The Great Galeoto; Folly or Saintliness; Two Plays Done from the Verse of José Echegaray into English Prose by Hannah Lynch/The Great Galeoto/Prologue
Scene—Madrid of our day.
A study; to the left a balcony, on right a door; in the middle a table strewn with papers and books, and a lighted lamp upon it. Towards the right a sofa. Night.
SCENE I
Ernest. [Seated at table and preparing to write.] Nothing—impossible! It is striving with the impossible. The idea is there; my head is fevered with it; I feel it. At moments an inward light illuminates it, and I see it. I see it in its floating form, vaguely outlined, and suddenly a secret voice seems to animate it, and I hear sounds of sorrow, sonorous sighs, shouts of sardonic laughter … a whole world of passions alive and struggling.… They burst forth from me, extend around me, and the air is full of them. Then, then I say to myself: ''Tis now the moment.' I take up my pen, stare into space, listen attentively, restraining my very heart-beats, and bend over the paper.… Ah, but the irony of impotency! The outlines become blurred, the vision fades, the cries and sighs faint away … and nothingness, nothingness encircles me.… The monotony of empty space, of inert thought, of dreamy lassitude! and more than all the monotony of an idle pen and lifeless paper that lacks the life of thought! Ah! How varied are the shapes of nothingness, and how, in its dark and silent way, it mocks creatures of my stamp! So many, many forms! Canvas without colour, bits of marble without shape, confused noise of chaotic vibrations. But nothing more irritating, more insolent, meaner than this insolent pen of mine [throws it away], nothing worse than this white sheet of paper. Oh, if I cannot fill it, at least I may destroy it—vile accomplice of my ambition and my eternal humiliation. Thus, thus … smaller and still smaller. [Tears up paper. Pauses.] And then! How lucky that nobody saw me! For in truth such fury is absurd and unjust. No, I will not yield. I will think and think, until either I have conquered or am crushed. No, I will not give up. Let me see, let me see … if in that way
SCENE II
Ernest. Don Julian on the right, in evening-dress, with overcoat upon his arm.
D. Julian. [At the door, without entering.] I say, Ernest!
Ernest. Don Julian!
D. Julian. Still working? Do I disturb you?
Ernest. [Rising.] Disturb me! What a question, Don Julian! Come in, come in. And Teodora? [Don Julian enters.]
D. Julian. We have just come from the Opera. She has gone upstairs with my brother, to see something or other that Mercedes has bought, and I was on my way to my room when I saw your light, so I stopped to say good-night.
Ernest. Was there a good house?
D. Julian. As usual. All our friends inquired after you. They wondered you were not there too.
Ernest. That was kind of them.
D. Julian. Not more than you deserve. And how have you improved the shining hours of solitude and inspiration!
Ernest. Solitude, yes; inspiration, no. It shuns me though I call on it never so humbly and fondly.
D. Julian. It has failed at the rendezvous?
Ernest. And not for the first time, either. But if I have done nothing else, at least I have made a happy discovery.
D. Julian. What?
Ernest. That I am a poor devil.
D. Julian. The deuce! That's a famous discovery.
Ernest. Nothing less.
D. Julian. But why are you so out of sorts with yourself? Is the play you talked of the other day not going on?
Ernest. How can it? The going on is done by me going out of my wits.
D. Julian. How is this? Both the drama and inspiration are faithless to my poor friend.
Ernest. This is how I stand. When I first conceived the idea, I imagined it full of promise, but when I attempt to give it form, and vest it in an appropriate stage garb, the result shows something extraordinary, difficult, undramatic and impossible.
D. Julian. How is it impossible? Come, tell me. You've excited my curiosity. [Sits down on the sofa.]
Ernest. Imagine the principal personage, one who creates the drama and develops it, who gives it life and provokes the catastrophe, who, broadly, fills and possesses it, and yet who cannot make his way to the stage.
D. Julian. Is he so ugly, then? So repugnant or bad?
Ernest. Not so. Bad as you or I may be—not worse. Neither good nor bad, and truly not repugnant. I am not such a cynic—neither a misanthrope, nor one so out of love with life as to fall into such unfairness.
D. Julian. What, then, is the reason?
Ernest. The reason, Don Julian, is that there is no material room in the Scenario for this personage.
D. Julian. Holy Virgin! What do you mean? Is it by chance a mythological drama with Titans in it?
Ernest. Titans, yes, but in the modern sense of the word.
D. Julian. That is to say?
Ernest. That is to say, this person is … everybody.
D. Julian. Everybody! You are right. There is no room for everybody on the stage. It is an incontrovertible truth that has more than once been demonstrated.
Ernest. Then you agree with me?
D. Julian. Not entirely. Everybody may be condensed in a few types and characters. This is matter beyond my depth, but I have always understood that the masters have more than once accomplished it.
Ernest. Yes, but in my case it is to condemn me, not to write my drama.
D. Julian. Why?
Ernest. For many reasons it would be difficult to explain,—above all, at this late hour.
D. Julian. Never mind. Give me a few.
Ernest. Look! Each individual of this entire mass, each head of this monster of a thousand heads, of this Titan of the century, whom I call everybody, takes part in my play for a flying moment, to utter but one word, fling a single glance. Perhaps his action in the tale consists of a smile, he appears but to vanish. Listless and absent-minded, he acts without passion, without anger, without guile, often for mere distraction's sake.
D. Julian. What then?
Ernest. These light words, these fugitive glances, these indifferent smiles, all these evanescent sounds and this trivial evil, which may be called the insignificant rays of the dramatic light, condensed to one focus, to one group, result in conflagration or explosion, in strife and in victims. If I represent the whole by a few types or symbolical personages, I bestow upon each one that which is really dispersed among many, and such a result distorts my idea. I must bring types on the stage whose guile repels and is the less natural because evil in them has no object. This exposes me to a worse consequence, to the accusation of meaning to paint a cruel, corrupted, and debased society, when my sole pretention is to prove that not even the most insignificant actions are in themselves insignificant or lost for good or evil. For, concentrated by the mysterious influences of modern life, they may reach to immense effects.
D. Julian. Say no more, my friend. All this is metaphysics. A glimmer of light, perhaps, but through an infinitude of cloud. However, you understand these things better than I do. Letters of exchange, shares, stock, and discount, now—that's another matter.
Ernest. No, no; you've common sense, and that's the chief thing.
D. Julian. You flatter me, Ernest.
Ernest. But you follow me?
D. Julian. Not in the least. There ought to be a way out of the difficulty.
Ernest. If that were all!
D. Julian. What! More?
Ernest. Tell me what is the great dramatic spring?
D. Julian. My dear fellow, I don't exactly know what you mean by a dramatic spring. All I can tell you is that I have not the slightest interest in plays where love does not preponderate—above all unfortunate love, for I have enough of happy love at home.
Ernest. Good, very good! Then in my play there can be little or no love.
D. Julian. So much the worse. Though I know nothing of your play, I suspect it will interest nobody.
Ernest. So I have been telling you. Nevertheless, it is possible to put in a little love,—and jealousy too.
D. Julian. Ah, then, with an interesting intrigue skilfully developed, and some effective situations
Ernest. No, nothing of the sort. It will be all simple, ordinary, almost vulgar … so that the drama will not have any external action. The drama evolves within the personages: it advances slowly: to-day takes hold of a thought, to-morrow of a heart-beat, little by little, undermines the will.
D. Julian. But who understands all this? How are these interior ravages manifested? Who recounts them to the audience? In what way are they evident? Must we spend a whole evening hunting for a glance, a sigh, a gesture, a single word? My dear boy, this is not amusement. To cast us into such depths is to hurl us upon philosophy.
Ernest. You but echo my own thought.
D. Julian. I have no wish to discourage you. You best know what you are about—there. Though the play seems rather colourless, heavy, uninteresting, perhaps if the dénoûment is sensational—and the explosion—eh?
Ernest. Sensation! Explosion! Hardly, and that only just upon the fall of the curtain.
D. Julian. Which means that the play begins when the curtain falls?
Ernest. I am inclined to admit it. But I will endeavour to give it a little warmth.
D. Julian. My dear lad, what you have to do is to write the second play, the one that begins where the first ends. For the other, according to your description, would be difficult to write, and is not worth the trouble.
Ernest. 'Tis the conclusion I have come to myself.
D. Julian. Then we agree, thanks to your skill and logic. And what is the name?
Ernest. That's another difficulty. I can find none.
D. Julian. What do you say? No name either?
Ernest. No, unless, as Don Hermogenes[1] says, we could put it into Greek for greater clarity.
D. Julian. Of a surety, Ernest, you were dozing when I came in. You have been dreaming nonsense.
Ernest. Dreaming! yes. Nonsense! perhaps. I talk both dreams and nonsense. But you are sensible and always right.
D. Julian. In this case it does not require much penetration. A drama in which the chief personage cannot appear; in which there is hardly any love; in which nothing happens but what happens every day; that begins with the fall of the curtain upon the last act, and which has no name. I don't know how it is to be written, still less how it is to be acted, how it is to find an audience, nor how it can be called a drama.
Ernest. Nevertheless, it is a drama, if I could only give it proper form, and that I can't do.
D. Julian. Do you wish to follow my advice?
Ernest. Can you doubt it?—you, my friend, my benefactor, my second father! Don Julian!
D. Julian. Come, come, Ernest, don't let us drop into a sentimental drama on our own account instead of yours, which we have declared impossible. I asked you if you would take my advice.
Ernest. And I said yes.
D. Julian. Then leave aside your plays. Go to bed, rest yourself, and come out shooting with me to-morrow. Kill a few partridges, and that will be an excuse for your not killing one or two characters, and not exposing yourself to the same fate at the hands of the public. After all, you may thank me for it.
Ernest. I'll do no such thing. I mean to write that play.
D. Julian. But, my poor fellow, you've conceived it in mortal sin.
Ernest. I don't know, but it is conceived. I feel it stir in my brain. It clamours for life, and I must give it to the world.
D. Julian. Can't you find another plot?
Ernest. But this idea?
D. Julian. Send it to the devil.
Ernest. Ah, Don Julian, you believe that an idea which has gripped the mind can be effaced and destroyed at our pleasure. I wanted to think out another play, but this accursed idea won't give it room, until it itself has seen the light.
D. Julian. God grant you a happy delivery.
Ernest. That's the question, as Hamlet says.
D. Julian. Couldn't you cast it into the literary foundling hospital of anonymity? [In a low voice with an air of comical mystery.]
Ernest. Don Julian, I am a man of conscience. Good or bad, my children are legitimate. They bear my name.
D. Julian. [Preparing to go.] I have nothing more to say. What must be done will be done.
Ernest. I wish it were so. Unfortunately, it is not done. But no matter; if I don't do it, somebody else will.
D. Julian. Then to work, and good luck, and may nobody rob you of your laurels.
SCENE III
Ernest, Don Julian, and Teodora.
Teodora. [Outside.] Julian, Julian!
D. Julian. It's Teodora.
Teodora. Are you there, Julian?
D. Julian. [Going to the door.] Yes, I'm here. Come in.
Teodora. [Entering.] Good-evening, Ernest.
Ernest. Good-evening, Teodora. Was the singing good?
Teodora. As usual; and have you been working much?
Ernest. As usual; nothing.
Teodora. Then you'd have done better to come with us. They all asked after you.
Ernest. It seems that everybody is interested in me.
D. Julian. I should think so, since everybody is to be the principal personage of your play. You may imagine if they are anxious to be on good terms with you.
Teodora. A play?
D. Julian. Hush! 'Tis a mystery. Ask no questions. Neither title, nor characters, nor action, nor catastrophe-the sublime! Good-night, Ernest. Come, Teodora.
Ernest. Adieu, Don Julian.
Teodora. Till to-morrow.
Ernest. Good-night.
Teodora. [To Don Julian.] How preoccupied Mercedes was!
D. Julian. And Severo was in a rage.
Teodora. Why, I wonder.
D. Julian. How do I know? On the other hand, Pepito chattered enough for both.
Teodora. He always does, and nobody escapes his tongue.
D. Julian. He's a character for Ernest's play. [Exeunt Teodora, and Don Julian by right.]
SCENE IV
Ernest. Let Don Julian say what he will, I won't abandon the undertaking. That would be signal cowardice. Never retreat—always forward. [Rises and begins to walk about in an agitated way. Then approaches the balcony.] Protect me, night. In thy blackness, rather than in the azure clearness of day, are outlined the luminous shapes of inspiration. Lift your roofs, you thousand houses of this great town, as well for a poet in dire necessity as for the devil on two sticks who so wantonly exposed you. Let me see the men and women enter your drawing-rooms and boudoirs in search of the night's rest after fevered pleasures abroad. Let my acute hearing catch the stray words of all those who inquired for me of Don Julian and Teodora. As the scattered rays of light, when gathered to a focus by diaphanous crystal, strike flame, and darkness is forged by the crossed bars of shadow; as mountains are made from grains of earth, and seas from drops of water: so will I use your wasted words, your vague smiles, your eager glances, and build my play of all those thousand trivialities dispersed in cafés, at reunions, theatres, and spectacles, and that float now in the air. Let the modest crystal of my intelligence be the lens which will concentrate light and shadow, from which will spring the dramatic conflagration and the tragic explosion of the catastrophe. Already my play takes shape. It has even a title now, for there, under the lamp-shade, I see the immortal work of the immortal Florentine. It offers me in Italian what in good Spanish it would be risky and futile audacity either to write on paper or pronounce on the stage. Francesca and Paolo, assist me with the story of your loves! [Sits down and prepares to write.] The play … the play begins.… First page—there, 'tis no longer white. It has a name. [Writing.] The Great Galeoto. [Writes feverishly.]
End of Prologue
- ↑ A pedant in Moratin's Comedia Nueva, who quotes Greek incessantly to make himself better understood.—Tran.