Autumnal Roses/Act 2
The scene is the same as in the First Act.
Isabel, Carmen and Ramón are discovered together, while the voices of the other characters are heard outside. A piano plays meanwhile.
Ramón. I have dined well, Isabel; I have dined extremely well.
Isabel. It is a great pleasure to me.
Carmen. Who is playing now? That cannot be Luisita.
Isabel. No, it is the groom. He plays excellently, with rare feeling.
Ramón. Is that how you knew that it was not Luisita?
Carmen. I marvel at that young man. His wife ought to be very happy.
Ramón. Well, she does not look happy to me.
Isabel. Why? Ridiculous!
Ramón. Isabel, I am a blunt man. I have been able to swallow everything at this dinner except that couple. They stick in my throat.
Carmen. Perfectly disgusting! I hope you don't mind what he says.
Isabel. Antipathies, like sympathies, are instinctive.
Ramón. It seems incredible that that boy should be Barona's son—Barona, a man of affairs, a forceful, energetic character! To be sure he always complained of his wife, because she brought up his children badly. What sort of woman has this fellow married? Isabel, I am a blunt man
Carmen. Ramón! Be careful!
Ramón. Of what? We are as much at home as if this were our own family. Isabel is—what shall I say?—she is like a sister to me; I have sisters and brothers of whom I am not nearly so fond. And I am fond of Gonzalo, too. We have been in business together since we were boys; he has always been good to me. No doubt he has his faults, but what of it? Who has not? They do not interfere with me, so why should I complain? I must say, though, Isabel, that when Gonzalo knows what he does know about this young woman who has married herself to our correspondent's son, yes, to the son of our friend—and I know it, too—well, he has no right to introduce her into your house.
Carmen. Ramón! Ramón!
Ramón. I know what I am talking about.
Isabel. Do you suppose Gonzalo knows?
Ramón. Of course he does. This girl's mother is an impudent hussy, a Spaniard who ran off to Paris with a commercial traveller. The daughter went on the stage there—the stage, did I say? It was in a café concert. You can guess what she was. Then the mother and daughter set their caps for this fool. Here they are now posing as ladies under your protection and sitting beside our daughters; you ought not to consent to it—it is a thing Gonzalo has no right to do. That boy will never have that position if my vote counts for anything. I am very fond of you, Isabel, I do not need to tell you that; and I shall always take your part, whatever happens—always.
Isabel. Thank you, Ramón, thank you very much…
She rises and moves slowly toward the door, passing into the room where the others are talking.
Carmen. I hope she has not forgotten that this is just after dinner. Otherwise, what will she think? Why do you bother poor Isabel?
Ramón. I suppose I said what I did because I have had too much champagne?
Carmen. No, of course not. But I am sorry for poor Isabel.
Ramón. So am I. I am out of patience with Gonzalo; that is why I cannot hold my tongue. Nobody expects a married man to be as ideally faithful as his wife, but he ought to stray only occasionally, when it is of no importance. This notion of never being without a love-affair on his hands when he has a wife like Isabel… How have you the effrontery to complain of me? Compare us, now compare us…
Carmen. I? Complain of you? Never!
Ramón. Yes, you do. Women's imaginations are too active; you are too much given to romance. Did you notice Isabel's martyred air? Well, she enjoys it; she likes to feel her husband is that way. All this talk about love-affairs, about women who have lost their heads over him, this never being certain whether he is hers or whether he is not, makes him important in her eyes and surrounds him with a poetic halo. Isabel is more in love with her husband every day, you can take it from me, which she would never be after having been married all these years if Gonzalo were a husband like I am—without accidents, or anything that is romantic. Come, now, be honest: have you ever appreciated my incredible fidelity in the least? You think it is not virtue, but lack of ability to make myself attractive. Yes, you do. You do not love me as Isabel loves Gonzalo. I am a simple bourgeois, all prose, who is good enough to work and to strike balances, and provide for the future of my children. Why, if some day some hussy should come along and turn my head—which God forbid—yes, if it were for no more than half an hour—I should feel all the while that I was robbing you and the children, and I could never forgive myself, even though you might forgive me.
Carmen. Yes, there are things which we can never forgive ourselves. But don't hurt Isabel. Surely she must have noticed that woman coquetting with her husband, when everybody else has noticed it.
Ramón. Coquetting? Coquetting? Well, I call it cocotting, and precious little pretense about it either. That is the only term that describes it.
Carmen. Isabel again!… Change the subject.
Isabel and Manuel enter. Carmen and Ramón converse together at one side, and presently disappear into the salon in which the others are supposed to be.
Isabel. [To Manuel] I must say that you are unobservant. I have been pulling at your sleeve for the past half-hour, as a signal for you to follow me; but you were oblivious. I wish to speak with you.
Manuel. Didn't you see María Antonia pulling me by the other sleeve as a signal for me not to follow? She also wishes to speak with me.
Isabel. When it is a question between mother and daughter, although the heart may incline to youth, courtesy must sacrifice itself to age.
Manuel. In this case, courtesy and the heart were of one accord, but María Antonia has a grip which is terrific. However, I remain in my part.
Isabel. In your part? What is your part?
Manuel. Don't you know, my friend? That of universal confidant, of everybody's friend, or rather the friend of everybody's friend. I am like a telephone central; people call me up in order to establish a connection. It is not a glorious rôle, as you must confess.
Isabel. But how necessary!
Manuel. Cervantes said something of the sort concerning an occupation very similar to mine; he said that it was necessary in any well-ordered republic.
Isabel. I am not asking now for a connection; on the contrary, I wish to discontinue service.
Manuel. What did I tell you? In any event, mine is an intermediary rôle.
Isabel. Is Federico Reinosa, the author, one of your friends?
Manuel. Do you mean the dreamer?
Isabel. Infinitely more dangerous! Authors who write their dreams exhaust themselves in the process, but dreamers who never write but attempt to live out their dreams, neither rest nor give others any rest. Life to them is a blank page which they are at liberty to dash off at their pleasure.
Manuel. Apparently you know Federico
Isabel. Yes, he is madly in love with María Antonia. I am told that you enjoy his confidence
Manuel. I merely offer him advice.
Isabel. Good advice?
Manuel. Naturally, as I am fond of María Antonia. I know the value of example and bringing-up, and María Antonia has never had anything but bringing-up, and examples of virtue in her mother and in you.
Isabel. When virtue has always been touched with sadness in a girl's experience, is it likely that at twenty she will resign herself to a life of suffering, unless her love is so impassioned, so blind, that it is able to transform even sorrow into something more precious than joy?
Manuel. True, María Antonia was not violently in love when she married. But Pepe is a nice boy. He may make a slip now and then
Isabel. Slip? María Antonia is wearing her heart out because of his slips. I live in terror of slips, so I wish to prevent María Antonia from making any. She has the greatest confidence in you; besides, you are Federico's friend. Tell me honestly what you know. Does he speak much of María Antonia?
Manuel. Incessantly; yes, indeed! He is in love with her madly.
Isabel. But does he…
Manuel. What are you asking me? I merely offer him good advice, which I do very easily by repeating for his benefit the precepts which I have urged so frequently upon myself.
Isabel. I remember—in that great passion of your life, to which you remain faithful even yet. Then by your love for María Antonia's mother, which was all admiration and all respect, help me to protect her daughter, the daughter of the woman you so dearly loved!
Manuel. And always did respect.
Isabel. So the memory of her love has become the religion of your life. Would you have had it otherwise? I trust you entirely. I fear for María Antonia, it is useless to conceal it; there is something in her attitude which makes me apprehensive of the worst. Be fair with me, and warn me when there is danger. I love María Antonia as if she were my own child.
Manuel. I am sure of it, but why worry? Federico has no reason to suspect my interest in this affair. He trusts me implicitly.
Isabel. Thanks, my friend, my good and loyal friend.
Manuel. The friend of everybody—always the friend. The world lives around me; men love, quarrel, suffer—and then they tell me about it. And so I live.
Isabel. In the memory of a great love, which at least is something.
Manuel. Only it was not love. It was merely a great friendship.
María Antonia enters.
María Antonia. Are you whispering secrets?
Isabel. Why are you running away? What are they doing in the other room?
María Antonia. Who cares? It does not interest me. Manuel, you forgot to finish that story; I found it extremely amusing.
Isabel. What story?
María Antonia. Oh, an account of some pranks of Federico Reinosa's—eccentricities of an artist.
Isabel. Does he still visit your house frequently?
María Antonia. No, he and Pepe had a falling out—some difference about art. They both became excited, and, needless to say, when Pepe becomes excited, he forgets himself completely.
Isabel. Was Pepe the only one who forgot himself?
María Antonia. Federico is a perfect gentleman, who would be incapable of acting discourteously, as Manuel knows. [To Isabel] Naturally, you have seen very little of him.
Isabel. Although I have heard him talked about a great deal.
María Antonia. Is that so? By whom?
Isabel. By you. I have hinted it several times, but it has escaped your attention. It may not have escaped everybody's.
María Antonia. It certainly has Pepe's. Pepe is an Othello when it is a question of one of his stage princesses, but when his wife is concerned, he is no better than any other husband. In his eyes I am so insignificant that he never bothers his head about me. If anybody were to tell him that a man had fallen in love with me, he would simply know that it was impossible.
Manuel. Don't you exaggerate? Now, really!
María Antonia. Oh, yes, yes, yes, I do! Of course any affection, any decent treatment even, is offensive to me! I am happy, exquisitely happy. You must have noticed how vivacious and communicative I have been all evening.
Manuel. Yes, I did at once. I said to Isabel: "What is the matter with María Antonia? She seems so happy."
María Antonia. Blissfully happy!
Isabel. A nervous sort of happiness—the pretended happiness with which, when we are not thinking of others in the first moments of a great sorrow, we attempt to deceive ourselves. It is a peculiarity of great sorrows; they strike so deep, so very deep into the heart that they seem to be buried in it, and we are horrified that we do not feel them; but the deception does not last long. They are graven there for the remainder of our lives. We shed tears in the beginning, we complain, we rage—then we resign ourselves and bear them with a smile, a sad and mournful smile, like a gaping wound which never heals.
María Antonia. Isabel has had experience both of wounds and of smiles.
Laughter outside.
Manuel. They appear to be enjoying themselves.
María Antonia. Another hit of papa's! He is in rare form this evening. Look at him, surrounded by all the ladies in rapt adoration, from Carmen, who would have been a model wife had papa not crossed her path, to calculating Laura, who you would swear was completely monetized, and the bride, who may be a fool, although she has been married only two months—yes, and Luisa, even, bursting forth in her first evening-gown, there they all sit in ecstasy before the eternal Don Juan. It is a picture too good to be missed. I tell Isabel that it is symbolic. Whatever happens to papa with the ladies is not entirely his fault.
Manuel. No, take my word for it. Inspiring love is a gift; you must have it in you. The most fascinating men are the ones who are the most indifferent. Don Juan says:
Two days to achieve."
which, by the way, sounds wholly fantastic to me. One's name must be Tenorio to attain such success. Don Luis's conquests cost him double, while Avellaneda and Captain Centellas—but why pursue the matter further? Judging by appearances they never inspired love in their lives, which explains why they spent all their time betting upon their friends. I have always had a great deal of sympathy for those two characters.
Carmen, Laura, Josefina, Luisa, Gonzalo, Ramón and Adolphe enter.
Laura. We are in full flight before your husband. He has scandalized us outrageously.
María Antonia. While you fly, you still manage to keep up with him.
Laura. He will scarcely repeat his sallies before you. What a remarkable man! Honestly, if it is put properly, I believe one may say anything.
María Antonia. Even if it is put improperly, if the speaker appears properly, one may listen to everything.
Josefina. It is his air as he says it. I should never have believed that I could have laughed so much at those things.
María Antonia. [To Manuel] She is of the sort who are accustomed to giggle.
Adolphe. Josefina, is the occasion propitious for my imitations of Parisian actresses, or a monologue, perhaps, or petite fantasie?
Josefina. No, these people are all respectable. Make an impression on the hostess; it may do us some good. Compliment her upon her toilette.
Adolphe. I have exhausted my stock of compliments.
Josefina. Then see what you can do with Don Ramón, since he is a friend of your father's. I must say that he does not look it; he is not overenthusiastic. When I asked him to use his influence, you should have heard what he said to me!
Adolphe. Hélas! Ma petite femme! Our illusions fade rapidly.
Josefina. And don't talk so much. I know what I am doing, and I shall get what I want—you can leave it to me.
Adolphe. Of course I can leave it to you. I leave everything to you. [They continue the conversation.
Gonzalo. [To Carmen] Do me the favor to persuade Ramón to support this young man for the position. The future of a loving couple is at stake. It is in our power to contribute to their happiness, and you who are so good
Carmen. Please, Gonzalo! I have no idea whether or not you are in earnest, but you must not involve me in your affairs, whether in jest or in earnest. I can only tell you that you are doing wrong, you are doing very wrong, Gonzalo—and you always have done wrong.
Gonzalo. Will you never forgive me?
Carmen. I have forgiven you, but I can never forgive myself. In spite of my feelings, I am obliged to receive you as a friend because we are not alone in the world. When you married Isabel, I confessed to her, so that I might feel myself a little less unworthy of her friendship. I had not offended against her, yet she might have closed her house to me, and have justified herself by explaining the reason, or otherwise, I should have been placed in a position where I should not have been able to explain it. But she forgave me—at least she took pity on me. Now to ask me to repay Isabel with a suggestion even of treachery, which she does not deserve of any one, much less of you or of me
Gonzalo. Who is talking about treachery?—unless you have become so friendly with Isabel that your mind, too, has been poisoned, and you are jealous yourself.
Carmen. Oh, no doubt you believe it! And I cannot blame you. Why should my repentance be more genuine to-day than my virtue was yesterday?
Gonzalo. I did not wish to give offense.
Carmen. No, you could not be so cruel. I have not yet wept sufficiently to be able to control myself in public except at great cost.
Adolphe. [To Luisa] I shall send for the waltzes and whatever else you desire.
Luisa. I warn you that you will be throwing your money away, as I play atrociously.
Adolphe. Yes, through lack of practice. You have ability—oh, you have! You have the equipment of a great pianist—you have the fingers, the heart, and you have sympathy for the music. What you need is to learn to play. Music is a tonic to the soul. When one is unhappy, there is nothing like music. I should never have survived my engagement to Josefina if it had not been for music. Love went wrong with us from the beginning; it fell out badly. Señorita, we were so romantic! Our families were Capulets and Montagues, while we were Romeo and Juliet. At one time we thought that we should both die, and be buried together like them in the same tomb.
Luisa. Not really? You must have been very happy!
Adolphe. Have you never been in love, señorita?
Luisa. No, never. Father frightens my suitors away, as you will discover presently. He examines them about their incomes and, of course, the most interesting men never have any incomes. On the other hand, a man who has money and wants to get married is a fool entirely.
Gonzalo. [To Isabel and María Antonia] Shall we step out to the theatre? What do you say? We might take a look at that play which has made such a hit. It will amuse Josefina and Adolphe because it is so typically Spanish. They sing and dance jotas and tangos.
Adolphe. Oh, yes, indeed! Spanish music and dancing interest me immensely. We are Spanish at heart. When I go to a bal masqué in Paris, I am a torero.
Manuel. A toreador?
Adolphe. Ah, but you should see my costume! It is beautiful, authentic, rose velvet, with green and gold paillettes. The Figaro is embroidered with carnations, and I top it off with a round hat with a red cockade, muzzling myself meanwhile in my great Spanish cloak. I stick a broadsword in my belt to finish the bull.
María Antonia. [To Josefina] What do you do?
Josefina. Oh, I am Carmen!
María Antonia. With a knife in your garter?
Josefina. No, it would not be seen; I wear it in my hair to feature my coiffure. I fasten the open blade between the teeth of two combs. It is inscribed: "To your heart!"
Ramón. Oh, you devil!
Adolphe. Yes, that was on it, too, at least that was what papa said: "Oh, you devil!" Probably he wrote you the details.
Ramón. Yes, when we had no business that was more pressing to attend to.
Gonzalo. Well, are we ready for the theatre? [To Isabel] I am sorry you are not coming.
Isabel. No, I am obliged to refuse.
María Antonia. [Aside to Isabel] Yes, you are obliged to refuse, but you are not obliged to say so.
Isabel. [To Josefina] You must excuse me, as I cannot leave our guests.
Gonzalo. [To Ramón] Perhaps you would like to come along?
Ramón. No, I must drop in at the club. The ladies will remain with Isabel; I shall dismiss the carriage immediately.
Laura. I, too, must tear myself away, as I rise early. To-morrow is my busiest day.
Manuel. Is it? Let me have your itinerary, as I may catch a glimpse of you when you get up.
Laura. Do you expect to rise early.?
Manuel. I expect not to go to bed.
Laura. Most unlikely. I shall stop first at the bank, where I have some drafts to indorse.
Manuel. Do not look for me at the bank. It would seem unveracious.
Laura. I attend a conference next and then fly to the soup-kitchen.
Manuel. We may meet at the soup-kitchen one of these days.
Laura. Next… ah! I forgot to take San Antonio his share of the lottery. I purchased a ticket and we won—or rather, it was the tenth part of a ticket.
Manuel. Have you been playing the lottery.?
Laura. The prize was merely nominal—thirty pesetas.
Ramón. How much are you allowing the saint?
Laura. Two pesetas, poor dear! He is charity itself.
Ramón. Did you let him in when you sold that last block of stock? If you did, he must have come off with a pretty penny.
Laura. It is not right to joke about such things.
Ramón. What? Stocks?
Laura. No, saints.
Ramón. My dear, you are the one who is making a joke out of saints.
Gonzalo. Well, we shall be late…
Ramón. [Saying farewell] Isabel, remember—you may count upon me.
Adolphe. Ladies, good evening. The pleasure of seeing you is so great that we hope to abuse frequently.
Josefina. You will conclude that we are pests before we go.
María Antonia. Do not put it too strongly.
Adolphe. [To Carmen and Luisa] Señora, señorita… delighted, delighted… [To Laura] I shall send you the fashion-plates. [To Luisita] And you shall have waltzes and the latest designs.
Gonzalo. Good evening. Carmen and Luisita. Good night, Isabel…
Laura. [To Isabel] We shall not see each other, I fear, for a long, long time—at least, do not count upon me for the remainder of the week. Manuel, are you staying behind?
Manuel. For a few moments.
After exchanging farewells, Laura, Josefina, Gonzalo, Ramón and Adolphe pass out.
Manuel. Shall we wait to gossip until they reach the door?
Isabel. I forbid it. Positively, I detest gossip.
María Antonia. Do you know, the bride and groom rather appeal to me? They come, of course, bent upon the conquest of Madrid, but when they retire they may consider they are lucky to get off themselves. I know what these young couples are.
A silence.
Manuel. It seems very quiet.
Luisa. An angel has passed.
María Antonia. Or a devil. Which? When every one is silent it is usually because every one is thinking the same thing, and it is unnecessary to speak in order to understand each other.
Carmen. Possibly.
María Antonia. Then good night.
Isabel. Aren't you going to wait for Pepe? He is surely coming; his letter said so.
María Antonia. Yes, and meanwhile I can sit here and wait. God knows when he will put in appearance. If he does come, and does not find me here, there will not be any regrets.
Isabel. Sit down for a moment. He will surely come.
María Antonia. No, no, I am going—if only for that reason. Besides, I am nervous; I do not feel well. I have an idea—why should I hide it from you?—and when I have an idea, until I put it into execution
Isabel. But María Antonia! What is it? You alarm me!
María Antonia. You will find out soon enough. Good night… for the present. Good night. Carmen and Luisita.
Isabel. Manuel will see you home.
María Antonia. Why should he? It is not necessary. He seems happy and comfortable.
Manuel. Not at all! I am going with you. Good evening, ladies. Luisita… Isabel…
Isabel. I depend upon you.
Manuel. Trust me entirely.
Carmen. Good night, María Antonia. Rest quietly and calm your nerves, I do hate to see you uncomfortable.
María Antonia. Of course. Good night, everybody. Good night… Are you coming along?
Manuel. Gladly.
They go out.
Carmen. Poor María Antonia! The first disillusionments of married life.
Isabel. They are the saddest, the most cruel; we have both passed through the experience. Luisita listens horrified… you must not mind us, my dear. However clear the warning of our experience may be, you are too young to abandon a single illusion, or avoid in the future so much as one of the disenchantments of life. Nobody can learn through the experience of another. We sat at our mother's feet and listened, precisely as you do at ours, and our mothers listened to their mothers, yet we have all confided our hearts to a man with the same love, the same faith, and the same illusions as they. Life would be even sadder than it is if we were to realize upon its threshold, that we do no more in living than reincarnate the sorrows of those who have passed before us through life.
Luisa. María Antonia ought never to have married Pepe. To be happy, a girl must marry only when she is very much in love. I shall never marry in any other way. I must marry a man whom I love with my whole soul, and who loves me with his; then what reason can there be why we should not be happy? María Antonia would have been very happy if she had married Enrique. I am sorry for my poor brother; it was foolish of them both. I have never yet been able to understand why they drifted apart. I suppose the fault was Enrique's—some slight of his, perhaps, or a mistake, which María Antonia was unwilling to forgive.
Carmen. Don't say that, my dear. You do not know how terribly it makes me feel.
Isabel. What have you heard from Enrique? Does he write frequently?
Luisa. His letters are very sad. Father was dreadfully severe when he went away. He is severe with us all; he imagines that we do not love him sufficiently.
Carmen. Ramón is extremely kind, but he feels that he best expresses his affection by working incessantly to make us rich. When he turns impatiently from the caresses of his children because he is absorbed in business cares, he expects them to appreciate his ill-humor, and to thank him for it, since it is an evidence of additional thousands which he is earning for them.
Luisa. He cannot understand that love takes no interest in account-books.
Carmen. There came a time when they grew hateful, too, to me; but then, after the bitterness of many sorrows, I have learned that if true affection exists anywhere, it is only in the prose of life, and we must reconcile ourselves to finding it there, amid aridness and vulgarity, unless we are prepared to mourn all our lives an irreparable loss.
Isabel. All men are egotists; they are forever indifferent to the emotions which we feel. Luisita is still horrified… She will dream of unhappy marriages to-night, as children have nightmares when they listen to ghost-stories or hear tales of robbers before going to bed. No, pay no attention to what we say; it does not interest you. These are old wives' tales… Ah! Pepe has kept his word and María Antonia did not wait…
Pepe enters.
Pepe. Good evening. Carmen. Luisita—how stunning! Where is María Antonia?
Isabel. She was afraid you were not coming. She was tired, and did not wait.
Pepe. Is that so? Well, was she in a horrible humor all evening?
Isabel. She was nervous. How was the reading? Interesting?
Pepe. No, it was not. What are you trying to insinuate? I went to oblige a friend, as a matter of duty, although I could never convince María Antonia.
Isabel. Men are not always easy to convince either—not that I excuse María Antonia, but it might prove illuminating, perhaps, if we could have a little talk. I feel like a mother-in-law to-night for the first time in my life, without, I suppose, any title to the part.
Pepe. Shall we postpone it till another evening? I must hurry home if I am to receive credit for being early. María Antonia
Isabel. Just a moment. The lecture will not be a long one.
Carmen. Has the carriage returned?
Isabel. Do not go upon our account; make yourselves thoroughly at home. Besides, it is no secret. I shall not speak less plainly because you are present, and Pepe will not listen with any less patience.
Carmen. No, we feel at liberty to go because we know you so well. Let the reproof be less public, but make it a thousand times more severe.
Isabel rings, and a Servant enters.
Isabel. Has the carriage returned for the ladies?
Servant. Yes, señora, a moment ago.
Carmen. Adios, then, Isabel and Pepe. Remember, whatever Isabel tells you will be for your own good.
Pepe. Surely. I only wish María Antonia were like her.
Carmen. Yes, I wish we were all like her. But think what it has cost her to become what she is!
Luisa. Good night, Isabel.
Isabel. Adios, my dear. Forgive us for clouding the heaven of your dreams, but this has been a foggy day.
Carmen and Luisa go out.
Pepe. What did María Antonia say? Did she tell you anything about me? How does she excuse her behavior?
Isabel. She had nothing to say; she has no particular excuse. She is uneasy, apprehensive of something which only you can explain. We have all noticed it; naturally, your wife was the first…
Pepe. You are wholly mistaken. There is absolutely not one word of truth in it.
Isabel. Nonsense, Pepe! Do not try to deceive me. It may mean much or little in your life, and doubtless you judge the importance which your wife and others should attach to it, by the light in which it appears to you; but do not pretend that it is nothing, that for some months your attitude has not changed completely. All men are bad actors. It is one of their best qualities. Your vanity plays havoc with your judgment and with your self-interest. The humblest woman in the world might fall in love with a king, and no one, as far as she was concerned, be the wiser; but woe betide the luckless queen who falls in love with an ordinary man! He would make it his business to proclaim it from the housetops, although life itself were forfeit in the process.
Pepe. If that is your opinion of men
Isabel. Seriously, Pepe, if love never sacrifices itself, how is it to be distinguished from indifference? A man has a thousand opportunities to engage in adventures without design upon his part, into which his heart does not enter at all; nevertheless, he is tormenting the woman who has confided her heart to him with all its illusions, for the rest of her days. Men are always so sure of themselves. When you embark upon an affair, you fancy you know beforehand exactly how far you will go, and you expect us to be as certain of it as yourselves. But it is never possible to answer for the heart, and it is dangerous to trifle with it, whether it be one's own, or belong to another. It is difficult to resign oneself, as I have learned by experience. Perhaps, even, resignation is not a virtue; it may be no more than temperament. There are persons who never resign themselves, who protest, who fight—and I have told you already that it is not safe to trifle with the heart; it is dangerous.
Pepe. But how shall I convince you? Who invented this story?
Isabel. Poor Pepe! Do you really believe that you can deceive me? What are your shifts and devices beside those of my Don Juan, whom I have always with me? Merely by looking in his face, I read his innermost soul,
Pepe. But all men are not the same. I begin to suspect that you are the one who has been tampering with María Antonia.
Isabel. If you are foolish enough to believe that, I shall never speak to you again. I am interested in your happiness—I wished to warn you in time. Now you may thank me for it… But never mind. Some one is coming… María Antonia!
María Antonia enters.
Pepe. María Antonia! What are you doing?
Isabel. What is the matter?
María Antonia. As I had no intention of encountering him at home, perhaps it is fortunate that I have happened upon him here. Didn't you expect me? I told you that I had an idea, and that I would not rest until I had put it into execution. Well, here they are… [Throwing a number of letters and photographs upon the table] Do you see them? Now you know what it was; there is no need for me to tell you.
Pepe. María Antonia!
Isabel. What have you done?
María Antonia. Now deny it! Say that it is a case of nerves, that I am a spoiled child! Tell me I am impossible, that I never give you any peace! What more peace do you want? You seem to have been enjoying yourself. Here, look at them! Letters, pictures… Lovely, are they not? Fascinating!
Pepe. Are you crazy? I demand that Isabel read these letters. Let her decide whether there is any warrant for this jealous scene, which you have trumped up out of some ridiculous play. Letters, are they? Yes, interesting letters, such as anybody might write—to anybody, to a friend; letters from actors, pictures of actresses—because there is more than one. They are not all from the same person.
María Antonia. So I see. And they are not all written in the same tone either.
Pepe. Do you suppose that I attach any importance to these contemptible souvenirs? I should have shown them to you before, if I had not been certain that you would put exactly this interpretation upon them when I did so.
María Antonia. If I had never seen them, either before or now, then I should never have put any interpretation upon them. Do you mean to tell me that there is nothing in those letters? I am likely to believe it. Here, take any one of them. What does it say? "As I told you yesterday…" How about this? "Of course, you understand…" Another: "Remember what we said…" Every one presupposes an interview. Why waste your time saying anything when it is as plain as day that everything has been said already? No, there is nothing in them, there is not one glimmer of sense!
Isabel. Are you perfectly sure?
Pepe. Probably that explains why I concealed them so carefully, where it was easy for you to lay your hands on them as soon as you descended to breaking open my furniture, with the help of the servants, no doubt, as further evidence of your delicacy and good taste.
María Antonia. At least I still retain womanliness enough to respect myself, and I shall not soon forget how to do so. I am quite equal to discovering what I have a right to know, in whatever way may suit my convenience.
Pepe. If you had any regard for the truth when you had discovered it. I should be delighted. Instead, all you do is to distort it, and invent lies, which have no existence outside of your own imagination.
María Antonia. Yes, I have been dreaming. None of this is true; it is all imagination, a fit of nerves. Well, I have decided to cure myself. I have come here to forget—to find peace, repose!
Pepe. Yes, and you have lost no time either in rushing back to stage the spectacle. I wonder what your father will say? What will Isabel think? What will the world think?
María Antonia. All you need worry about is what I think. I did not come here to make a scene—on the contrary, I came to avoid one, to remain in my own home in peace, as if we had never seen each other, as if nothing had ever happened between us, as if all this were a bad dream! Do you understand me?
Isabel. María Antonia!
Pepe. What are you talking about? Do you suppose that I will consent to this?
María Antonia. We shall see.
Pepe. We certainly shall see. Have you so little pride that you are willing to make us both ridiculous, not only before your parents, but publicly? When it comes to suspicion, I might have suspected myself that when one of my most intimate friends made advances to my wife, it was because her conduct justified his insolence.
María Antonia. Do you hear him? He insults me!
Isabel. Pepe, stop! What are you trying to do?
Pepe. No, I did not believe it, I could not believe it. I contrived a pretext and our friendship cooled, so that nobody might suspect. You cannot say that I seemed to notice it, or that I insulted you with suspicions, as you continually insult me.
María Antonia. This is too much! Our cases are not similar.
Pepe. I am not so sure. It is not a question of motives, it is a question of common decency.
María Antonia. Have you the impudence to insinuate… Oh, how insulting! How insulting! He dares to pretend that he might have had a suspicion of me. And you said nothing, I suppose, out of delicacy, out of fineness of feeling? Well, your delicacy is a measure of your affection, because I am not able to remain silent. I have less regard for decency than you have.
Isabel. Listen to me, María Antonia
María Antonia. This is the end! Let him go; I have finished… I shall remain here, in my own home, with my father, and with you—yes, with you, my mother. For you are my mother!
Isabel. Reflect! Consider—if not for my sake, for your mother's sake! You cannot do it!
Pepe. No, argument is useless. This was all prearranged; she has been waiting for a favorable opportunity to stage the scene.
María Antonia. Yes, it is all my fault! It is my nerves. my nerves!
Isabel. Silence! Your father… Whatever you do, keep it from him. Don't let him know… Pepe! María Antonia, I implore you… Go before he sees you, unless you can control yourselves.
Pepe. I can conceal my feelings.
María Antonia. Yes, so can I. I shall learn for once how to pretend—but it will not be for long.
Pepe. Very well. We shall take it up with your parents in the morning, when we can discuss matters more calmly.
Isabel. Yes, to-morrow, let us wait until morning… Dry your eyes, if you love me.
Gonzalo enters.
Gonzalo. Hello! Are you still here?
Pepe. Yes, we were just going. It was so late that we thought that perhaps we might see you.
Gonzalo. I stepped out to the theatre for a moment with our young friends from Paris. Well, how was the reading?
Pepe. Pshaw! What can a man tell by a reading?
María Antonia. Good-by, Isabel. Good night, papa.
Gonzalo. Have the clouds passed away?
María Antonia. Yes, all is over.
Gonzalo. Have you been crying? Tears of forgiveness are sweet
María Antonia. As tears of repentance.
Pepe. Do you leave early in the morning?
Gonzalo. No. Why do you ask?
Pepe. I may drop in to see you.—Will you tell him, Isabel?
Isabel. I don't know; I cannot think… Be sensible, Pepe… Control yourself, María Antonia. I shall come to you the very first thing in the morning.
Pepe and María Antonia go out.
Gonzalo. Another scene, eh?
Isabel. No, we spent a quiet evening. How did you like the play? Did our guests enjoy themselves?
Gonzalo. Vastly. The music is charming—most agreeable. She was delighted; they danced a tango.
Isabel. Josefina must have attracted a great deal of attention. She is beautiful, and exceedingly well-dressed.
Gonzalo. I noticed everybody staring at our box. Naturally, when a new face appears in Madrid
Isabel. Especially if the face is thoroughly worth while.
Gonzalo. Is there a light in the study? I have some letters to write before going to bed; I must be up early.
Isabel. Please don't write to-night.
Gonzalo. I shall not have time in the morning. That reminds me: I told Pepe I should not leave early; but I must.
Isabel. Why?
Gonzalo. A conference with Ramón before the meeting of the Junta.
Isabel. Oh, yes! To persuade him to favor the nomination?
Gonzalo. And other business. I must finish those letters. [He passes into the study.
Isabel. Oh! By the way…
Gonzalo. [Outside] What is it?
Isabel. Nothing. [Isabel rings and a Servant enters] Ask Lucila to come to my room; I shall retire immediately. [Gonzalo begins to sing in the study] You seem to be happy.
Gonzalo. I was not thinking. That music runs in my head.
Isabel. Oh, horrible!… Too horrible! It cannot be possible
Gonzalo. I have always had a bad ear. [He continues to sing.
Isabel. But how… how can you be happy?
Gonzalo. Are you sorry to see me happy?
Isabel. No, no… No doubt you have reason to be happy.
A pause. Isabel bursts into tears. Gonzalo suddenly appears in the doorway. Isabel endeavors to control herself, as she sees him.
Gonzalo. Isabel, I have something to tell you
Isabel. What is it? What do you wish?
Gonzalo. But what is the matter? Why are you crying? For you are crying. What is the matter?
Isabel. Nothing, oh, nothing. I did not mean to trouble you, but María Antonia is very unhappy. She is jealous. Pepe
Gonzalo. Nonsense! Utter foolishness! Who pays any attention to such things? Nerves in a spoiled child.
Isabel. Perhaps… you don't know…
Gonzalo. And at present I do not care to be told either. I have important letters to write, I have no time to waste upon trifles. Moreover, I am happy, and I do not intend to get myself into bad humor,
Isabel. You are right—if you can be happy.
Gonzalo. But what is the matter? Why must we always have these scenes? I shall finish these letters, and then you can tell me whatever you like. Good-by, for the present. [He disappears into the study.
Isabel. [At the door] Good night!
Curtain