menu_book Chapter 28

Chapter 27, Part 2 of Figaro, The Life of Beaumarchais. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Figaro, The Life of Beaumarchais by John Rivers. The Marriage of Figaro, Part 2. On Cherubon's arrival, the two women set about disguising him,

and whilst doing so discover that he has already received his commission, but that the Count, in his hurry to get rid of him, has forgotten to affix his seal to the document. The Countess is still busy dressing the page whilst Suzanne has gone out to hide his cloak,

when the Count's voice is heard outside. Count, why have you locked yourself in? Countess, in confusion. My husband, oh, heaven! To Cherubon, you, here without a cloak, with neck and arms bare, the room in disorder,

the letter he has received, his jealousy. Count, why do you not open the door? Countess, because I, I am alone. Count, alone? Then to whom are you speaking? Countess, at a loss, to you, to be sure. Cherubon, aside, after the scenes of yesterday and this morning he will kill me on the spot. He darts into the boudoir and shuts himself in. The countess quickly locks him in, removes the key, and runs to let the count in. Countess,

aside. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Count, harshly. You do not usually lock yourself in. Countess, I was, I was doing needlework. Yes, I was doing needlework with Suzanne. She has just gone to her room for a moment. Count, looking at her closely, you seem very disturbed. Countess, no wonder, no wonder at all. I assure you we were speaking of you. She has just left me, as I told you. Count, you were speaking of me? My uneasiness brought me back. As I was mounting

my horse, a note was handed to me. I do not credit it in the least, but it has upset me. COUNTESS. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SIR? WHAT NOTE? COUNT. YOU MUST ADMIT, MADAM, THAT YOU AND I ARE SURROUNDED BY VERY WICKED PEOPLE. I HAVE BEEN INFORMED THAT SOMEBODY WHOM I THOUGHT TO BE ABSENT WOULD TODAY SEEK ACCESS TO YOU. COUNTESS. WHOEVER THIS DARING PERSON MAY BE, HE WILL HAVE TO PENETRATE HERE, FOR I DO NOT INTEND TO LEAVE MY ROOM TODAY.

COUNT. EXCEPT THIS EVENING FOR SUZANNE'S WEDDING. Countess, on no account whatever, I am not well. Count, fortunately, the doctor is here. At this moment, the page knocks over a chair in the boudoir. What is that noise?

Countess, agitated. What noise? Count, somebody let a piece of furniture fall. Countess, I did not hear anything. Count, then you must be very much preoccupied.

Countess, preoccupied? Why should I be? Count, there is somebody in this room, madam. Countess, oh, who do you think would be there? Count, that is what I am asking you. I have only just come. Countess, well, Suzanne is apparently arranging some things in there. Count, you said she had gone to her room. Countess, either gone to her room or in there, I cannot tell. Count, if it is Suzanne, why are you so

perturbed? Countess, perturbed for my maid? Count, I do not know whether it is for your maid, but perturbed you certainly are. Countess, I can assure you, sir, that girl agitates and perturbs you more than she does me. Count, angrily, she perturbs me, madam, to such an extent that I desire to see her this instant. Countess, I quite believe you very often desire it, but what is the meaning of these singularly ill-founded suspicions? At this moment, Suzanne

looks in at the door. Count. Then they will be all the easier to dispel. He shouts outside of the boudoir. Suzanne, come out this instant. Suzanne stays near the alcove at the end of the room. Countess, she has hardly anything on, sir. How can you disturb women thus in their privacy? She is trying on some things I gave her on her marriage. She fled when she heard you. Count, even if she is so much afraid of showing herself, she can at least speak. He again turns towards

the door. Answer me, Suzanne. Are you in there? Suzanne hides herself in the alcove. Countess, Suzanne, I forbid you to answer. To the Count, I have never heard of such tyranny. Count, well, since she will not speak, I mean to see her dressed or undressed. Countess, placing herself before the door. Anywhere else I should be powerless to prevent it, but in my own apartment I should think. Count, I am determined this instant to see

who this mysterious Suzanne can be. To ask you for the key would, I suppose, be useless, but it will be an easy matter to break open this light door. Hi, somebody! Countess, what can you be thinking about, creating a scandal before the servants? You will make yourself the laughingstock of the castle. Count, very well, madam. In fact, I can do it myself. I will just get the necessary tools, but to make sure that everything remains as it is,

you will perhaps do me the favor of coming with me, without scandal and without noise, since you object to them so much. I take it you will not refuse such a simple request. Countess. Ah, sir, who dreams of crossing you? Count. Ah, I forgot the door leading to your woman's apartments. That also must be shut in order that you may be fully vindicated. He locks the outer door and removes the key. Countess aside. Good heavens, what fatal impudence.

Count coming back to her. Now the room is locked. I beg you to take my arm, and as for this Suzanne in the boudoir, she must have the goodness to await my return. Countess, really, sir, this is the most odious treatment. The count leads her away and locks the door. During their absence, Charabon opens the door and Suzanne takes his place in the boudoir, whereupon he jumps out of the window into the garden. On his return with his wife, the count warns her as to the consequences

of her refusal to unlock the door. She expostulates with him in vain, and he prepares to break down the partition. Countess, frightened, O, sir, I implore you to listen to me calmly. Count, then it is not Suzanne. Countess, timidly, neither at any rate is it a person whom you have any reason to fear. We were preparing a little practical joke, quite an innocent affair, truly, for this evening. And I swear to you, Count, and you swear to me? Countess, that neither

of us had the least intention of offending you. Neither of you? Then it is a man. A child, sir. Count. Well, who is it? Countess. I hardly dare name him. Count. I'll kill him. Countess. Oh, heaven. Count. Speak. Countess. Little Sherable. Count. Sherable? The insolent fellow? That explains my suspicions and the note. Countess joining her hands. Ah, sir, do not think. He refuses to be appeased. The Countess thereupon confesses everything, and implores him to moderate

his anger, and not put a wrong construction on an innocent but imprudent frolic, and warns him that he will find Cherebon half undressed. This still further infuriates her husband, and on her handing him the key, he opens the door and finds Suzanne. Suzanne, coming out, laughing. Kill him? Why don't you kill that cursed page?

Count aside. What a mess, looking at the countess, and you two are pretending to be astonished, but perhaps she is not alone. He goes inside.

Suzanne takes advantage of his momentary absence to urge her mistress to calm herself and tells her that the page has escaped. The Count returns, looking very confused, and after a short silence admits,

There is nobody there. This time I am wrong. Madam, you are an excellent comedian. Suzanne, gaily, And what about me, my lord? The Countess, seeking to master her nerves,

remains silent, her handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Count approaching, Were you really joking, Madam? Countess, slightly recovering herself. And why not, sir?

Count, what a cruel jest. What can have been your motive? Countess, gradually regaining her self-control. Does your treatment of me deserve any pity? Count, but to trifle about things touching our honor.

Countess, did I marry you to be constantly the victim of neglect and jealousy? Count, but this is carrying things too far. Suzanne, what if my lady had let you call the servants? Count, you are right. It is for me to humble myself.

Forgive me, I am. Suzanne, you must admit, my lord, that you rather deserved it. Count, why did you not come out when I called you, cruel girl? Suzanne, I was dressing myself as quickly as I could with the aid of pins, and then my lady had very good reason to forbid me. Count, instead of reminding me of my offense,

help me rather to appease her. Countess, no, sir, such an outrage is unpardonable. I shall retire into a convent. I see only too well that it is more than time. Count, could you do such a thing without regret? Suzanne, for my part, I am sure that the day of your going would be the eve of tears. Countess, even if that is so, Suzanne, I would rather regret it than incur the disgrace of forgiving him. He has offended me too much. Count, Rosine.

Countess, I am no longer the Rosine whom you persuaded so ardently. I am the unhappy Countess Alma Viva, the sad, neglected wife whom you no longer love. Suzanne, my lady. Count, for pity's sake. Countess, you had none for me. Count, but that note, it turned my brain. Countess, it was written without my consent. Count, you knew about it? Countess, it was that foolhardy Figaro. Count, He had a finger in it? Countess. It was he who gave it to Bazile. Count. He told me he got it

from a peasant. Oh, the lying blackmailer, the double-dealing rascal. You shall pay for everybody. Countess. You ask forgiveness for yourself and refuse it to others, just like a man. Ah, if ever I consented to pardon you because of this note, which caused you to offend, I should certainly stipulate for a general amnesty. Count, with all my heart, Countess, but how can I atone for such a humiliating offense? Countess, rising, it was so for both of us.

Count, oh, say rather for me alone, but I cannot yet understand how women so easily adapt their tone and bearing to the circumstances. You blushed. You wept. Your face was haggard. On my honor, it is so still. Countess, with a forced smile, I was flushed with resentment at your suspicions. But are men sensitive enough to distinguish between righteous indignation and the confusion arising from a just accusation? Count, and the page in disordered clothing, with hardly anything

on. Countess, pointing to Suzanne, there he is. Would you rather it had been the other? You do not, as a rule, object to meeting this one. Count, laughing outright, and those prayers, and feigned tears. Countess, you make me laugh, and I am scarcely in the mood for it. Count, we rather fancy ourselves in politics, but we are mere children at it. It is you, madam, whom the king ought to send as his ambassador to London.

In order to succeed so completely, your sex must have made the most exhaustive study of the art of disguising your feelings. Countess, it is you who force us to do so. Suzanne, make us prisoners on parole

and see what honorable creatures we are. Countess, let us drop the subject count. Perhaps I went too far, but my indulgence in such a serious matter ought at least to assure me of yours. Count, but you will repeat that you forgive me?

Countess, did I say so, Suzanne? Suzanne, I did not hear it, my lady. Count, oh, then do say it. Countess, do you deserve it, ungrateful one? Count, yes, by my repentance. Suzanne, Fancy suspecting that there was a man in my lady's boudoir. Count, she has punished me so severely. Suzanne

And then, not believe her when she told you it was her maid. Count Rosine, are you without mercy? Countess Oh, Suzanne, how weak I am!

What an example I am giving you! Holding out her hand to the Count No one will evermore believe in a woman's anger. Suzanne. Yes, indeed, my lady. It always comes to this in the end. The Count ardently kisses his wife's hand. Figaro now comes running in completely out of breath. Figaro, panting.

They told me my lady was unwell. I hurried here as fast as I could. I am happy to see that there is nothing the matter. Count dryly. You are very attentive. Figaro, it is my duty to be so, but since there is nothing amiss, my lord, your vassals of both sexes are waiting for permission to accompany me in leading in my bride. Count, but who will be there to look after the countess at the castle? Figaro, to look after her? She is not ill.

Count, no, but since the man who was to entertain her has not come. Figaro, which man? Count, the man referred to in the note you gave Bazile. Figaro, who said so? Count, even if I had no other means of finding out, you rascal, your face proves that you are lying.

Figaro, if that is so, it is not I who am lying, it is my face. Suzanne, it is no use, my poor Figaro. You need not waste your breath. We have confessed everything. Figaro, confess what?

You treat me as though I were another Bazile. Suzanne, that you wrote the note to make my lord believe, when he came in just now, that the little page was in the boudoir when it was I. Count, what have you to say to that?

Countess, further concealment is useless, Figaro. The jest is consummated. Figaro, trying to guess. The jest is consummated? COUNT. Yes, consummated. What have you got to say?

FIGUERO. I? Well, all I can say is that I wish as much could be said of my marriage, and if you will give the order, COUNT. So you admit writing the note? FIGUERO. Since my lady will have it so, and Suzanne will have it so, and you yourself will have it so. I suppose I also must have it so. But if I were in your place, my lord, I would not believe a single word we have been telling you. Count, always lying against the evidence, you will

end by making me lose my temper. Countess laughing, the poor fellow, why should you wish him to tell the truth for once, my lord? Meanwhile, Figaro, unobserved, tells Suzanne that the page is safe. the countess now begs her husband to give the order for the ceremony to begin. At this moment, the tippling gardener, Antonio, comes to complain that he saw a man jump out of the window onto his flower beds. Figaro tries to turn the conversation and accuses him of being

drunk, and the countess remarks that she cannot understand people drinking when they are not thirsty. Antonio replies that, to drink without thirst and to make love at all seasons are the only things which distinguish us from the other animals. The Count interrupts, threatening if he will not give him direct answers, to dismiss him. Do you think I would go, asks Antonio, if you have not enough of this, touching his forehead, to keep a good servant? I am not such

a fool as to dismiss a good master. Figaro here declares that it was he who was in Suzanne's room when he heard the count coming, and was so frightened that he jumped out of the window. Since it was you, says Antonio, this piece of paper must belong to you. But before Figaro can take the note, the count snatches it away, and, turning to his valet, says, Your fright cannot have made you forget the contents of this document, nor will it explain

how you came to have it in your pocket. In order to gain time, Figaro pretends to turn out his pockets. Unobserved, the Countess tells Suzanne that it must be Cherubon's commission, and she secretly passes the information to Figaro. Count, come my man of expedience, can you not guess? Figaro, oh yes, it is that unhappy boy's commission, which he handed to me, and I forgot to return to him. What an absent-minded fellow I am. Whatever will he do without his commission? I must run

after him. Count, why did he give it to you? Figaro, embarrassed. He wanted something done to it. Count, there is nothing the matter with it. Countess, aside to Suzanne, who passes it on to Figaro. It has no seal. Count, why do you not answer? Figaro, as a matter of fact, it lacks only a small detail, but they say it is usually done. Count? Usually done? What is usually done? Figaro, to fix your seal, but perhaps it is hardly worthwhile. Count, angrily crumpling up the

document. Oh, I see that I am fated to be left in ignorance of everything. Aside, it is this fellow Figaro who manages them all. But Zunes, I'll have my revenge on him. He walks quickly away. Figaro, disappointed, stops him. Please do not go without ordering my marriage. Marceline now enters to demand that her case against Figaro be tried that very day, and Alma Viva, well pleased, orders a chamber to be prepared for that purpose.

Meanwhile, the Countess, in the hope of overcoming her husband's secret resistance to Suzanne's marriage, suggests that the latter shall pretend to agree to the Count's wishes, and that she herself, disguised in Suzanne's clothes, shall keep the appointment. In the third act, the Count seeks to discover how much Figaro suspects of his designs upon his bride.

Count, why were you so long in answering my call? Figaro, pretending to adjust his clothes. I soiled my clothes when I jumped into the garden. I was changing. Count, does it take you an hour?

Figaro, it takes time. Count, the servants in this place take longer to dress than their masters. Figaro, that is because they have no valets to help them. Count, even now I cannot understand what made you needlessly incur the risk of accident by throwing yourself. Figaro, risk, you might say that I was swallowed alive.

Count, insidious fellow, trying to put me on the wrong scent. You well know that it is not the risk that worries me, but the motive. Figaro, on false information you came rushing in, furiously angry, overturning everything, like the Morena in flood. You were looking for a man and determined to find him, breaking doors and forcing locks. By chance I happened to be there. How was I to know but that in your rage—Count, you might have fled by the staircase. Figaro, yes, for you to catch me in

the corridor. Count, angrily, in the corridor. Aside, I am losing my temper and shall defeat my own purposes. Figaro, aside, I see what he is after and must play cautiously. Count, more calmly. That is not what I intended to say. We will leave that. I had, yes, I had some intention of taking you with me to London as a special messenger. But upon further reflection, Figaro, my Lord has changed his mind. Count, in the first place, you do not know English.

Figaro, I know God damn. Count, what do you mean? Figaro, I say, I know God damn. Count, well? Figaro, English is a splendid language. A little goes a long way. A goddamn in England will carry you anywhere.

Would you like to eat a good fat pullet? You have only to step into a tavern and make this gesture to the waiter. He imitates the motion of turning a spit. Goddamn! They bring you a haunch of salt beef without bread.

It is admirable. Do you fancy a glass of excellent burgundy? All you need do is... He imitates the noise of drawing a cork. Goddamn!

They serve you with a fine pewter mug full of beer frothing over the brim. What a comfort! Should you meet one of those pretty creatures trotting along with her eyes on the pavement, her elbows pressed well back and swaying slightly at the hips, you press your fingers gently together on your mouth.

Goddamn! She fetches you a clout like a porter, a sure proof that she understands. To be quite truthful, the English do add a few other words here and there, but it is easy to see that God damn is the basis of their language, and if my Lord has no other motive for leaving me behind in Spain...

Count aside. He wants to go to London. She has told him nothing. Figaro aside. He thinks I know nothing.

Give him the line for a while. Count. What was the countess's motive in playing me such a trick? Figaro. Faith, my lord, you know that better than I do. Count. I forestall her wishes in every way and load her with presents. Figaro. You do, but you are unfaithful to her. What does one care for the superfluous if one is deprived of the necessary. Count, at one time you used to tell me everything. Figaro, and now I hide nothing from you. Count, how much did the Countess give you

for this precious transaction? Figaro, how much did you give me for letting her out of the doctor's hands? Look here, my lord, you ought not to humiliate the man who serves you so well, for fear of turning him into a worthless valet. Count, how is it that there is always something equivocal about everything you do? Figaro, suspicious people always find reasons for doubting others.

Count, but you have a villainous reputation. Figaro, what if I am better than my reputation? Are there many noblemen who could say as much? Count, I have seen you a hundred times on the road to fortune, but never going straight. Figaro. What would you have? Down there amongst the crowd,

everybody wants to get out of it quickly. They elbow, shove, and trample upon each other. A few get on, the others are crushed. As for me, I have had enough of it. I give it up. Count. What? Making your fortune? Aside. Here is something new. Figaro. Aside. Now it is my turn. Allowed. Your Excellency has honored me with the care of his castle. It is a very fine post. Certainly, I should not be the eagerly awaited bearer of all the most interesting news of the

day, but on the other hand, happy with my wife in the heart of Andalusia. Count. What is to prevent you from bringing her with you to London? Figural. I should have to leave her so often that I should soon be sick of married life. Count. With your character and intelligence, you would soon make your way in the government offices. Figaro. Intelligence? My lord is surely poking fun at me. It is only the cringing mediocrity who gets on there. Count. All you

want is to study politics a little under my guidance. Figaro. I know politics already. count, as you know English, the basis of the language. Figaro, yes, if that is anything to boast about, to pretend to be ignorant of what you know, to know what you are ignorant of,

to comprehend what you do not understand, to pretend to be able to do the impossible, to keep the great secret that there is nothing to conceal, to deny your door to everybody in order to trim your pens, to look deep when you are only empty and hollow,

to pretend to be somebody, to subsidize spies and to pension traitors, to intercept and open other people's letters, and to justify any dirty trick by the importance of the object in view. That is the beginning and the end of politics, or I am a dead man.

Count. That is intrigue which you have defined. Figaro. Intrigue, politics, as you will. but in my opinion, they are pretty much the same thing. Anybody is welcome to them so far as I am concerned. J'aime mieux ma guia, ok, as the good king says in his song. Count aside, he wants to stay. Suzanne has betrayed me. Figaro, aside, now I am paying him back in his own coin. Count,

So you hope to win your case against Marceline? Figaro, would you make it a crime in me to reject the elderly woman when your excellency permits himself to snap up all the young ones? Count, mocking, in the seat of judgment, the magistrate forgets his own interests. He concerns himself solely with the administration of the law. Figaro, indulgent to the great and hard on the humble. Count, do you think I am joking? Figaro, who knows, my lord, time will tell.

That is always truthful. Time alone will reveal who wishes me well and who wishes me ill. Count, aside, I see that he has been told everything. He shall marry the duenna. Figaro, aside, he has been trying to trap me. What has he learnt? When Alma-Viva is alone, Suzanne comes running in, breathless. Suzanne, my lord, forgive me, my lord.

Count Crossley, what is it, miss? Suzanne, you are angry with me. Count, you want something, apparently. Suzanne, my mistress has the vapors. I ran to beg you to lend us your smelling salts.

I will bring the bottle back in a moment. Count, giving it to her. No, keep it for yourself. You will want it before long. Suzanne, just as if women in my station have vapors.

Only people of position have vapors. It is only caught in boudoirs. Count. A girl very much in love who loses her intended. Suzanne. By paying Marceline with the dowry you promised me? Count. Which I promised you? I? Suzanne, looking down. I thought I heard you say so, my lord.

Count. Yes, if you agreed to hear me yourself. Suzanne, with lowered eyes, Is it not my duty to listen to Your Excellency? Count, Cruel, girl, why did you not say so before? Suzanne, is it ever too late to tell the truth?

Count, you promised to be in the garden at dusk? Suzanne, do I not take the air there every evening? Count, you treated me so harshly this morning. Suzanne, this morning, with the page behind the chair? Count, you are quite right.

I was forgetting. But why this obstinate refusal when Bazille on my behalf? Suzanne, what necessity was there for such a person as Bazille? Count, you are always right. Nevertheless, there is a certain Figaro to whom I fear you tell everything.

Suzanne, yes, to be sure, I tell him everything, except what must be kept from him. Count, laughing, Oh, charming, and you promise me? If you break your word, let us understand each other, my dear,

and there is no meeting, there will be no dowry, and no marriage. Suzanne, curtsying, On the other hand, no marriage,

no seignorial right, my lord. Count, where did she learn to say such things? Upon my word, I can see myself raving about her. Is not your mistress waiting for the smelling salts? Suzanne laughing and handing back the file. How could I come to speak to you without a pretext? Count trying to embrace her. Delicious creature.

Suzanne escaping. There is somebody coming. Count aside. She is mine. He hurries out. Suzanne. Now we must be quick and tell my lady all about it. Here, Figaro enters. Figaro, Suzanne, Suzanne, where are you running so quickly after leaving, my lord? Suzanne, now you can go to law as much as you like. You have just won your case.

She runs off. Figaro, following her, here, wait a minute, I say. Unfortunately, Almaviva overhears their words and promises to punish them with a good, just sentence. He determines to encourage Antonio, who, he knows, despises Figaro, to refuse to let his niece, Suzanne, marry him. In the vast field of intrigue he reflects, you must learn how to cultivate

everything, even the vanity of a fool. The next scene is the trial, in which the examining magistrate, Bradeusen, with his formalism, his quibbling redundancy, and stammering imbecility, provides most of the fun. The whole scene is rather obviously dragged in to give Beaumarchais an opportunity of ridiculing his judges and satirizing the anomalies of the law and judicial procedure. The author took care that there should be no doubt in the minds of his contemporaries

as to the original of this preposterous magistrate, and all at once recognized that he was inviting them to laugh at Guzman. An examination of the first draft of the play reveals the fact that Berdoisen was originally named Guzman, but the allusion was afterwards made less conspicuous by transferring it from his surname to his Christian name. It was in this way, indeed, that Guzman's name was spelt when it figured in the fatal list of the Revolutionary Tribunal.

Judgment goes against Figaro, and he is condemned to pay Marceline 200 piastres or marry her forthwith. But before the audience ends, it is discovered, much to Almaviva's disgust, that Figaro is in reality the long-lost son of Marceline and Bartolo. Meanwhile, the Countess and Suzanne concoct a letter to the Count, making an appointment

in the garden at night for the maid, which the mistress intends to keep. Fanchette and the village girls, among whom is Cherubon in disguise, now enter, bearing flowers for the countess, and Antonio, before the whole company, unmasks the page. The countess does her best to explain the situation, but the count angrily announces his intention of punishing him for his disobedience. But at this threat, Fanchette naively exclaims, Oh, listen to me, my lord,

Whenever you came to embrace me, you always said, you know, If you will love me, my little Fanchette, I will give you whatever you like. Count. Did I say that? Fanchette.

Yes, my lord. Instead of punishing Cherable, marry him to me, and I will love you ever so much. Count. Aside. Bewitched by a page.

Countess. Well, sir, it is now your turn. This child's naive confession proves two things, that if I cause you anxiety, it is always without intending to do so, whilst you do all you can to increase and justify mine. The Count is utterly disconcerted. The trumpet now sounds for the fate to begin, and Figaro escapes with Suzanne and the

girls. Alma Viva unfastens Suzanne's letter and, in doing so, tears his finger on the pin which holds it together. On reading the letter, he sees that he is requested to return the pin as a sign that he has understood the message. Catching sight of Fanchette, he tells her to give the pin to her cousin. Whilst she is looking for Suzanne, she encounters Figaro, and on being questioned by him, unwittingly convinces him that his bride has betrayed him. The scene of the fifth act is laid

at night in the chestnut grove in the park, the place fixed for Suzanne's pretended rendezvous with the Count. The broken-hearted Figaro paces to and fro, talking to himself. Oh, woman, woman, woman, he cries. Frail and deceitful creature, there is not a created animal that can help following its instinct. Is it yours to deceive? After having obstinately refused when I pressed her in the presence of her mistress the moment she has given me her word,

in the very place where the ceremony was to take place, he laughed as he read it, the traitor. And there stood I like a noodle. No, my lord, you shall not have her. You shall not have her. Because you are a great nobleman, you think you are a great genius. Nobility, riches, rank, appointments make people so proud. What have you done to deserve all these good things?

You have given yourself the trouble of being born and nothing more. Apart from that, quite an ordinary sort of man. While I, lost in the obscure crowd's death, I have had to display more sagacity and ingenuity merely to exist than have been exercised in governing all the kingdoms of Spain during the last hundred years. Was there ever such a queer

fate as mine? Son of I know not whom, stolen by bandits, brought up among outlaws, I became disgusted with their ways and tried to lead an honest life, but was everywhere repulsed. I learned chemistry, pharmacy, surgery, yet all the influence of a great nobleman barely succeeded in putting a veterinary surgeon's lancet in my hand. Tired of teasing sick animals, I thought I would try something quite different, so I threw myself wholeheartedly into the theater. I should

have done better to tie a millstone about my neck. I wrote a comedy of the manners of the Seraglio, for, being a Spanish author, I thought I might venture without offense to make a game of Mohammed. At once an envoy from I know not where complained that my verses were an offense to the sublime port, to Persia, to India, etc., and my comedy was utterly ruined to please these Mohammedan princes, not one of whom, I dare say, knew how to read. A public discussion arose on the nature of

wealth, and as it is not necessary to possess things in order to discuss them, I wrote a treatise on money and its uses, and immediately I found myself flung into a cab, being carried off to a dungeon, where I was deprived of liberty and hope. Ah, if only I could get one of these great people into my power for a day or two! When once the disgrace had soaked into him and settled his pride, I would tell him that foolish writings are of importance only where their circulation

is hindered, that without the liberty of criticism there can be no praise worth having, that only little people fear little books. Tired of nourishing an obscure pensioner, the authorities one day turned me out into the street, and since it is necessary to eat, even when one is not in prison, I again trimmed my pen and asked what was the question of the day. I was told that during my economic retreat, there was a new system of liberty of the press

established in Madrid, and provided that I did not write about the government, religion, politics, morality, people in office, powerful corporations, the opera, or other spectacles, or anybody who had anything, I was at liberty to print what I chose. After it had passed through the hands of three or four censors, to profit by this sweet liberty, I announced a periodical publication, which, in order to infringe nobody's rights, I named the Useless Journal. Phew! At once a thousand

poor devils of the press rose against me, and I was suppressed. There was I again without employment. I was nearly desperate when somebody proposed me for a vacancy, but unfortunately I was fully qualified to fill it. They wanted an accountant. It was a dancer who got the job. The only thing left for me was to steal, so I opened a ferro bank. Then, my word, I supped in town, and thoroughly respectable gentlefolk politely offered me their houses on the understanding

that I made over to them three-quarters of the profits. I soon began to understand that to make money, dexterity is more useful than knowledge. But since everybody around me swindled whilst demanding that I should remain honest, I was soon once more reduced to beggary. I was preparing to quit the world when a beneficent deity called me to my first trade. I again took up my knapsack and my leather, and leaving the smoke to the fools who nourished themselves on it, and shame

in the roadway as too heavy a burden for a foot passenger, I went shaving from town to town, and I lived without a care in the world. A great gentleman happened to be in Seville when I arrived there. He recognized me. I was the means of winning for him the lady of his choice, and now, as a reward for my services, he tries to intercept mine. Why has all this happened to me? Why these things and not others? Who has put this upon me? Compelled to follow the path in which I was placed

without my consent, which I shall have to leave against my will, I have strewn it with such flowers as my gaiety permitted. I say, my gaiety, not knowing whether it is mine more than the rest, nor even what is this I about which I concern myself. An uninformed conglomeration of unknown parts, a helpless, unintelligent being, a frolicsome little animal, a young man eager for pleasure, with every taste for enjoyment, following every trade in order to live, master here,

valet there, as it pleased fortune, ambitious through vanity, laborious from necessity, but finding real felicity in idleness. An orator, when threatened by danger, amusing myself now with poetry, now with music, subject to mad gusts of passion. I have seen everything, done everything, worn out everything, and now disillusion, utter disillusion. Suzanne, Suzanne, Suzanne, how you torment me! I hear somebody coming. Now is the critical moment. The play ends in a mad

scene of blind man's bluff, in which the Count, for the third time, finds himself hopelessly in the wrong, and is reduced to crave his wife's forgiveness, which is graciously accorded, whilst Figaro is only too happy to have his ears soundly boxed by Suzanne for daring to doubt her. End of chapter 27, part 2