Teresa. Nevertheless, I should be willing to make the sacrifice, so as not to disappoint my daughter. I could never reconcile myself to hearing her say that I had opposed her happiness.
Carmen. Young people imagine that happiness consists simply of loving each other. No matter how deeply in love you may be when you marry, the first love, which is all illusion, does not last long. It may develop into another love, which is more enduring, more restrained, but in that very little illusion is left; on the contrary, one has resigned oneself to losing one's illusions, day by day. Perhaps the love which is most passionate is the one which resigns itself least easily to losing them, and is least able to rise above its disillusionment. That is what alarms me about my son; he is so violent.
Teresa. Yes, I have noticed it; and you have not seen him with my daughter! All he thinks about is making money, an ample fortune, as he calls it. The worst of it is that my daughter's mind runs in the same groove. What they haven't thought of is incredible—going into business, making inventions; needless to say, they are counting upon the lottery. One day I walked into the room and surprised them shouting at the tops of their voices; I was amazed—I felt sure they had had a quarrel. They were merely reciting their parts in a play; they had decided to go on the stage and get rich in poetic drama.
Carmen. But how innocent!
Teresa. Yes, it may seem innocent, I myself could see the humor of it; but Julio has more dangerous ideas. I don't know whether he has told you
Carmen. Yes, I know. My son plans to go to America.
Teresa. But you haven't heard that he has a letter offering him a position there, and that he imagines his fortune is already made. While I might resign myself to a modest future for my daughter, which nevertheless would be reasonably secure, you will understand that I can never consent to expose her to the chances of any such hair-brained adventure. What? Separate me from my daughter? She is all I have in the world. Women have loved their children before now, Doña Carmen, but no woman ever loved her daughter as I do mine.
Carmen. Then you can pray God that your daughter may not be as deeply in love as my son Julio. Otherwise, your love will mean as little to her as mine does to my son.
Teresa. There is no danger of that; my daughter loves me. Why shouldn't she love her mother? No matter how deeply in love she may be, she appreciates that she has no right to sacrifice me. If Julio has made up his mind that he cannot afford to marry without marching off on reckless adventures, you can be perfectly sure that my daughter will never consent to abandon me.
Carmen. If your daughter feels that way, then it is her duty to say so, because, if she doesn't, my son will continue to believe what he does now.
Teresa. That is why I wanted to talk with you.
Carmen. So that I should be the one to tell him? Ah, Doña Teresa, I made up my mind long ago not to mention this subject again to my son. To be perfectly frank, I trusted rather to the course of events than to the strength of any arguments which I might have been able to bring to bear.
Teresa. I cannot imagine what you mean by such a remark. If anybody has altered her position, it has certainly not been my daughter. Your son never even mentioned his plans.
Carmen. I was entirely satisfied that your daughter would think better of it for some reason or other before she was through. My son's prospects are not brilliant enough for your daughter. She has higher aspirations, if only on account of her looks.
Teresa. I am surprised at the tone of your conversation. You always insisted that this match was a mistake. You have opposed your son far more than I opposed my daughter. I am at a loss to comprehend how you can pretend to be displeased now at what you have been praying for all along.
Carmen. Then you have no appreciation of the feelings of a mother. I realize now that there has been only one victim in this affair, and that is my poor son, who accepted what was mere trifling to your daughter, in sober earnest.
Teresa. You insult us with your insinuations.
Carmen. No, I do not. It is no insult to say that your daughter has a cooler head than my son.
Teresa. Her mother comes before everything else in the world with my daughter.
Carmen. If that is the case, I am sorry for the man who marries her.
Teresa. I suppose that you would be delighted to see your son abandon you without one regret?
Carmen. I should make the sacrifice gladly if I felt that it was for a woman who was worthy of his love.
Teresa. You say that because no woman in your opinion could be good enough for your son. When did a mother ever consider any one good enough to deprive her of her children?
Carmen. That is no reason why, if she must be deprived of them, she should not prefer some one who would make them happy. We are not justified in taking satisfaction in the suffering and disappointments of our children. I only wish that my son could have said to me: "I am so happy! I have chosen a wife who is worthy of my love." But, now, I realize that I was right, that he is the one who has been deceived, and my sorrow is greater than it was before. Oh, my poor boy!
Teresa. Pardon me if your attitude remains quite inexplicable. If any one consideration has influenced my daughter's decision more than another, it has been the prejudice which you have exhibited against her, and your opposition to her engagement to your son. Julio will inform you whether he has had occasion for a similar complaint against me.
Carmen. You were aware of course that you could rely upon the judgment of your daughter. I could not expect so much of my son; I realized that he was in love. You have been more fortunate. It is not strange that our feelings should be different.
Teresa. I shall leave you before I forget that I am in your house.
Carmen. I should treat you like a lady, wherever you happened to be, and remember that I am one.
Teresa. I did not expect to be received in this spirit.
Carmen. On the other hand, your visit has been precisely what I had been led to expect. You have proved yourself, as I always felt you were, cool and reasonable.
Teresa. Good afternoon, señora.
Carmen. Señora…
Luisa enters.
Luisa. Mamma! Mamma!… Doña Teresa! How do you do?
Teresa. Well. Can't you see? I am going.
Carmen. Yes, she is going…
Luisa. Where is Emilia?
Teresa. Well, thank you. Señora! You need not show me out.
Carmen. Shut the door after Doña Teresa, my dear.
Teresa. Don't take the trouble!…
Goes out, accompanied by Luisa, who returns directly.
Luisa. What is the matter, mamma? What did Doña Teresa want? I never saw you so put out before. Has she said something unpleasant? Or did you say something? Tell me the truth; you must tell me.
Carmen. Unpleasant? No, it was only what I expected; I knew it all the time. That girl has been laughing at your brother, she has been playing with him. And to think that my poor boy was blind! He was so infatuated that he could not see.
Luisa. But what did Doña Teresa say?
Carmen. She said enough to let me understand that her daughter has been toying with your brother, and she has encouraged her. She will not give up her child, who for her part is done with him, because she refuses to trust to chance, to reckless adventure—the recklessness of marrying a poor man, that is the recklessness they are afraid of. He may be poor, but he has never courted a rich wife, as other young men have done, without his advantages or his figure or his ability, yes, or his education. Now that girl will plume herself upon having turned him off, so as to foist herself upon some protégé of her uncle's, somebody who was not good enough for her cousins, and so they pass him along to her, like their old hats and their old clothes, which she then proceeds to show off in, like the common creature that she is.
Luisa. Mamma! Mamma! I never heard you talk like this. Don't be so angry. Does Julio know?
Carmen. No, they are afraid to tell him; they want me to do it. They are so pleased that they imagine that it will be a great joy to me. And it is—it is! It is a tremendous relief. Now your brother will find out whether his mother was right or not, whether it was only a mother's selfishness, as he always said, because that boy would insist that it was nothing but selfishness when I opposed that engagement. A mother's heart cannot be deceived. It is a tremendous satisfaction to me, yes, it is; but all the same I am bitter, I am bitter because they have played with my boy, and his mortification will be terrible when he discovers it, because it will be a disillusionment to him. He will be ill, or he will do something desperate. See if he doesn't; you will see. He is so violent. God and the Holy Virgin help us! Why cannot children always remain children, and always stay at their mother's side, so that she can take them up in her arms and console them, like children?
Luisa. But mamma! Mamma! You were wretched for fear that Julio might be able to carry out his plans and go away. Only yesterday, didn't you say: "Good Lord, good Lord! My son may have gone crazy, but at least that girl ought to have sense"? Now, when God has heard you, when you ought to be happy, because now Julio will not leave us, nor think of going away, instead of being thankful, you are only growing worse! Weren't you crying because you had lost your son? Well, you have him back again, and he will be more yours now than he ever was before.
Carmen. Yes, but that is no consolation. A mother's lot is always unhappy. The only time she can say that her children are her own is when life returns them to her, heartbroken and undeceived, to take refuge in the only love that never fails, that always forgives. A mother's heart is like a nest. The birds cry for their mother's warmth, for food and for love, but by the time they are able to fly, and sing happily, they are already far away from the nest, from their mother. When they come back, how can she be happy, since she knows that they come only to pour out their sorrows, and the disappointments they have had to bear?
Don Hilario and Julio enter.
Julio. Come in, Don Hilario.
Hilario. Doña Carmen! Luisita…
Julio. You see, they are crying. It is the daily routine, invariable. And it is my fault! This cannot continue.
Hilario. Julio is right. This cannot be.
Carmen. No, on the contrary, I am crying now because I am happy. I have never been so happy before in my life!
Julio. Yes, evidently. Sit down, mamma—and you, too. I have brought Don Hilario because the time has come to talk sensibly, without tears or recriminations, because my decision is irrevocable. I am going to marry Emilia, and we shall sail for America, to Buenos Aires. No other solution is possible for us all.
Luisa. My poor brother!
Carmen. Very well, my son, if you really feel that it means your happiness. I suppose you think that your mother is the only obstacle?
Julio. Don't say that. I won't listen to you.
Carmen. No, I am calm, as you see. I hope you will be as calm as I am when you know what I know.
Julio. What do you know?
Carmen. Have you made your arrangements for the voyage? Are you sure the position is a good one, that there will be opportunity for advancement?
Julio. Tell them, Don Hilario. They will not believe me.
Hilario. Yes, Doña Carmen. Julio has consulted me, and I have approved his plan in its entirety. I offered to write to Buenos Aires, to a friend, a responsible, intelligent gentleman, who has replied to my recommendation of your son in a manner which is most gratifying.
Julio. Here is the letter. Read it, read it. He offers me a position that is well paid, in which I shall have initiative, and at the beginning I shall receive more than I do now. I shall not be embarrassed by the pretense of living like a gentleman, I shall have the satisfaction of being employed at something useful, which is of real service, and not be discouraged, as I am here, eternally issuing orders in our department, and rummaging through files of papers, the utility of which, to say the least, is by no means apparent, and which often drive me to wonder whether our government offices are not in fact charitable institutions, maintained in the interest of this debilitated middle class, which, while it retains its self-respect, can take refuge in no other asylum.
Hilario. Yes, Doña Carmen, the position my friend offers is excellent for a man who is willing to work. That Julio knows. He will have to give up being the young intellectual, who has no other use for his intellectuality than to criticise others who work. He will require intelligence, but only enough to serve a firm and resolute will. Will is necessary above everything else, will that is constructive, will that is able to convert dreams into realities. It will be very different there from what it is here, where we spend the better part of our lives speaking evil of those who construct, because they have not constructed the precise fabric of our dreams, which is so beautiful, so extremely beautiful, that it goes without saying it will never be built. So, because no reality can equal our dreams, we spend our lives outside in the foul weather, while others who do not think so much, nor criticise so much, build themselves spacious houses and even splendid palaces, which doubtless are in very bad taste, but which are solid, nevertheless, and quite comfortable.
Julio. Yes, I shall build my house like them, whatever it may be; and upon new ground, not on top of ruins.
Carmen. But you cannot do it alone. Has Emilia seen this letter? Have you discussed it with her and with her mother, as you are doing with me? Have you told them that your decision is final, irrevocable?
Julio. Emilia will not hesitate if her love is true.
Carmen. You appear to emphasize the if.
Julio. No.
Carmen. You say if her love is true.
Julio. It is.
Carmen. Don't you know that Doña Teresa was here? Do you know what she came to tell me?
Julio. The old story. If you talked, you agreed that we were mad. It is folly, a crime for two young people who are in love, to marry without money. Then, you spoke of the high cost of living, you trotted out your pet phrase: "Everything is in the clouds."
Carmen. I said nothing; it was Doña Teresa, it is Emilia. Nothing in the world will induce her—and you may as well understand it plainly—nothing will induce her to consent to be separated from her daughter.
Julio. But Emilia…
Carmen. Emilia feels the same, and they thought that it would be better that you should hear it from me. If you don't believe me, ask them—ask them both. I am not sure either but that when they find out that this position which has been offered is a good one, they won't change their minds, but I am afraid not—do you hear? I am afraid not. I am so anxious to see you happy that I would do nothing to hold you back, not with my tears, nor by telling you that you are an ingrate to allow your poor mother to sacrifice herself for you all her life, only to see herself abandoned now in her old age without remorse, yes, without one single regret!
Julio. Mother!
Hilario. Doña Carmen!
Julio. Do you hear? I cannot endure any more, I cannot bear it. I will not hear myself called an ungrateful son. You are my mother, I owe everything to you, everything. My life is yours, and I have proved it all my life long, because I have never been anything to you but your son, eternally your son, your son. You would never permit me to be a man. You have cowed me all you could, you have crushed and kept me under, without a will of my own, always fearful of your displeasure. I was afraid to live, to think for myself. But the same passions which stirred in you when you brought me into the world stir in me, in spite of myself. I have always dreaded this day, I knew it must come, this clash which drives you to be cruel with me, and me, perhaps, to appear an ingrate.
Carmen. Do you hear? Do you hear my son?
Hilario. Yes, I hear him. Doña Carmen, and I hear you, too, and I hear life, whose voice is louder than ours, and which tells us that our children are not our children, that they are men, and belong to humanity. Oh, you mothers who have grown old, you nations that decay, do not call it ingratitude when your children leave you! Children never leave their mothers. When you have gone walking with the children, strolling along with friends of your own age, while they played with the other children, haven't you often noticed, as you walked, how the children would soon be at a distance, and then you, the older people, would call out: "Children! Don't run, my dears! Don't lose sight of us. You will get lost." And they, without stopping, would call back, from where they were: "We won't lose sight of you, we are here! We are only running ahead." It is selfishness to expect youth to keep step with age, or to dishearten it with the disillusionments of our experience when it sets out, brighteyed and filled with hope, upon its career. Such selfishness life does not permit. What would we think of a general who, before going into battle with his recruits, led them first to a hospital filled with the maimed and wounded? Many will die in the battle, many will return incapacitated, but the battle must be joined in the expectation of victory, with the swell of triumphal music in our ears, the flaunting of banners before our eyes. If we succumb, it must be facing life boldly, with a beckoning glance toward those who come behind, toward those who remain, toward those who will triumph, passing over our dead bodies; and in the ceaseless struggle of life our children are the ones who remain, the ones who will march to victory when we ourselves have succumbed. The future belongs to the young women, the young men.
Emilia enters.
Emilia. Julio!
Julio. Ah, Emilia, it is you! I knew it; she is here. She has come to speak for me, for us both. Say you have!
Emilia. Doña Carmen… Luisa…
Luisa. Are you alone?
Emilia. Mother told me she had been talking with you, and that you had had a dispute. She said that you were determined that all should be over between me and your son. You accused me of being a coquette, of trifling, of leading him on.
Julio. I never believed it; they are our mothers.
Emilia. My mother does not know I am here, I came with the maid. I should have come alone, if it had been necessary.
Julio. You have done right.
Emilia. I had to see you, to speak to you. You will not believe it—any more than I would have believed it—but my mother has taken this talk of going to America in earnest. I knew, of course, you didn't mean it, that you have never considered it.
Julio. Do you believe that?
Carmen. You hear what she says.
Emilia. My mother was afraid that I was going to leave her, alone, at her age in the world. She never stopped to remember that you have a mother yourself, just as I have.
Carmen. You are a kind and dutiful daughter.
Julio. Emilia… But leave us, yes, leave us. We must talk, we must talk—alone.
Emilia. Why? There is nothing they may not hear.
Julio. No, this concerns us alone. It is no time to stand upon formality. We are not two young lovers, nor children; to hesitate is ridiculous. A man and woman at this moment are deciding their future, and it will be forever. I am not willing that any one should interfere. We must speak bravely, freely. Don Hilario, take my mother. Luisita, leave us… Go, mother, I am calm; Emilia, you have nothing to fear.
All but Julio and Emilia go out.
Julio. Did you think that my plan was not serious? Do you believe that it is right to continue as we are?
Emilia. I don't know. We have talked of so many things, we have planned and we have dreamed! But I never believed that any of it could really be.
Julio. Read this letter.
Emilia. But you are so earnest! Did you mean it, really?
Julio. Read it, read it.
Emilia. It is for Don Hilario… No, Julio, no!
Julio. You see that I have considered it seriously. It is our future.
Emilia. No, Julio, no; you frighten me. It is a dangerous experiment, far away. Not leave our poor mothers? No, tell me you don't really mean it, you are only doing it to test my love.
Julio. Perhaps I am doing it so as not to test it, not to condemn you to this miserable existence, every hour of which would prove its own test, with but very few either of illusion or hope, because life would be upon us quickly, a life of continual hardship, of ceaseless struggle with disappointment, with humiliation, until in the end our love itself would be destroyed.
Emilia. No, never. I could bear any privations gladly, I could face them all, and it would be no sacrifice, but I cannot go away—I cannot do that! It is too much to ask.
Julio. Do you prefer a daily sacrifice to one supreme, heroic effort? Haven't you the courage to leave your mother, when you have it to embitter her life day by day when she sees you in tears because of discomforts and deprivations which you suffer, or when you see her in them, suffering for you, though you may have courage not to let her see you cry?
Emilia. No, Julio, you must not ask that of me, it would be too cruel. It would kill my mother. Think it over. I could never be an ungrateful child.
Julio. That is to say I am an ungrateful son. If I am, remember it is for you. It is more honest, it is the nobler way for us, for all, to prevent unhappiness, to obviate recrimination, although at first it may seem more difficult, more cruel.
Emilia. But my mother will consent gladly, and we can live here very happily. The first few years we shall manage somehow, as best we may; my family has connections, and they will help us in the end. You will be able to find other employment. Who knows? If we are careful, and prepared to be patient, we shall surely discover some plan.
Julio. Yes, by petty intrigue, by scheming for humiliating recommendations, by patronage and influence; you are willing to do your part in devious ways. You have only to add that with a wife such as you, any man who is complaisant enough could aspire to the top.
Emilia. Be careful what you say, Julio!
Julio. On the other hand, you speak freely, you talk like a woman—like our women. This is what I have heard all my life: "Patience, craft, intrigue! Other men have succeeded; you can learn to do the same, to live." Yes, to live amid the rustle of skirts! Isn't it true? Our Spanish life!—burrowing in offices and antechambers, but fighting out in the open, in the broad daylight, relying on one's own strength, without treachery to oneself, and never so much as a single lie to another—never, never that! That requires superhuman courage. Never!—not even for a man who would die for your sake.
Emilia. I see that plainly.
Julio. Yes, and accomplish things of which he never believed himself capable, because I, too, was brought up as you were, to resignation, to expect everything of others, and, until I loved you, I was not conscious that I had strength to live my own life, to live it in spite of others, in spite of the cowardice to which I was brought up. But when my will was the strongest, I relied on you to support me, so that we might fight together for our love, for our happiness, for our children, that they might not be condemned to suffer as we have done. At the cost of appearing ingrates, even to our mothers, we shall have assured them the right to be happy, we shall have freed them from the necessity of sacrificing their hearts, as now you would sacrifice ours.
Emilia. No, I wouldn't, Julio; I am not the one.
Julio. Who is it, then?
Emilia. You, you… it is you. Give it up for my sake.
Julio. I will not give it up. You don't know what the will of a weak man is, when for the first time in his life he discovers that he has a will. Decide! Choose this very instant!
Emilia. What am I to choose? Not to go away; no, I cannot do it, I am afraid. Be sensible, Julio! You know I am right. We will wait as long as you please, I shall wait for you forever, and then—whatever you think best. We are young yet. If you feel you ought to go, why don't you go alone?—and, then, come back. If it is really so wonderful there, it might be different. Don't you see? Have confidence in me. I shall wait for you always.
Julio. Yes, I will go, alone—alone! You are right. Now, I have made up my mind to go. But don't you wait for me!
Emilia. Julio!
Julio. No, don't you wait! I have heard what I never expected to hear.
Emilia. I knew it; you are the one who forgets, you turn me away.
Julio. Yes, I do, with my cowardice, my vacillation, determined at last to have a will of my own! Leave me, Emilia, leave me.
Emilia. God help us! God help us! Oh!…
Julio. Go back to your mother and be a daughter again—be always a daughter, a good daughter! I am a bad man, bad—and you know it!
Emilia. You don't know what you are doing; you are not yourself. Oh, I can't bear it! I can't have them see me like this. I am going… But promise that you will come to see me. You will come, won't you, Julio? I shall wait, I shall wait for you always—all the rest of my life! [Emilia goes out in tears.
Doña Carmen and Luisa re-enter with Don Hilario at another door.
Carmen. My poor boy!
Luisa. My dear brother!
Carmen. But Emilia?
Julio. Has gone. She is not here… not here. She is afraid… afraid of love, afraid of life. Everything is over between us.
Carmen. My poor boy! Then…?
Luisa. Now you will never leave us.
Julio. Yes, now more than ever I must. One illusion that is lost is but a small part of life. Now more than ever I must! The wretched poverty of this existence shall never again crush my heart, brimming over with the fulness of life. I shall win the right to love, to be happy—it is a right which belongs to my children.
Carmen. Oh! My son
Hilario. Let him go. You have no right to discourage him. Others have done the same. Our mother Spain was prodigal of her children, and sent them forth to give life and body to those nations, the daughters of her race, who are to-day her chief, perhaps her only pride. Let him go, and his mother's love and benediction must go with him. A cradle is more sacred than the grave… greater than the past is the future.
Curtain