DON JUAN. — Do you jest?
Well, who will recognize me?
LEPORELLO. — Why, the first
Watchman you meet, or gypsy or drunk fiddler,
Or your own kind — some saucy cavalier,
With flowing cloak and sword under his arm.
DON JUAN. What matter, if I’m recognized! Provided
I meet not with the king himself, I fear
No other soul in all Madrid beside.
LEPORELLO. To-morrow it will reach the king’s own ear
That Don Juan is in Madrid again,
Without authority returned from exile.
And then what will he do?
DON JUAN. — He’ll send me back.
Dear me, they won’t cut off my head, you know.
No crime have I committed ‘gainst the State!
He sent me off for very love of me,
In order that the murdered man’s relations
Might cease to worry me.
LEPORELLO. — Just so, just so!
If only you had stayed there quietly!
DON JUAN. Your humble servant thanks you for the
pleasure!
I all but died of boredom there. What people!
And what a land! The sky?... A pall of smoke;
The women? Why, I never would exchange —
Mark what I say, my foolish Leporello —
The humblest peasant-girl in Andalusia
For all their leading beauties — that I wouldn’t.
At first, indeed, these women took my fancy
With their blue eyes and that white skin of theirs,
Their modesty — but most, their novelty;
But, thank the Lord, I soon had sized them up —
Saw that ‘twas sin to deal with them at all,
There isn’t any life in them — they’re all
But waxen dolls... whereas our girls!... But
hist!
We seem to know this place; you recognize it?
LEPORELLO. HOW could I fail to? I remember well
The convent of St. Anthony. You used
To come on visits here, and I would hold
The horses in this grove; a cursèd duty,
I do confess! More pleasantly you spent
Your time here than did I, forsooth.
DON JUAN. (Pensively.) — Poor Inez!
She is no more! And how I did adore her!
LEPORELLO. Inez — the black-eyed girl?... Oh, I re-
member!
For three long months you courted her in vain;
‘Twas only through the devil’s help you won.
DON JUAN. ‘Twas in July... at night. I used to find
Strange pleasure in her melancholy gaze
And in her ashen lips. A curious thing!
But you, it seems, did not consider her
A beauty. And, in fact, there wasn’t much
Of real beauty in her. But her eyes,
Her eyes alone, her glance too... such a glance
I never since have met. And then her voice
Was soft and weak, as though she were not well...
Her husband was a rough and heartless black-
guard —
I realized too late... Alas, poor Inez!...
LEPORELLO. What of it? On her heels came others.
DON JUAN. — True!
LEPORELLO. And if we live there will be others still.
DON JUAN. E’en so.
LEPORELLO. — And now what lady in Madrid
Shall we be seeking out?
DON JUAN. — Why, whom but Laura!
I’m off to show myself to her.
LEPORELLO. — Now that’s
The way to talk.
DON JUAN. — Just watch me walk straight in;
And if there’s someone with her, I’ll suggest
His exit through the window.
LEPORELLO. — Why, of course!
Well, now we have recovered our good spirits.
It’s not for long dead women can disturb us.
But who is this that comes our way? {Enter MONK.)
MONK. — She will
Be here this instant. Who are you? The servants
Of Dona Anna?
LEPORELLO. We are our own masters,
Out for a stroll.
DON JUAN. — But whom are you awaiting?
MONK. Good Dona Anna will be here to visit
Her husband’s tomb, and shortly.
DON JUAN. — Dona Anna
De Solva? What? The wife of the commander
Slain by... the name I can’t recall...?
MONK. — The vile,
The dissolute, the godless Don Juan.
LEPORELLO. Oho! Well, well! The fame of Don Juan
Has even reached the peaceful convent now;
His eulogies are sung by anchorites.
MONK. Perhaps you know him?
LEPORELLO. — We? No, God forbid.
And where can he be now?
MONK. — He isn’t here.
He’s far away in exile.
LEPORELLO. — Thank the Lord!
The farther off the better. Would that all
Such rascals in a single sack were sewn
And thrown into the sea.
DON JUAN. — What stuff and nonsense
Is this?
LEPORELLO. Be silent: ‘twas on purpose I...
DON JUAN. SO here it was they buried the commander?
MONK.’ Twas here. And here his widow did erect
A monument to him and every day
She comes to weep, and pray that God may grant
His soul salvation.
DON JUAN. — What a curious widow!
And is the lady pretty?
MONK. — Anchorites,
Like us, should not be moved by woman’s beauty;
But lying is a sin: a saint himself
Must yet admit her wondrous loveliness.
DON JUAN. The dead man had good reason to be jealous;
He kept this Dona Anna bolted up:
Not one of us e’er caught a glimpse of her.
I’d like to have a talk with her sometime.
MONK. Oh, Dona Anna never talks with men.
DON JUAN. She talks with you, good father, doesn’t she?
MONK. Oh, that’s a different matter — I’m a monk.
But there she is. — (Enter DONA ANNA.)
DONA ANNA. Come, open, holy father.
MONK. I come, Senora; I was waiting for you.
(DONA ANNA follows the MONK.)
LEPORELLO. Well, what’s she like?
DON JUAN. — There’s nothing visible
Of her beneath her somber widow’s veil;
I just but glimpsed a trim and narrow heel.
LEPORELLO. That’s quite enough for you. Imagination
Will in a jiffy sketch you out the rest;
Your fancy’s quicker than the painter’s brush.
The starting-point is all the same to you —
The forehead, or the foot.
DON JUAN. — O Leporello,
I’ll get to know her.
LEPORELLO. (to himself.) There you have the man!
That’s the last straw! The fellow, having killed
The husband, now would like to feast his eyes
Upon the widow’s tears! The wretch!
DON JUAN. — But see
The dusk is on us. Ere the moon arise
Above us and transform this inky black
Into a glowing twilight, let us creep
Into Madrid.
LEPORELLO. A Spanish nobleman,
Like any thief, awaits the night — and fears
The moon. O Heavens! What a cursèd life!
Ah, how much longer must I bear with him?
My strength, in truth, is nearly at an end!
SCENE II
Room. Supper at LAURA’S.
FIRST GUEST. I swear to you, dear Laura, never yet
Was such perfection
in your acting shown!
How thoroughly you understood your rôle!
SECOND GUEST. And with what power its meaning you
unfolded!
THIRD GUEST. And with what art!
LAURA. — To-day, indeed, success
Did crown my every movement, every word:
I yielded freely to my inspiration;
The words flowed forth, as though it was the heart,
And not the timid memory, gave them birth.
FIRST GUEST. ‘Tis true; and even now your eyes are shin-
ing,
Your cheeks are burning — no, your ecstasy
Has not yet faded. Laura, let it not
Grow cold before it bear some fruit: pray, Laura,
Do sing us something!
LAURA. — Give me my guitar. (Sings.)
ALL. Ah, brava! bravai Wonderful! Superb!
FIRST GUEST. Our thanks, enchantress! You have cast a
spell
Upon our hearts. Among the joys of life,
To love alone does music yield the prize;
But love itself is melody.... Behold:
Carlos himself, your surly guest, is touched!
SECOND GUEST. What harmonies! And how much soul
therein!
Who wrote the words, dear Laura?
LAURA. — Don Juan.
DON CARLOS. What? Don Juan?
LAURA. — Some time or other he,
My loyal friend — and fickle lover — wrote them.
DON CARLOS. Your Don Juan’s an atheist and a rascal;
While you, you’re but a fool.
LAURA. — Have you gone mad?
Grandee of Spain though you may be, I’ll bid
DON CARLOS. (Gets up.) Well, call them then.
FIRST GUEST. — No, Laura, do not do it;
Don Carlos, don’t be angered. She forgot...
LAURA. Forgot? That Don Juan in single combat
Quite honorably killed his brother? True,
‘Twere better he had killed Don Carlos.
DON CARLOS. — I
Was stupid to get angry.
LAURA. — You admit
That you were stupid — let us make our peace.
DON CARLOS. Forgive me, Laura; it was all my fault.
But still you know I cannot hear that name
With equanimity.
LAURA. — Am I to blame
If that name’s on my tongue at every moment?
GUEST. Come, Laura, as a sign your anger’s passed,
Sing once again.
LAURA. — I’ll sing a good-night song.
‘Tis time — for night has come. What shall I sing?
Ah! listen. (Sings.)
ALL. — Charming! Matchless! How sublime!
LAURA. Good night, my friends.
GUESTS. — Good night and thanks,
sweet Laura.
(They go out. LAURA stops DON CARLOS.)
422 — dramatic writings
LAURA. You utter madman, you! Remain with me.
You took my fancy; you reminded me
Of Don Juan, the way you rated me
And set your teeth and ground them.
DON CARLOS. — Lucky mam
You loved him then? (LAURA nods.) You loved him
deeply?
LAURA. Deeply.
DON CARLOS. And do you love him now?
LAURA. — This very minute?
Why, no. I cannot love two men at once.
It’s you I love at present.
DON CARLOS. — Tell me, Laura,
How old are you?
LAURA. — I am eighteen, my friend.
DON CARLOS. O Laura, you are young... and will be
young
For five or six years more. Around you men
Will throng for six years more and shower you
With flattery, with gifts and with caresses,
Divert you with nocturnal serenades,
And kill each other for you at the cross-roads
By night. But when your prime has passed, and
when
Your eyes are sunken, and their puckered lids
Grow dark, and in your tresses gray hairs glint,
And men begin to call you “an old woman,”
Well, what will you say then?
LAURA. — Ah, then... But why
Be thinking now of that? What conversation!
Or are you always thinking things like that?
Come out upon the balcony. How calm
The sky! The air is still and warm; the night
Is odorous with lemon and with laurel;
The bright moon’s shining in the dense, dark blue —
The watchmen’s drawn-out cry resounds: “All’s
well!”...
But far away now in the north — in Paris —
Perhaps the sky is overcast with clouds,
A cold rain’s falling and the wind is blowing.
But what is that to us? Now listen, Carlos:
I order you to smile at me. — That’s right.
DON CARLOS. You fascinating demon! (Knoc at door.)
DON JUAN. — Laura, ho!
LAURA. Who’s there? Whose voice is that?
DON JUAN. — Unlock the door...
LAURA. Lord! Can it be?
(Opens the door, enter DON JUAN.)
DON JUAN. — Good evening!
LAURA. — Don Juan!...
(LAURA throws herself on his neck.)
DON CARLOS. What! Don Juan!...
DON JUAN. — Laura, my darling girl!...
(Kisses her.)
Whom have you here, my Laura?
DON CARLOS. — It is I —
Don Carlos.
DON JUAN. What an unexpected meeting!
To-morrow I am at your service...
DON CARLOS. — No!
Not then — at once.
LAURA — Don Carlos, stop, I say!
You’re in my house, not in the public street —
I beg you, go away.
DON CARLOS. (Not listening to her.) I’m waiting. Well?
Your sword is at your side.
DON JUAN. — Oh, if you have
No patience, very well.... — (They fight.)
LAURA. — Oh! oh! Juan!...
DON JUAN. Get up, my Laura, it’s all over.
LAURA. — What
Lies there? He’s killed? How lovely! In my room!
And what shall I do now, you scapegrace, devil?
And how shall I dispose of him?
DON JUAN. — Perhaps
He’s still alive. (Examines the body.)
LAURA. — Alive, forsooth! Why look,
You wretched man! You pierced him through the
heart —— ,
No fear, you didn’t miss! No blood is flowing
From the three-cornered wound, nor is he breathing.
So what do you say now?
DON JUAN. — It can’t be helped.
He asked for it himself.
LAURA. — Ah, Don Juan,
It’s most annoying, really. Your old tricks!...
And yet you’re ne’er to blame! Whence come you
now?
How long have you been here?
DON JUAN. — I just arrived
And on the quiet — for I’ve not been pardoned.
LAURA. And instantly you recollected Laura?
So far so good. But stop! I don’t believe you.
You happened to be passing through the street,
And saw my house.
DON JUAN. — NO, Laura, you can ask
My servant Leporello. I am lodging
Outside the city in a wretched tavern.
For Laura’s sake I’m visiting Madrid. (Kisses her.)
LAURA. You are my darling!... Stop... not right
before
The dead man! Oh, what shall we do with him?
DON JUAN. Just leave him here — before the break of day,
I’ll take him out enfolded in my cloak,
And place him on the cross-roads.
LAURA. — Only look
That no one sees you. ‘Twas a stroke of luck
Your visit was not timed a minute sooner!
Your friends were supping here with me. They just
Had left. Suppose that you had found them here!
DON JUAN. HOW long, my Laura, have you loved him?
LAURA. — Whom?
You must be raving.
DON JUAN. — Laura, come, confess
How many times you’ve been unfaithful since
My absence?
LAURA. — What about yourself, you scapegrace?
DON JUAN. Come, tell me... No, we’ll talk about it
later!...
SCENE III
The Commander’s Monument
DON JUAN. All’s for the best: for, having slain Don
Carlos
Without intent, in humble hermit’s guise
I’ve taken refuge here — and every day
I see my charming widow, who has noticed
Me too, I think. Until the present we
Have stood on formal terms with one another;
To-day, however, I shall break the ice;
‘Tis time! But how to start? “May I presume?”...
Or no: “Senora”... Bah! whatever comes
Into my head, I’ll say spontaneously
Like one whose serenade is improvised.
It’s time she came. Without her, I believe
The poor commander has a tedious time.
They’ve made him look a very giant here!
What mighty shoulders! What a Hercules!...
Whereas the man himself was small and puny;
If he were here and, standing on tip-toe,
Stretched out his arm, he could not reach his nose.
When hard by the Escurial we met,
He ran upon my sword-point and expired,
Just like a dragon-fly upon a pin.
But he was proud and fearless — and he had
A rugged spirit... there she is (Enter DONA ANNA.)
DONA ANNA. — Again
He’s here. O father, I’ve distracted you
From holy meditations. Pardon me.
DON JUAN. ‘Tis I who must beseech your pardon, rather,
Senora; for perhaps I am preventing
Your grief from flowing freely as it might.
THE STONE GUEST
DONA ANNA. NO, father, for my sorrow is within me.
E’en in your presence may my prayers ascend
Humbly to Heaven; and I beg you join
Your voice with mine.
DON JUAN. — I pray with Dona Anna!
A lot so happy I do not deserve!
These vicious lips of mine will never dare
Repeat your holy supplications; I
But from afar with reverence do look