The Romantic Young Lady by Gregorio Martínez Sierra

1 01 - Act 1 57:26

Translated by Harley Grenville Barker. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org.

Characters.

Doña Barbarita, read by Wendy Katz-Hiller. Maria Pepa, read by Sonia. Irene, read by Joanna Michael Hoyt. Amalia, read by Mira Williams. The Apparition, read by Todd. Emilio, read by Greg Giordano. Mario, read by Alan Mapstone. Pepe, read by Jim Hedrick. Don Nguyen, read by Adrian Stevens. Guilamo, read by Jake Milizia. Stage Directions, read by T.R. Love.

The action passes, at the present time, more or less, and in Madrid, between one August evening and the next, at Doña Barbarita's house, and at the abode of the apparition.

Act I. The scene is in a room in Doña Barbarita's house. It is a study furnished modestly, but in good taste. There is a table with books, papers, periodicals, A large bookcase full of books, an easy chair, a chaise, lounge, or a large sofa placed against the table. Other chairs, of course, some prints and engravings on the walls, of small value but well chosen. There are doors at the back and on the right. The one on the right leads to a bedroom. The one at the back communicates with the rest of the house. At the left is a large window. It must be obvious that it is not a very great height from the street. An electric light fixture hangs from the ceiling. Another, movable with a blue shade, is on the table, in such a way that its light is useful to anyone seated or lying on the sofa, and that it can be turned out from there without moving.

At the rising of the curtain, Pepe, who is about twenty-one, in evening dress but without having yet put on his dinner coat, is standing before the mirror over the mantelpiece, trying to tie his tie, but not succeeding very well. Emilio, his brother, eight or nine years older, at the table is writing a letter and showing signs of impatience because the pen and ink are not working as well as he would like, and hunting among the papers on the table to find a sheet which he can substitute for the one he has just blotted. Oh, this tie! Rosario! Rosario, from the bedroom. I'm coming! What a pen! What ink? Another blot. That sheet's done for. Where on earth is the writing paper? Rosario! I'm coming, I'm coming!

Rosario comes in. She is a very pretty girl of twenty-three. What is the matter? Tie my tie for me. Where is the writing paper? Rosario affectionately. Come here, clumsy. What useless creatures men are. She ties his tie. And why, may I ask, is the baby of the family to be attended to first? Because he howled first. Don't mix up those papers, or Mario will be angry. Finishing the tie to Pepe. There. And suppose Mario is... Does Mario own the whole house? Not the house, but the table. And may I ask why that dearly beloved brother of ours is to keep to himself the only place in the house where one can write? Because he's the only one in the house who does any writing. If anyone else had a claim, what about mine, to the table and the room, too?

And am I not writing, or trying to? Heaven help me! Writing a love letter is not writing. She searches the table quickly and methodically. Here you are. Paper, envelope, blotting paper, stamp. Now shall I dictate the letter as well? Uh, no, thank you. That's something. The clothesbrush? I'll lend you one. She goes into the bedroom and comes out almost immediately with a clothesbrush in her hand. One never can find anything in this house. Because you never look in the right place. And haven't you a bedroom to dress in? Pepe looking at himself in the glass. I can't see myself in the bedroom. You're very smart tonight. Where are you off to? The theater. Bent on conquest? Yes, indeed. Of the leading lady?

Oh, someone far more important. Of the leading lady's backer. Really? He's an American and a millionaire, and he's looking for a private secretary, and I'm to be introduced to him tonight. If he takes a fancy to me, isn't my fortune made? Off to America! I shall work for him like a nigger, and in a year or two's time, when he can't do without me, he'll give me a share of his business. Say a prayer for me, my child. My foot's on the ladder, and when I'm rich, think of all the chocolates I'll buy you. Could you stop talking, just for one minute? I've made three mistakes already. Rosario, as she leans over the writing table. Passion spelt with one S again. Give her my love. Oh, but I wish you'd get married.

Oh, not more than she does. Not more than you do, I hope. Well, you know, personally, now that we've waited five years. Yes. And why have you waited five years? She has to wait till you're rich enough to get married. If I'll kindly wait till you're rich, I shall have chocolates. Doa Barbarita and Mario have come in. She is a very old lady and leans on her grandson's arm. He is twenty-seven or so. No, my dear, not till then. Not all that time. Wait till I'm editor of my paper, till I've had a few plays produced. Then you shall see. As you go along the street, you'll hear them whispering. That's Mario Castellanos's sister, Castellanos the dramatist. While he is talking, he has crossed the room and helped his grandmother to sit down on the sofa near the window.

It is quite like a fairy tale. Once on a time, there were three brothers, famous, rich, and happy. And they had a sister. Well, what about her? You? How do you mean? What about you? What happens to me when you're all such thrilling successes? I suppose you'll marry. Won't you? Suppose I don't. But why wouldn't you? You're very pretty. And clever enough to be anybody's wife. Thank you. She curtsies ironically to all three. How old are you now, Rosario? Can't you remember? Twenty-three last birthday. Well, it is time you were looking around. Rosario very much offended. What do you mean? Don't worry, my child. I'll find you a husband. Thanks. I'm not sure I'd trust to your taste. Why not? Well, if I'm to judge by the cigarette girl I saw you out walking with yesterday...

Oh, did you? I must be off, or I shall miss my millionaire. Good night, Grandmama. He kisses her hand. You were married three times, weren't you? Tell this silly girl how to catch a husband before she's past praying for. As he goes, he tries to kiss Rosario. Good night, ugly duckling. Run away, idiot. Don't come walking in at half-past nothing o'clock now, for I'm awake and I hear you. Pepe at the door. But my dear Grandmama, if I'm going to conquer America, you must expect me to be late home. He goes off gaily, and outside is heard singing some popular song. That young gentleman is riding for a fall. Good night, Grandmama. Kisses her hand. Are you off, too? To post my letter. And then to find consolation till the answer comes.

That's what you call being in love. My good child, what do you know about being in love? I shall be a model husband. Are you taking lessons in the art? Well, anything to forget one's troubles, you know. Good night. He goes out. Embracing Rosario as he passes her, while she shakes her fist at him affectionately, Rosario then picks up the torn papers which have been left on the table. She then sets all the table in order, picks up the clothes brush which Pepe has left on the chair, and goes into the bedroom and comes back again. Doña Barbarita remains seated on the sofa. Mario walks about idly, looks out of the window at the street, takes another turn, and sits down in a chair. Aren't you off too?

I wish I weren't. But what would my respected editor say if he had to go to press without my column of spiteful gossip about the great ones of the earth? Wait till I'm one of them. Patience! Patience!

Good night, my precious. Ten years hence, on such a night as this, the poor wretch doing the comic chippings in my stead will be racking his brains to think, What can I say this time about Mario Constellanos? Which is precisely my trouble at the moment over my favorite dramatist. Good night, grandmother. He kisses her hand and goes out. Rosario, looking out of the window. What a divine night! How the jasmine smells!

Good luck! Whom are you waving to? Mario. To the unseen Mario. What? Wait, I'll see. As she goes to the table, she says to Doña Barbarita, His fountain pen. Here. She leans over out of the window to hand it to Mario, who is down below. Take care, you'll fall. I shouldn't kill myself, tumbling six feet into the street. She waves to the disappearing Mario. Then sits on the window seat with a sigh. Why are you sighing? Envy, I suppose. Off he goes, so happily. To his work? Well, one to his work, another to amuse himself, another to look for his lucky chance. But the thing is that they go, and here we stay. There is a short pause, then quickly. Have you ever noticed, Grandmama? What? How quickly men walk off once they reach the door, while we stand buttoning our gloves and look up and down the street and hesitate, as if we feared someone might stop us.

It's as if they went off by right, but we were stealing out of jail. She looks out into the street and takes a deep breath of the perfumed air. Oh, what a wonderful night. She leaves the window and takes her grandmother's hand, sitting close by her. Grandmother, suppose I should say to you, I'm a free woman. I can make a will, run a business, commit suicide, go off to America, go on the stage. Therefore, I want a latchkey, just as my brothers have, and I want to come and go as I like, just as they do, by day or night, without questions asked. What would you think of that? I should think it quite a natural caprice. Rosario, a little astonished. Would you give it to me? Why not? The cook's key will be hanging behind the back door.

Go and get it, and go out by all means if you want to. Rosario jumps up. Now, I wonder where you'll go. Rosario, perplexed. Brought to a standstill. I know. That's just it. Where can a girl go alone at this time of night without fear of being thought something she isn't? Fear. That's a woman's curse. Perhaps it's her blessing. Smiling. If we feared as little as men do what the world would think of us, we should soon be as shameless as they. And that would be a pity. For if we lost our sense of decency, where else in the world would you find it?" Rosario sitting down by her grandmother again. Do you believe, Grandmama, that all men who go off at night so gaily behave wickedly? No doubt some of them do, and some try to.

But most of them only want to pretend that they are being wicked. And I expect that oftenest they all get cheated out of their money and their wickedness both, and that's why they come back so depressed. Stroking her hair. I shouldn't envy them, my dear, if I were you. Rosario, with a great deal of feeling, which, little by little, changes into a pretty anger. Oh, no, not their wickedness, or even their fun, as they call it. But their courage and their confidence. They're so ready to fight, and so sure that they'll win. I mean, to get on, you must get married. To some other bold gentleman who has got on, who can afford to buy me and keep me. And when we're all rich, what a good time we'll give you.

Suppose I don't want to be given a good time. Imitating Mario. That's Mario Castellanos, sister. With much dignity. I don't want to be anyone's sister, or anyone's wife. I don't want to reflect someone else's fame. I want to hear them say, That's Rosario Castellanos. Why can't I be myself? Are you laughing at me? I seem to remember that while the sun is masculine, the moon that reflects him is a lady. Yes, in Spanish, but in German the sun's a woman and the moon's a man, and in English, which is a most commonsensical language, sun is sun and moon is moon, and each is itself, and no one thinks of being masculine or feminine until, well, until that particular question arises. Sits down yet again by her grandmother.

You're laughing again. You don't understand. You belonged to the past. You all liked being slaves. No, my dear. Only masters like having slaves. But while you want to be free of the tyranny, we were satisfied by being revenged on the tyrants now and then. How? We just made their lives unbearable. She takes from her neck a sort of triple locket which she opens, smiling tenderly. My three masters—Ernesto, my first, Enrique, my second, and your grandfather, my dear, the third. How they loved me, and how I loved them! Rosario, somewhat scandalized. All three? Yes, each in turn. And how I plagued them! Did you? Doña Barbarita, very pleased with her conjugal recollections. I was jealous of every woman my first husband looked in the face, and he was a portrait painter, do you remember?

My second husband suffered tortures from his own jealousy of your grandfather. That was premature, but prophetic. For your dear grandfather was our neighbor in those days, and he used to stand and look at me from his balcony. And then he, in his turn, tortured himself, poor man, with jealousy of my second husband, who was dead by that time, to be sure. But that only seemed to make it worse. When I think of the times I've walked into my first husband's studio, shaking all over, to see what sort of woman he was painting this time, and how much of her, and of the times when I'd glance up at your grandfather on his balcony and let my dear second husband imagine—God forgive me—that I was smiling at him.

And then when your grandfather would catch me looking at my poor second husband's portrait—my first husband had painted it while they were both alive—and if I wanted to drive him to fury, I'd only to give one sigh. Well, now they're in heaven, all three, and I'm almost sorry I worried them so." And she kisses the three pictures. Oh, Grandmother! But never forget that I was an obedient wife, gentle and loving, an angel of the fireside, an angel in crinoline. No doubt it's far nobler to live your own life. Isn't that what you call it? But I fear you'll never find it so amusing. Maria Peppa A maid, a family servant, nearly as old as doa Barbarita herself, appears. She remains planted in the doorway with folded arms and doesn't speak.

Doa Barbarita, rather ill-humoredly, she knows the footsteps so well. And what do you want? It's past eleven. What of it? You've to put in your curl-papers and say your prayers. A special one tonight, too, for tomorrow was Signor Emilio's birthday. And if you stop here talking much longer, you won't be in bed before midnight. What of it? You have to be up early tomorrow for mass, and if you don't get your eight hours and a half, you'll have another of your attacks. Doa Barbarita, Slyly. What sort of an attack is it you get when you try to sit still for five minutes without coming to hear what we're talking about? Maria Peppa, very offended. Little I care what you're talking about. How long have you been listening at the door?

Listening? Holy saints! I heard you tiptoeing up the passage like a ghost. And if one walks like a human being, you say the noise upsets your nerves. She turns to go with extreme dignity. Where are you going? To the kitchen. My proper place. What else? Sit down. Thank you. I'm not tired. Sit down. Maria Peppa sits stiffly and haughtily on the edge of a chair. And don't start a grievance when no one has done a thing to you. We're not talking secrets. I was just telling my granddaughter. What an angel you were to your three husbands. I heard you. Rosario, bursting into a hearty laugh. Oh, Maria Peppa. Don't laugh, my dear, please. She'll take offense, and then what shall I do? Has the cook gone to bed yet?

What on earth would the woman be doing sitting up to this hour? Good heavens, you talk as if it were three in the morning. Why can't you say at once that you're dead with sleep yourself? Maria Peppa, as if she had been accused of a crime. I? Dead with sleep? Oh, come along, come along. Getting up. When my maid is tired, of course, I must go to bed. Good night, my child. Sit up till daybreak, if you like. You suffer for it, not I. Rosario, kissing her. Good night, Grandmama. Dona Barbarita, patting her cheek. But don't sit up till all hours reading. No, Grandmama. She will, she will. If food failed, I believe the women of this family could eat books. It's an unnatural appetite. Well, you're no glutton.

Sixty-five years I've been trying to teach you your letters. Thank you. I hear enough lies as it is without splitting my skull getting more out of books. Get back to your tub, Diogenes, and don't talk so much. The two go out, arm in arm, without its being quite clear which one is supporting the other. Rosario, with her characteristic instinct of order, puts the furniture in place almost unconsciously. Afterwards, she sighs, stretches herself lazily, yawns, sighs again, yields to the little clock which is on the mantelpiece, begins to unhook her dress, When she has it nearly unhooked, she goes into the bedroom and comes out after a minute with a kimono half put on and some slippers in her hand.

She finishes putting on the kimono, sits down on the sofa, takes off her shoes, and puts on the slippers, puts the shoes carefully under the sofa, takes her hair down serenely, lights the lamp which is near the sofa, puts out the other light, Throws herself comfortably on the sofa and begins to read. Maria Peppa comes back and goes toward the window. Rosario, without looking up from her book. What are you doing? I must shut the window. There's going to be a storm. There's a big wind blowing up. I'll shut it when I go to bed. Goes on reading. Maria Peppa Hovering near the writing table for a chance of conversation. Your brother's verses mustn't be blown about, or there'll be trouble. Put a paperweight on them.

I'll put the sheepdog on them. That's heavy. It's not a sheepdog. It's a lion. Maria Peppa, placing the paperweight which is, indeed, a bronze lion. When first I saw it, I thought it was a sheepdog. I've always called it a sheepdog, and I always shall. Rosario goes on reading, but Maria Pepa goes on talking nevertheless. It was a present from senor Enrique. That was your dear grandmother's second husband. But before he was her husband, to senor Ernesto. That was her first husband, given on her birthday. She was twenty-three, and she wore a scotch-plaid poplin with a green velvet coat hemmed with gold acorns, which was a sight for sore eyes, and I have it still put away and not at all moth-eaten.

Your poor grandfather, God rest his soul, hated the sight of it. Rosario, interested in spite of herself. The green velvet? No, the sheepdog. Because your grandmother, whenever she went into the room where it stood on the table, always stroked it. So. Stroking the Bronze Lion And one day, when he would have her go to the theatre with him on the very anniversary as it was of her second husband's death, which, of course, she couldn't, he changed into Basilisk as soon as she had left the room, crying like a maudlin, and he took the sheepdog and threw it at Signor Ernesto's. No. It's in your portrait, which hung over the mantelpiece, and as it is a bronze dog, of course, the glass was broken, so he had to have a new frame made carved with a crown of laurel and beveled glass, and that cost him a lot of money.

All this, Maria Peppa says without taking a breath. Grandmamma liked her second husband, didn't she? The best of the three? Maria Peppa with disdainful and Olympian superiority. I can tell you this much, that your poor dear grandfather was the worst. Oh, Maria! God forgive him, a jealous, obstinate, stingy tyrant, and the only way to manage him at all was just to keep on reminding him what the perfect angel the one before him had been. Though he had given us trouble enough, heaven knows, for he was a gambler. And when he lost, which was always, the way we had to pinch and screw. And that didn't come easily at all, because Signor Ernesto, he was her first, though he wasn't a practical man, being an artist, and he told lies worse than in newspapers, still he was generous, and while he was alive, your dear grandmama never put her foot on the ground.

Angels mustn't tread on the dust of the earth, he'd say. And not a yard did we go without our own carriage. Though for all that, we might go to bed without supper sometimes, because, if he didn't paint, why, he didn't earn anything. And there'd be times when he lacked inspiration, so he said, and he'd lie on the sofa for weeks at a stretch in a state of artistic torpor. Smoking, just smoking. But a kinder, refinder, more considerate and gentlemanly man. There's Grandmama's bell. That means she has finished her beads. Will you turn out the lights? Yes, I'll put out the lights, and I'll close the window. Take away those shoes, please. Maria Peppa, picking up the shoes with a sigh. Well, pray God you may never know the troubles of a married life.

Thank you. She is very offended. Ah, you mean to get married, do you? And to half a dozen, I dare say, just to outdo your grandmother. Well, if you make your bed, you must lie on it. We shan't be able to help you. We shall be snuggly in heaven. Though what's going to happen there when they all three come out to meet us, each one expecting to have us all to himself for eternity? They'll fight it out, I suppose. Maria. That's the third time the bell has rung. Maria Peppa calmly. I hear it. No doubt St. Peter will settle things somehow. I'll shut the door. There's a draft. She goes out slowly, having closed the bedroom door. Rosario tries to return to her reading, but she can't do it because Maria Peppa's reminiscences have distracted her attention from the book.

She meditates incoherently. Half a dozen. She starts reading her book aloud, though in a low voice, so that she may enjoy the poetry of it more. Love is a solitary flower of an exquisite, evanescent fragrance. How true! A solitary flower! It blooms but once in the life of the soul, and then the soul which this triumphant lily has enriched. This triumphant lily? What a wonderful phrase. Dies when it dies, but only for love's single service can it wish to live. Ah, yes. But then how could Grandmama have been really in love with all three of them? But into a life may come visions and phantoms, invoids and heralds of the true love that still delays. Meditating. That might explain it. Grandpapa came last.

So her first and her second were heralds and phantoms, perhaps. But on that divine night, when the love of Carlos and Esperanza... She goes on reading in an undertone for a minute, but interrupts herself almost immediately, turning over and supporting herself on an elbow. Or was Grandpapa Harold in a Phantom, too? And did Grandmama only think she loved all three because she really never loved anyone at all? I wonder.

But on that divine night... Impatiently. Oh, I can't read. The wind can be hard blowing. What a wind. I'd better go to bed. But then I shall only dream of all three of them fighting over Grandmama at the gate of heaven. I'll lie still for ten minutes and think. She switches off the light without moving from the sofa and lies down again. The room remains in the dark, lighted only at intervals by the light, not very brilliant, which comes in by the window. The wind goes on howling. I do believe there will be a storm. What a dust! I'd better shut the window. Too much bother. By this time, she is half asleep. Suddenly, a straw hat carried on the violent wind blows in the window and falls beside the sofa.

Rosario opening her eyes. What's that? Something flew in at the window. Looking round her to see, but not getting up. A bird? A hat? A man's hat! What has happened? She looks alternately on the floor, where the hat is, and at the window. She gets up with a certain timidity and goes slowly towards the window. At this moment there is a tremendous lightning flash, followed immediately by a terrifying burst of thunder, and in the really infernal resplendence of the lightning flash there appears at the window the figure of a well-dressed but hatless man, who looks around the room a second, and then jumps. Rosario, terrified and bewildered by the thunder and lightning, sees the man, and, not knowing whether he is reality or a vision, remains frozen with horror and gasps.

Jesu, Ave Maria, Virgin del Carmen, Blessed Souls in Purgatory, Blessed Saint Barbara, who art enrolled in heaven. The Apparition Observing that there is a woman in the room, and going toward her uncertainly, because an almost total obscurity has succeeded to the lightning flash. Don't be alarmed. Please, don't be alarmed. There is another flash, then thunder, and then a perfect downpour of rain begins. Rosario sees by the light of the lightning flash that the man is directing himself toward her, and, horrified, stretches out her arms to keep him off. Keep off! Keep away! Help! The apparition going up to her. Don't shout! For heaven's sake, don't shout! I am not a thief. I am an entirely respectable person.

Yes, yes, but go away! I am going, Signora, this very minute. But in the darkness, he has accidentally come quite close to her, and when he moves, he finds that a piece of her hair is entangled in his sleeve-link. No, I can't. Why not? Your hair has gotten twisted in my sleeve-links. Then untwisted at once. That's not so easy in the dark. Could you turn on some light, perhaps? Or where is it? On the table. She starts to move, and he follows her, but in spite of his precautions, he pulls her hair. Ah! You're pulling my hair! It hurts. Ten thousand apologies. He stops, and as she is going on, he pulls it a second time. But come with me. Then it won't. I'm coming, I'm coming. But as they go towards the table in the pitch dark, he stumbles, and to save himself and her, puts his arms round her.

They fall on the sofa together. How dare you! This is outrageous! How dare you put your arms round me! Another lightning flash discloses the situation. I assure you, I did not put my arms round you. I fell. And you fell in them, and I have bruised my shin most confoundedly. This is quite as unpleasant for me as for you." She makes a gesture of protesting amazement, whether at the supposition that any man could find it disagreeable to have his arms around her or not. Then if you realize that, please move away, as far as you can, till I've turned on the light. But now, your hair has caught in my studs, and if I move at all, I shall hurt you extremely. Until you can turn on the light, I'm very much afraid there's no real alternative to this.

Very well, then. Don't move. I mean, do move when I move. Now. She tries to find the light, but her hair is badly pulled in spite of precautions. Oh, oh, oh!

I told you so. Rosario, as she manages at last, to turn on the light. Thank heaven! The two then look at each other for a moment in silence, and with not a little curiosity. Then he speaks, very much at his ease. Now, perhaps we can undo the tangle. If you'll try the stud, I'll do the sleeve links. They devote themselves to the job in silence. After a moment, he says quite casually, You really have most infernal hair. Rosario, offended. I beg your pardon? I meant for present purposes. Does it often get caught up like this? And do you always wear it floating in the breeze? I wear it as I choose. Quite so. And, of course, it's not very long. I beg your pardon. That, again, is not criticism. If I had to criticize, I should say only that you must find it most inconveniently fine, but a charming color.

Rosario, furious. Thank you. And it smells of... What is it? Violets. Violets. How dare you! Don't move, please. It'll hurt you horribly. But it does smell of violets, surely. Rosario, now at the height of her indignation. Does that concern you? I never said it concerned me. I said it smelt of violets. I'm sorry that offended you, but it does. As you please. Have you finished? She has by this time got the studs free. Not nearly. Rosario, reaching to the table for some scissors. Take them. Cut it. Cut it? But what a pity. Cut it. Give them to me, then. She cuts herself free. There. She rises with dignity and turns to him. And now. The apparition. Who rises to and bows to her most formally. Senora or Senorita.

Rosario, without noticing either the bow or the interruption. Would you please explain why a thoroughly respectable person, as you say you are. She looks at him up and down and observes that he is, indeed, very well dressed in informal evening clothes. Has presumed to enter a stranger's house like this? Certainly. This high wind which preceded this storm blew my hat off my head, but thoughtfully blew it in here. I came in to find it. Having found it, I will, with your kind permission, take my leave. Rosario, angry again because his calm manner makes her so nervous. And so, for the sake of a miserable straw hat, you jump in at a window like a burglar at this time of night. Senora or Senorita? Senorita.

The apparition, bowing and smiling. Senorita, so much depends upon one's point of view. To you, my hat. He picks it up. And I grant you, aviation is not a suitable career for it. is naturally a thing of no consequence. But to me it was, and on this occasion particularly so, for I was on my way to keep a most important appointment. Indeed. And I prefer not to walk through the streets in this weather bareheaded and arrive looking like a pursued pickpocket. Sooner than take the liberty of ringing the bell of a strange house and waking everyone up, I climbed in at the window. The room was dark. I thought no one was here. I meant to get my hat and go on my way, and, if you had not made such a needless noise— Do you expect— I should have gone as I came, quite quietly, quite discreetly.

Rosario, convinced, but a little annoyed with herself for having let herself be convinced. Very well. I accept the explanation. And now, having recovered the priceless object, you will be good enough to show your discretion by going as you came, and at once. She makes a magnificent gesture towards the window, and then sits down with her back to it. He goes and looks out, then turns. "'Señorita?" Rosario, without moving. "'What is it?' "'It's pouring in torrents.' "'And what of that?' "'Well, I haven't an umbrella. It was quite fine when I started. If I launch myself into this flood, in two minutes I shall look like a drowned rat.' Rosario, with completely unreasonable but entirely feminine animosity.

And quite unfit to be seen by the lady you are going to visit. He is startled for a moment. Then he smiles and sits by her on the sofa. And who told you it was a lady? Rosario, rising indignantly. Go away at once. The rain is stopping. The rain is not stopping. And indeed it is pouring harder than ever. Rosario makes a gesture of despair. Besides, look at the concierge standing at the door of the house opposite. If he sees me jump out of the window, he'll either think I'm a thief and arrest me, or he will not arrest me, thinking that I'm leaving by the window for reasons best known to both of us. And then you will be horribly compromised. Rosario dismayed. So I shall be. Therefore, with your approval, I'll wait till he has gone in, and that will prevent any possible scandal.

Please sit down. Thanks. He sits at a most respectful distance. We must certainly prevent any possible scandal. There is a pause, then Rosario's anguish. develops into anger again, and she speaks half to him, half to herself. When is one allowed to forget one's misfortune in being a woman? Do you find that a misfortune? Isn't this a good sample of it? You jump out of my window with my confiance, so people think, and my reputation is gone. Mine, but not yours. Oh, no. Do you call that fair? No, Signora. Does it seem to you just that men should have all the rights, and women none? You feel you should be free to jump in and out of windows if you want to? Not at all. But I think the man who jumps out of windows should be as much dishonored as the woman who remains within.

Yes, there is something in that. There is everything in it. Equal rights. Equal obligations. The apparition, with a slight twinkle, with the least touch of irony in his voice. She is so very young. I see that you are very advanced in your ideas. Rosario, getting up with great dignity. I hope so. He smiles. Do you doubt it? Forgive me for questioning it just a little, when I see that you waste your time reading this stuff. He points to the book that she has left on the sofa. Really? Do you happen to know what that book is? Yes. It is a sentimental novel called A Spring Romance. Have you read it? Yes, I have read it. But it doesn't please you? The Apparition with a Slight Grimace of Contempt. Well, it isn't so badly written.

It is beautifully written. But the writer's conception of life— What's wrong with that, pray? The fellow hasn't any sense. Signior! His heroine's a fool of a girl with not an idea in her head except love. All she wants is to be lied to in the moonlight by a young man who is, if possible, a bigger fool than she. Every half-dozen pages or so— They are swearing their love will endure for eternity, which is absurd, and that they'll be faithful to death, which is almost as unlikely. Good heavens! The situations are ridiculous. Now, that divine night of love in a gondola? When they float through the narrow canals of Venice. Well, now. Have you ever floated at night through the narrow canals of Venice?

They smell most abominably, and anything may be thrown out of windows on your head. I assure you, anything. You are very vulgar. I am a man of ordinary common sense. I like the realities of life. And if you were what you like to think yourself, a modern woman instead of being... Forgive me, a girl trying to balance herself between new ideas and traditional sentiments. Senor, doesn't it occur to you that one needs now and then a dream, and a little poetry to compensate, perhaps, for those more real things which will never come one's way? This man can probe the depths, the very depths of a woman's heart. She tries to make these speeches sound imposing, but she is very young. Do you really think so?

Do you deny it? I think that the poor wretch writes his stories as well as he knows how, and stuffs them full of all the pretty lies he can invent, in the hope of selling as many as possible, to that vast crowd of old-fashioned, romantically-minded women who— Please don't talk such libelous nonsense. He is a genius. And womanhood— All that is best in it owes him a deep debt of gratitude, and I wish I could tell him so, old-fashioned and romantic though I may be. Well, I think that could be arranged. Rosario marveling. Do you mean that you know him? Oh, yes, I know him. You're not friends. Well, I could introduce you both to each other. I'll write him a letter. Rosario enthusiastically. Oh, will you?

It isn't asking too much? Not a bit. He sits at the table and starts to write. Now then, hmm, I very much want you to know, Senorita, by the way, what's your name? Rosario Castellanos. But her face has fallen, and he notices it. What's troubling you? Nothing. That is... No, nothing. Distressed, but still determined. Please go on with the letter. What are you laughing at? You. A strong-minded, up-to-date woman, sitting quaking at the mere thought of going to call on a distinguished author, just to tell him how much you admire his work. Come, come now. Equal rights, equal responsibilities, you know. I am not quaking. I don't in the least mind going. It's only for fear he should misunderstand. What?

That expert in women's hearts misunderstand? Rosario, exceedingly angry. Please go on writing the letter. Still, he's a lucky fellow. Rosario flashing resentment at his mischievous tone. Please do not write that letter. But why disappoint yourself? That is my business. Well, let's think of some other plan. Ah! What? Have you this morning's newspaper? Rosario takes it from a heap of papers, gives it to him, and he starts searching among the advertisements. Because I rather think that, um... Yes. Read that. Rosario, reading. Wanted. Well-educated and responsible lady as secretary to a literary man. Typing, not shorthand. Do you think that is? I know it is. That's his address. A fortnight ago, I heard him say he'd be wanting a secretary.

And this morning I saw this. What luck! You can take him the letter. I'll change it a little, on the pretext of applying for the place. He sets himself to finish his letter. Thank you. I think that I will apply for the place. What did you say? Apply for the... Seriously? Why not? I'm quite responsible and fairly well-educated. I know French, German, English, besides Spanish. Splendid. Well, what is astonishing you, then? The apparition, looking round the room. It is only that I fancied, to judge by the way you live, that you had no need to... Earn my living? I needn't. I have brothers quite ready to earn it for me. There again, that's the bitter humiliation of being a woman. One must rise above that.

I want to work, to earn the bread that I eat. I am tired of being a parasite. The Apparition, as he writes. Talk like that to him, and, as a literary man, he will engage you at once. He gives her the letter while he writes an envelope. Rosario, reading it with great delight. Oh, how kind you are! When she reaches the signature, she makes a slight grimace. Your name is Obdulio? Yes, senorita. Obdulio Gomez. Commonplace, isn't it? But we're not all lucky enough to be called, as your hero is, Luis Felipe de Cordoba. Ah, well. He sighs, puts the letter in the envelope, and hands it to her. Thank you a thousand times. She puts the letter in her dress and gives him her hand. The apparition, holding her hand and bowing.

Not at all. I shall be proud to have helped a little toward raising you from the humiliation of being merely a most attractive young lady. They shake hands smilingly. At the moment, Pepe and Emilio can be heard letting themselves into the house, and rather noisily, Pepe is singing. Shut up, man. For heaven's sake, you'll rouse the house. Good heaven, there are my brothers. She starts to run. The apparition catches for a minute at her rep. But please... Let me go! Let me go! She bolts into her bedroom, losing a slipper as she goes. The apparition picks it up and stands for a moment, holding it. The two boys are in the passage now, so he moves to the window. But before he can reach it, they are in the room.

Pepe is still singing sotto voce. Oh, do be quiet. Pepe, seeing the apparition. What's that? A man! Catch him! They proceed to try, but the apparition is too much for them. He throws them both off and to the floor. Then he jumps out of the window. Thief! Stop! Thief! The noise brings Doa Barbarita and Maria Pepa in their dressing-gowns. They may look a little odd, but Doa Barbarita is as dignified as ever. Whatever is happening? What is all this? Rosario appears from her bedroom, limping because she has only one slipper, but with the most innocent air in the world. What on earth are you shouting about? Emilio, who has succeeded in getting up. A man. In the room. A man? Nonsense. Was it indeed?

How could he have got in? By the way he went out. The window. Impossible. This comes of getting too merry. You see things. Well, I like that. The rain has gone to our heads, I suppose. Emilio to Pepe. Didn't you see him as plainly as... Pepe rubbing his arm. I felt him. Well, I dare say, I dare say. But suddenly Emilio sees on a chair the straw hat. And here is his hat. His hat! So now, what do you say? Let me see it. She takes it and then deliberately throws it out of the window. What are you doing? Sending it after its owner. And now, as if in exchange for the hat, there sails in Rosario's slipper, which falls at her feet. What's that? A slipper? Rosario completely off her guard. My slipper!

Doña Barbarita, who has been watching her keenly. My dear child, think what you're saying. Your slipper. Your slipper. Rosario losing her head completely. Yes, it is, but that's to say... How did he get your slipper? I don't know. You must know. Explain. Tell us at once. But I... it is my slipper, but... Go on. Will you go on, please? Rosario, finding no way out, falls flat on the sofa. Maria Peppa running to her. She has fainted. Doña Barbarita to herself. Thank God. I was afraid that it wouldn't occur to her. Don't faint. Don't be a fool. Tell us what has happened. Keep away from her. Let her be. When a woman sees fit to faint, there's no more to be said.

End of Act One.

2 02 - Act 2 44:57

The scene is the working room of the novelist Louis-Philippe. De Cordoba. It is a room with bright walls and a great deal of light which comes in by two large windows with balconies. It is furnished with much comfort, but without any pretensions to fashion. A big writing table, not a desk, is placed near one of the two balconies. On it the disorder of a table where anyone works. Sheets of paper, Books, periodicals, and reviews, among them three or four foreign ones of fashions and women's affairs. Near the other balcony is a typist's table, with its typewriter and sufficient work ready on it, shorthand tablets, papers ready for the machine. Nearly all the left wall, except the space where a door opens on the inside rooms, is occupied by a wide and comfortable divan.

Near it there is another small table, also full of books and papers, but in perfect order. Over the divan are some small pictures and a little mirror of porcelain or carving, the only one there is in the room. On the right wall there is another door which is supposed to lead to the vestibule, and by which people coming in from the street enter. The rest of the wall is occupied by a low bookcase, full of books. On the top of the bookcase, some well-chosen china. On the walls, some few good modern pictures and old engravings. On the big writing table, a goldfish bowl with goldfish swimming in it. On the floor, before the divan, the working table and the typist table are bright-colored rush mats.

There are some very comfortable English chairs and armchairs. On the rising of the curtain, Irene and Don Juan are discovered. Irene, the secretary, is an attractive girl of 22. She is wearing a simple tailor suit and a black apron. Don Juan is a gentleman of fifty, well-dressed and rather foolish. The secretary is at her table, putting her notes and papers in perfect order. Don Juan walks up and down while he is talking. Although he is paying a visit, he has neither hat nor stick, because he left both of them in the hall. Our distinguished novelist is a long time. Irene, very occupied. Yes. Do you know where he has gone? No. Doesn't usually go out in the morning, does he? No. With a gleam of hope.

If you'd like to leave a message. I'd rather wait if it doesn't disturb you. Not in the least. Don Juan, who is one of those people who cannot keep quiet even though they know that they are annoying other people by talking. Is that work you're doing? No. She has finished, and is now putting her papers in order. Work is over. For today? Forever and a day. That was my last official job. Rises. Official? Well, I must look in unofficially for a few days to put the new secretary in the way of things. Oh, oh. A new secretary? Don't rejoice too soon. She's not engaged yet. He put aside a whole lot of applications this morning, too. She goes up to the table and puts the books and papers in order. Am I likely to rejoice at the thought of losing you, Irene?

Irene, how dare you desert us? Irene, smiling. How dare I get married? Is he very fond of you? Scandalously. In the army, isn't he? And twenty-four? Irene, very well content and enumerating prettily. He's an engineer, he's very good-looking, and he's an only son. Anything else you'd like to know? Don Juan, going close to her. Why wouldn't you marry me? Irene, moving away from him and looking at him with mocking seriousness. It would have seemed so. Disrespectful. What a delicate reminder that I'm too old. Not at all, but there's a limit even to my daring. Don Juan, going close to her again. But tell me... Irene, moving away from him again and profoundly respectful. Well? Don Juan mischievously...

Pointing to the chair which undoubtedly is that of the novelist, and as if he were present. Why haven't you married the great man? How many more? Don Juan impudently. Didn't you ever find yourself falling the least little bit in love? Irene, a little dryly, because the conversation is beginning to annoy her, but forcing herself to keep up her jesting tone. It never occurred to us. Not to him? Not to my knowledge. I can't believe it. For three years you've been typing out these love scenes for him. Just three years. Why, if it was only to get a fresh idea or two for them? Irene, very serious and annoyed. Do you mind my telling you that the great man, as you call him, is not only a distinguished novelist, but a distinguished gentleman as well, who knows the difference between a secretary and an— I beg your pardon?

Not at all. She gets to the typewriter again. Don Juan, incorrigible. You said you'd finished work. I have some letters of my own to write. She writes violently. You want me to go? Irene, without looking at him. I don't think Senora Cordoba will be in before lunch. She continues riding violently and making a great deal of noise with the machine. Well, if that's so, good morning. Irene, without changing her attitude. Good morning. Don Juan, hoping even yet to renew the conversation. Will you excuse me? Certainly. I hope you will be very happy. Thank you. Don Juan prepares to leave, but at the door stumbles on Guillermo, who is the novelist's servant. Guillermo is a man of more than fifty, of a type, half-servant, half-professor.

He is completely bald, and is scrupulously well-dressed, not in livery, but in a suit of good material and well-cut, though evidently not made for him. He is, in fact, dressed in his master's cast-off clothes. He is amiable, smiling, discreet. Don Juan pauses on seeing him come in, because he likes to know everything that is going on, and wants to find out who has come. Senorita Irene, there's a young lady come in answer to the advertisement. Don Juan, pleasantly excited. Ah! A recruit to replace a deserter! To Guillermo. Is she pretty? Guillermo does not answer, and looks imperturbably at Irene. To Don Juan, who, as a pretext for awaiting the candidate's entrance, looks from one side to another, as if in search of something.

If you are looking for your hat, it is in the hall. Don Juan ironically. Thank you. He is preparing to leave, seeing there is nothing else for it, when Guillermo shows in Rosario, who is shy and a little inclined to take Don Juan for the novelist. He'd be willing enough, but Irene interrupts with, Guillermo, please give Senor Don Juan Medina his hat. Si, Senorita. He holds the door for Don Juan, who goes out furious with Irene. Oh, I thought... That he was Senor de Cordoba. Not he, indeed. Senor de Cordoba won't be long, if you don't mind waiting. Do sit down. Rosario, without sitting down. Are you Senora de...? Irene, smiling. I'm his secretary. Oh, then it's no use my waiting. I came... No, no, do sit down, please.

I should have said I was. I'm only staying on till my successor can take possession. She evidently takes to Rosario in a flash as a young girl may. I hope he'll engage you. I would. Thank you so much. Irene, looking about the room almost maternally. Well, I should hate to leave all this that I've grown so fond of to anyone who wouldn't appreciate it. Why are you giving it up? Change of profession. I'm getting married. To him? Oh, no. You've never met him? Señor de Cortaba. Yes. No. Is he married? No. Rosario, wishing to show how casual she is about it. I admire his work immensely. I've tried so often to get a picture of him, but they're not to be had. No, he won't be photographed. He prefers, he says, to have his woman readers picture him each for herself.

And he doesn't want to spoil any one of their illusions. Is he so ugly? Irene, with all the indifference of a young lady who is going to be married. Oh no, I shouldn't call him ugly. Not bad looking for a civilian. He's not young? Thirty-eight. Is this where he works? What a charming room, and so beautifully kept. Yes, he's the untidiest man in the world, and the one thing he won't stand is untidiness. That's where his secretary comes in. He'll go out leaving his writings strewn all over the place, pages unnumbered, books on the floor, torn up paper in the drawers, and his notes in the waste paper basket. But when he comes back, he likes to find everything just so. Have you ever done this sort of work before?

Not just this sort. You've been in an office? I saw the advertisement. I came with a letter. Oh. Here. She takes the letter which the apparition gave her out of her bag and offers it to Irene. Better leave it on the table. She takes it and puts it there, then, at the side of the handwriting, gives a jump. Well! What is it? Irene, puzzled, looking at the letter and at Rosario. Who gave you this letter? A friend. Irene, still watching her. Gave it to you. Personally? Yes. Why? I thought I knew the handwriting. She leaves the letter on the table. It's from Don Obdulio Gomez. Irene, full of amazement. Then you know Senor Gomez. Why not? Is it any disgrace? Irene, smiling. No, of course not. He told me he was a friend of Senor de Cordoba's.

Isn't he? His best. Rosario gives a sigh of relief. By the way, talking of friends... She sits by Rosario, confidentially. If you get this place... Do you think I shall? With that letter, yes, I think you're sure to. Oh! Well then, look out for that fat gentleman I was getting rid of when you arrived. Rosario, opening her eyes wide. Did I hear you call him Don Juan? Yes, his name is Don Juan, and he's always trying to live up to his name. He'll make love to you without ceasing, he'll bring you sweets, he'll interrupt your work to tell you stupid little jokes. But that doesn't matter. Rosario opening her eyes wide. Doesn't it? But what does is that he has a horrible influence over Senor de Cordoba.

It's a secret, but you'll soon find it out. The man's mad enough about women in real life, but when it comes to literature, he loathes us all. Does he? And he plots against us. How? You've read a spring romance? Of course. You remember the girl with fair hair who sells carnations and oranges on the banks of the Arno at Florence? Rosario, as if she were speaking of her dearest friend. Bettina? Irene, as if Bettina were her dearest friend, too. Yes, Bettina Floriano, who falls in love with the handsome English painter. And then throws herself into the river. Because she finds out that he doesn't love her. That's to say, he does love her. But he's married already. Well, he was to blame for that.

Who? Don Juan. That nasty fat man? Yes. The Englishman wasn't married at all to begin with, but he insisted, if you please, that it was much more artistic for a rich painter to deceive a poor flower girl than that they should get married and live happily ever after. And Señor de Cordoba let himself be persuaded? Yes. And why? Because Don Juan's a critic and writes for the newspapers. A critic! Why, he can't even spell. He sent me a love letter one day, hid it under the typewriter, said my pretty hand says I worked looked like Carrara marble, and spelled it with one R. Well, and now, not content with that, he's trying to have Juanita Yerena. Are you reading The Budding Pomegranate? In the Revista Grafica.

Yes, of course. The dunderhead has made up his mind that Juanita, you remember, she's studying chemistry. Such a good idea, because she means to be independent, to earn her own living and marry Mariano Ochoa. Such a nice boy. But he is determined that she shall fail in her examination and then marry that rich old man who has been making love to her for years. Don Indaleseo. Don Indaleseo. But it must be stopped. I'd like to know, he says, how a girl with her head full of poetry and stuff is ever to remember a dozen chemical formulae correctly. That's the sort of silly thing they all say. And besides, he asks, what girl nowadays will take a poor young man when she can get an old rich one? Disgusting.

And to crown all, won't it be time enough for her to be in love with the young man once she's married to the old one? The man is a shameless cynic. So now you see, and next week the chapter in which Juanita decides has to go to press. Is she going to marry the old man? It's still unsettled. Yesterday, Señor de Cordoba gave me two sheets to copy in which she said yes. But when he saw the expression of my face, he told me not to go on with them. And I simply hate to go away in this uncertainty over poor Bettina. After all, death's a poetic end. One could make up one's mind to it. But this about Juanita is horrible. Revolting. Irene, suddenly seeing the clock. Oh, good heavens! Half past eleven!

Paco has been waiting half an hour. Perhaps I'd better go, too. No, no. Señor de Cordoba will be in directly. He told me to wait till eleven, but he knew I had to go then. Would you tell him that I'll be here by nine in the morning?" She takes off her apron and puts it away, takes out a clothes brush, and generally puts herself to rights. Guillermo, I'm going now. You don't know what a nuisance a wedding is, especially for me. I've no mother. I have to do everything myself. Paco is an angel and helps all he can, but, like all men, he loathes shopping. Today we're going to buy saucepans. Guillermo brings in her outdoor things. Thanks, Guillermo. This young lady will wait. Yes, Senorita Irene. If Don Juan comes back before Senor de Cordoba does, don't let him in.

No, Senorita Irene. If the printer sends, the proofs are on the table. Yes, Senorita Irene. Don't forget to change the water for the goldfish. Guillermo, through this, has waited on Irene like a perfect valet. Handing her hat, veil, gloves, parasol, bag, etc. She goes to the goldfish. Irene, putting her hand on the glass globe. Poor little things. I hate to leave you, too. To Rosario. But you'll take good care of them, won't you? They only eat flies. We'll meet tomorrow. Thank you so much. And I trust you about Juanita. I think you can save her. Do you? Yes, I do. Mysteriously. To-morrow I will tell you why. Good morning, Guillermo. Good morning, Senorita Irene. She departs. Guillermo notices that Rosario is standing by the goldfish.

Are you wondering what the goldfish are for, Senorita? Senor de Cordoba always has them on his table while he works. He says that their twisting and turning helps him to think out the plots of his novels. Especially the love episodes. Philosophically. Art must find inspiration somehow, and he drinks nothing but water as a rule. I bring them their flies every morning, a bagful. The boy at the grocer's catches them for me. A bell buzzes in the distance. The telephone! Excuse me a minute, senorita. He goes out. Rosario, left alone, looks curiously about and studies the typewriter with some apprehension. Then she returns to the goldfish and says, half unconsciously, They do twist and turn, especially in the love episodes.

Without her hearing him, the apparition of the night before comes in. Seen in the full light, he is an attractive man, close on forty. He puts down his hat and stick, closes the door softly, and comes over to her and says with the most perfect suavity, Do you like a goldfish? Rosario turns and sees him, and is quite as surprised and almost as alarmed as when he came through the window. Oh! Senorita. Rosario, backing away. Don't come near me. The apparition, smiling. Do you still take me for a ghost? Rosario, passing from fright to indignation. Don't add mockery to persecution, sir. The apparition, bowing with even greater amiability. I do most honestly protest. Isn't it enough to compromise me?

I— What on earth made you throw my slipper in at the window? You threw my hat out of it. Because I was sorry you should be going through the streets in the rain with nothing on your head. The apparition, bowing very pleased. Thank you. And I could not bear to think of the little foot, companion to that merciful hand, unshod. I had to pretend, and tell lies, and even to faint. Was that very difficult? Rosario, much offended. I am accustomed to speaking the truth. I have heard that women sometimes do. Rosario, with immense dignity and emphasizing the name with a certain contempt. Senor Don Abdullio Gomez. He starts at the name, then recollects and recovers himself. I think that you have some very mistaken ideas about women.

Possibly. Rosario, very much the superior person. You seem to imagine that it flatters a woman to persecute her. Forgive me. You have used that word twice in two minutes. As far as I am concerned, it is quite uncalled for. Even at the risk of accusing you of, I'm sure, the most pardonable vanity. I protest that I have never had the least intention of persecuting you. Do you mean to tell me you didn't come today knowing that I should be here? Yes, I can't deny that. Rosario makes a gesture equivalent to there, you see? I expected, if you insist upon greater exactness, I hoped that you would be. Are you offended? "'You have a most offended air, but somehow I don't believe that you are.'" She starts to protest, but his mischievous, insinuating voice checks her.

"'But what would you have thought of me if, when I'd met you so romantically, I had by the next day forgotten all about it?' "'Romantically?' "'Now, don't be a hypocrite.' "'Sir!' The Apparition Going up to her with an agreeable calinerie, as if her indignation was nothing at all. Can't you imagine how easily in a tangle of hair black as a black cat's? Rosario, unable to resist it. Such an infernal tangle of hair? The apparition, continuing as if he had not noted the aggressive tone of the interruption. One's heart may be caught. For all that one twists and turns. Rosario, her eyes straying to the goldfish. Twists and turns. Trying to escape from the snare. Not that one really wants to, perhaps.

Rosario, who, as soon as she sensed the merest twiff of a declaration in the air, feels apparently that she is behaving like an idiot. Please don't talk like this. The apparition, going a little closer and speaking in an insinuating tone, half tender, half mocking. Not that you really want me to, either. It is most insulting. You know, you really are a terrible dragon. How is a man to guess that you'll take a few casual compliments in the course of a friendly conversation so seriously as this? What would happen if anyone started making love to you? Rosario, desperately disillusioned at this, and at heart disappointed. In the course of... But you don't take them seriously. Or did you? Oh, come on now.

You don't think I'm so simple as to fall in love with a woman just from seeing her with her hair down? Hardly. Rosario, now really on the point of throwing something at him. You dare say that to me? You dare remind me of that? I also am accustomed to speaking the truth. Leave this house immediately. Good heavens! Last night by the window. This morning, at least, it's by the door. But do you mean to spend your life in ordering me out of the house? Certainly, if you spend yours coming in when you are not asked. He goes towards the door. Then, as if he could not bring himself to leave without a humble protest. "'Women are so ungrateful.' Rosario falling into the trap. "'What have I to be grateful for?' "'The first real thrill of your life.' "'Seeing you jump through that window, you flatter yourself.' "'Not because it was me you saw.' "'I wasn't in the least thrilled.' The apparition trapped in his turn.

Then what in Heaven's name would thrill you I'd like to know? Rosario, pleased to have exasperated him even a little. When I know, I'll tell you. Perhaps it does take more than one has imagined. The apparition, sarcastically appealing to the Heavens. Save me from the innocence of young ladies who read books like A Spring Romance. Rosario, she shows the first signs of a serious attack of nerves. Oh, do be quiet, and go away! He grows a little alarmed, puts down the hat which he had taken up, and goes towards her. This makes matters worse. Don't come near me! But he fears she is going to faint, and goes nearer still. If you touch me, I shall scream. More alarmed still, he puts out his arms to support her, and at this she does scream.

Guillermo! Guillermo! Guillermo! Guillermo appears, calm and smiling. Did the senorita call? He looks alternatively at the senor and the senorita and smiles. Bring a glass of water. Rosario recovering her schoolgirl dignity. And please show this gentleman out. Guillermo, quite dumbfounded, can only look at this gentleman. Don't you hear me? Guillermo remained speechless. Then will you be good enough to do as I tell you? The apparition coming to the rescue. He hears, but is in rather a difficulty. For if he shows me the door, I shall certainly kick him down the steps. You'll kick him down. The apparition, smiling. And we'd be sorry to part with each other, Weeramal and I. So that you are... The apparition, bowing meekly.

And your favorite author. You? Then, with more wrath and astonishment... You! In the anguish of disillusion... You! She throws herself in a heap on the sofa. This time de Cordoba is really frightened. Guillermo, get that glass of water and put some orange flower in it. Guillermo goes. De Cordoba sits by her on the sofa and sues her as if she were a child. Forgive me. There, there. And don't cry, please. It's not worth it. She goes on crying, without answering, but is growing quieter, little by little, lulled by his caressing voice. Is it really such a shock? Are you so disappointed that the apparition has materialized into—me? Do look at me, please, and answer. Come now, little Rosario. Rosario, like an angry child, but taking out her handkerchief to dry her tears nevertheless.

Don't call me Rosario. I'm sorry. It came so naturally. Guillermo brings in the glass of water and goes out again, discreet and silent. Drink a little water. There's some orange flower in it. Thanks. I don't need it. She gets up. Where are you going? Rosario, like a lost child. Home! De Cordoba, getting up still, holding the glass of water. No, no, no! Not till you are quite yourself again. She has her parasol. He takes it from her. She glares at him. Please. She faces him aggressively. What will the concierge think if he sees you looking like this? Yes. I suppose I'm a perfect fright. Furiously, she proceeds to put her hair tidy and has to fling off her hat to start with. De Cordoba still clings to the glass of water.

You really don't need the water with a little orange flower? No. He drinks it off. She sees him in the mirror. You do? De Cordoba putting down the glass on the table. I tell you, you gave me a scare. Forgive me. De Cordoba, recovering his slightly mocking courtesy. I will exchange forgiveness with you, and I need yours rather more. Why did you tell me last night your name was— Rosario turns on him, and they stand face to face. Obdulio? Alas, it is. Rosario, who wishes, at all costs, to go on being angry and can't because the apparition, in spite of everything, is extraordinarily attractive. Then Luis Felipe de Cortoba is a fraud you practice on the public? It's called a pseudonym, usually. I ask you, how could a man named Obdulio set out to write romance novels?

Obdulio, with Gomez to follow. What woman of really refined taste would ever open a book with that on the cover? Think how it shocked you last night. You could have at least told me who you were. De Cordoba lowering his eyes. I didn't dare. You were too shy. You are very shy. I was ashamed to. What? After you'd lauded my wretched books to the skies to say, I wrote them? What an anticlimax. I am only human. I really could not bear to have you disillusioned under my very eyes. But then, why did you give me the letter? Once again, I am very human, and I was tempted. Rosario, looking at him askance. By what? Promise you won't fly out again? Don't be afraid. Well, then. While he speaks, he is stepping backwards and away from her, as if he was afraid of her.

"'I gave you the letter because I wanted so much to see you once more. And if last night, the moment we had cut ourselves loose, I'd asked might I call on you, you'd probably have said no.' Rosario looks at him cryptically, but says nothing. "'And if—' Advertisement for secretary or no. I had asked you to call on me. Rosario gives an indignant exclamation. You see, you'd certainly have said no. So what else could I do? Having got me here, though, you don't seem to mind how disillusioned I am. I mind very much. But the fact is— I thought the horrid business would have been got over. I wasn't at home, you know, when you came. Did you think that I'd not have the courage to come? I was sure that you would.

I went to the café at the corner and waited till I saw you pass. Didn't you find my secretary here? Yes. Didn't you tell her why you came? Rosario, beginning to see the point. Yes. Didn't you give her my letter? Yes. But what did you say when you saw the handwriting? Nothing, the little wretch. Nothing? Good God! Quite overcome by the revelation, he lifts his hands to his head. I have found a discreet woman. A pity to lose her. De Cordoba, smiling. I must make a note of this. Well, I'm glad I have helped you discover that there was something about women you didn't know. May I go now? Am I calm enough not to scandalize the concierge? Quite. And therefore, there is now no need for your going at all.

Please, be generous. Say you forgive me. For your practical joke? For a harmless bit of fun. I am older than you. But there are times when I do badly want to behave like a child. Do sit down. Now she obediently does so, and he takes her hat from her. Thank you. Do you think you could smile? She can't help smiling. Thank you so much. Besides, it was a bit your fault, you know. You did seem such a little girl, with your hair down. And those slippers which wouldn't stay on. She frowns. Don't frown. I know how you dislike being treated like a child. A plaything, an inferior being. That, though you may not always look it, you are a very serious-minded person, an advanced thinker. Well, let's make a fresh start on that basis.

He sits at his table in a most businesslike way. She is on the other side of it.

You have most kindly come in answer to my advertisement, and we have been more or less introduced. Or shall we leave that intruding busybody, Obdulio Gomez, and his confounded letter right out of it? Anyhow— Luis Felipe de Codoba has great pleasure in asking Senorita Rosario Castanalos this important question. Will you be my secretary? At this moment Amalia and Guillermo are heard in the hall. But he's at work. Then he can stop for a minute. And a moment later Amalia comes in. She is a woman of thirty, dressed with aggressive elegance. Although it is morning, she is wearing an exaggerated hat and an afternoon dress. She is handsome, although one immediately feels that the square shawl and the high comb would suit her better than the hat and frock of a fashionable dressmaker.

She walks in a little as if the room were her own. Well, what happened to you last night? Then, seeing Rosario... Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry. Am I in the way? Rosario, on seeing her, jumps up. De Cordoba, who has received a rude shock, gets up also, but dominates the situation almost immediately. Didn't Guillermo tell you I was at work? Amalia, divided between confusion and impertinence. Yes, but not with— De Cordoba, without making any introduction. My secretary. Amalia, quite indifferent to secretaries. Oh, is she? I want a word with you. De Cordoba to Rosario. Excuse me. Come here. They go towards the window. Amalia, quite good-temperedly. Do you think it is the right thing to keep a good woman waiting supper for you till daybreak?

And never even write her one of your usual lies to say you can't come? Why didn't you? I was caught in the storm and lost my hat. Well, as long as you'd turned up with your head on. But don't lose that, will you? I shall so miss it. It's a handsome head. She taps it with her fan. De Cordoba steals a horrified glance at Rosario, who is studying the goldfish. Oh, how cross we are when we're interrupted in the middle of a chapter. Rosario makes a movement to go. De Cordoba to Rosario. Please don't go yet. I hadn't finished. Rosario snatches the hat and parasol wrathfully and takes up a position where she can look out of the balcony. But as for me, please do. If you don't mind. I don't mind. "'I'll go one better and take you with me.

Ain't I forgiving? You cut me for supper, and I ask you to lunch. Hurry up. The car's waiting.' "'I can't.' "'Why not?' "'You know I work all the morning.' "'Very bad for you.' "'I must finish what I'm doing.' "'Well finished, my lad.' She drops suddenly in a chair. "'I'll wait.' "'How much work shall I do with you sitting there? I'll come along in half an hour.' Word of honor? On the word of... a novelist. Amalia, getting up. Ain't I an angel? With my best halo on to two hundred pesetas. Straight from Paris. What do you think of it? I don't believe a word you say, and I'm going to pretend I do, and leave you to finish your chapter. Half an hour? I'll give you three quarters. And if I have to come back and fetch you, it's not your hat you'll lose this time, but your hair.

I'll pull it out bit by bit. You shall do anything you like. Goodbye. He gets her to the door. Amalia to Rosario, who does not respond. Good morning. In the doorway. Nice manners, hasn't she? Why do you have a woman for a secretary? Why do you have a man? Because I can't spell. But at least he's my brother. She goes out. De Cordoba to Rosario. One moment. He follows to see her safely away. Rosario furiously jams on her hat and pulls on her gloves, seizes her parasol, and when he returns, is on her way to the door, too. De Cordoba, feigning a scandalized surprise, You're going? Good morning. De Cordoba putting himself between her and the door. But you've given me no answer. Rosario wishing to pass.

My answer is, good morning. But I've no secretary. Let me go, please. But who is to type my first chapter of a brand new story? Such a good story, seething in my head. And I'm going to call it... The romantic young lady. Rosario, unable to conceal her jealous anger any longer. That lady? Now I ask you. Then try her brother, since he can spell. Little Rosario? Don't dare call me by that name again. It's such a pretty name. They might really be two children playing tag or bullfighting, because she is always turning about, trying to get out, and he is always putting himself in her path with slow but mathematical movements. He does not lose his self-possession, but she grows more and more upset. Let me go!

Here she is on the point of getting out, but he detains her with a question. Do you know who that was? Rosario, pausing for a moment, which he takes advantage of to obtain a desirable position. The person I presume you were on your way to last night, when you unfortunately lost your hat. And when I'd so fortunately found my hat, I did not go on my way. Well, who is to be blamed? Or, shan't we say thanked? For that. Me? Not precisely the indignant lady that I see now before me, but, if I may disobey just once, little Rosario. But you prefer to be treated as an up-to-date woman. Then cultivate some common sense. She, however, taps the ground with her foot and looks at him with a dangerous expression.

That's the first qualification, believe me. My quite friendly relations with Senorita Amalia Torrauba, professionally known as La Malawena... Don't concern me in the slightest. Then why are you so angry? Even a fairy princess, you know, straight out of a story-book and worthy of any man's most loyal love, cannot expect a poor novelist, no matter how bewitching the curls are, To be faithful and true, before he has had even a chance of rescuing his hat and losing his heart in the tangle. Last night, when I set out to supper, I didn't even know you existed. Now, I want you to be jealous. I love you to be jealous." Rosario flaming with wrath. Jealous? De Cordoba wishing to calm her. Senorita! Rosario, wishing to slay him.

Did you say jealous? De Cordoba, defending himself. Not that you were, but that I wished you were. Rosario, stammering and trying hard to control herself. Why should I be? Quite so. You've no cause. I'm not talking of that woman. Ah, but I am, for the moment. And I think you're going to lunch with her. One should keep one's promise. I made it to get her to go. I did not want her to go. You only wish that she hadn't come. Not at all. I'm glad that she came. And now, if you please, for the last time, before I call for help, will you let me go? But listen to reason. Pretend. Just pretend, for a moment. That you are a strong-minded, cynical, up-to-date woman. I won't. Very well, then. I can't. Can't, if you like, and don't want to be.

She flings out. He calls after her. Rosario! Little Rosario! But the street door slams violently. Then he sighs and smiles, first with resignation. Then, with mischief, then, tenderly, goes towards the balcony and remains looking out on the street, along which it may be supposed she is going away from him, all with the absorption of a true lover, until she may be thought to have turned the corner. Then he again sighs and smiles, and, after ringing the bell, seats himself at his writing-table. Guillermo enters.

I want you to go yourself to Senorita Amalia's and explain why I can't lunch with her. I've been suddenly called out of town. I've gone already. And you might add that, as far as you know, I shan't be back for a fortnight. Very good, sir. He goes. A new story. The romantic young lady. No, no. Too good to write. Too good to spoil by writing it.

3 03 - Act 3 40:14

We are at Doña Barbarita's house again. It is evening. The window stands open. Rosario, her three brothers, and Doa Barbarita are present. Doa Barbarita is seated in an armchair near the table, smiling, as always. She is looking at an illustrated weekly. Rosario, buried in the sofa, wears an expression of profound ill-humor, which she tries neither to conquer nor conceal. The three brothers, once more, are all about to go out, but this time they are all in morning clothes. Emilio, standing near the table, has just finished sealing a letter to his absent fiancé. Pepe is carefully smartening himself. Mario is by the window looking out. Pepe to Mario. Is it going to rain again tonight? I don't think so.

Not a cloud. Nor a breath of air. If there is a storm, it'll get cooler. There won't be... Doña Barbarita fanning herself with her newspaper. One can't breathe! Dear Grandmama, if there's no air, at least there's lots of cigarette smoke. And the boys enjoy that, even if we don't. And she beats the air with her handkerchief. Hello? How long have you disliked tobacco? Ever since I first smelt it. You might have mentioned it earlier. Who am I to interfere with your pleasures? Mario throws his cigarette out of the window. Oh, please don't start being unselfish. Now! Mario looks at her with amazement, but says nothing. Maria Peppa comes in with a letter. A letter? Rosario rousing suddenly. Give it to me.

It's for Senor Pepe. Rosario flings back on the sofa again. Were you expecting one? Aye. Whoever writes to me. My dear Rosario, what's the matter with you? Nothing. What should be. Emilio to Maria. Nothing for me? Nothing. Nor by the afternoon post? Sure? Nothing. It's very odd. Two days running. No letter. Perhaps she has heard how well you amuse yourself without her, so why not without your letters as well? If I were she, I'd throw you over tomorrow. My dear girl. Mario goes to Rosario, takes her wrist with one hand, feels her forehead with the other. What are you doing? Pulse rapid, head hot. I thought this bad temper wasn't natural. Rosario rises and goes from settee. So now I'm bad tempered, am I?

No, my dear. With all your faults, you are not. That is why this exhibition of it alarms me. It's the heat. Rosario, yielding a little. I'm not ill nor cross. Really, I'm not. But bored, bored, bored. Then, let's go out somewhere. Come along. What about the Winter Garden? La Malagueña is doing some new dances. Is she? Ever seen her? Here's a picture of her. In the paper she is reading. Graceful creature, isn't she? I love her! I love her! Yes. She has got that spice of something. Rosario rages, but nobody notices. But they say she's getting quite spoiled. All these painters and writers that crowd round her. Only make her do things that don't suit her at all. Nonsense! She dances better than ever she did.

She's a Spanish gypsy. And while she's content to remain one, she's perfect. But look at her dressed up as Madame Pompdor. Absurd! Let her dress in a blanket with a rope around her waist. Let someone introduce me to her. That's all. Now, do you know why one wants millions of money? I love her. I adore her. I worship her. When she steps on the stage, I feel funny all over. Come along, my child. Hurry. We shall be late. Thank you. I think not. Not? If you're going to swoon with ecstasy when you see her, I should have to carry you out. I'll help. What a tribute to the lady. Oh! You're going to... Good. Then to Mario. Aren't you? Worst luck? No. I've got work to do. Why don't I fall in love with a Leon Comique of the music halls?

Three men highly scandalized. Really so sorry! Well, why shouldn't she? Bullfighters, singers, actors, dancers have always had great success with the ladies. With a certain sort of lady, no doubt. A rather foolish, hysterical sort of lady. I see. If I lose my head over Nijinsky, that's hysterics. But when you go stark mad about Pavlova, you're just three normal, sensible, healthy young men. Oh, it is quite different. There is a difference. Which I think I can explain. Rosario with a grim smile. Well? Well, it goes rather deep. He stops, not knowing indeed how to go on. If we lose our heads... He stops too. But I don't admit that we do. We are conscious. It's the difference of temperament. Don't get too tied up.

There isn't any difference. But for all that, you needn't be afraid. I shan't make that sort of a fool of myself. Still, what puzzles me is how a man of real genius... Pepe bowing. Thank you. I'm not speaking of you. Can go mad over a face that... well... Look, it's nothing wonderful, and a pretty trick of kicking her heels up. Well, are you coming or not? Not. Thank you all the same, but I'm tired. Emilio insinuatingly. Did you take too long a walk this morning? You were very late back to lunch. And last night I fancy you were not back at all. Late or early. Really, my dear girl, you're impossible. We better be off. She'll be throwing things at us. Good night, Grandmama. He bids good night to his grandmother, kissing her hand.

Shut the window tight in case the ghost comes back. Yes, I'm afraid these nocturnal alarms upset poor Rosario, rather. What annoys her is that the ghost didn't stay. Or abductor. Remember the rape of the Sabines? The Sabine ladies liked it. Oh, some fellow came after the forks and spoons and made a mistake in the window. And got nothing but Rosario's slipper. And that he threw back. Well, it was too large for him. The three young men laughed heartily. Oh, do go away and leave us in peace. I'll be home early, grandmother. Oh yes, you're a wonderful watchdog. Well, you wouldn't let me tell the police. What's the use? There's nothing missing. We've looked. Very well. Good night. Till tomorrow. Emilio, Mario, and Pepe go out.

Rosario, who has gone sulkily up to the table and picked up the illustrated paper that contains the picture of La Malaguenna almost without knowing what she is doing. All three of them cracked about that worthless creature. I detest men. Throws down the paper. Maria Peppa has just come on again. That's right. It is very wrong. Rosario with the air of a little girl who is enjoying her own fit of temper. Why wrong? One doesn't alter things by hating them. And is it an inevitable law of nature that some man should be able to poison one's whole life? She sits down near the table, takes a lace-making pillow which is on a chair, and begins to work furiously. Is poison quite the right word? They wipe their boots on us.

And you hold your tongue. You know perfectly well that I don't like to hear women abusing men. It is exceedingly vulgar. They abuse us enough. You don't know half the things they say, and none of us know the other half. That makes it no better. If men and women can't share the burden of life between them— With the man sneaking out from under his chair whenever he can. Rosario has been trying to work at the lace she has in hand. Now she gives it up in despair, throws the lace pillow violently on the table. The bobbins roll about, mixing themselves up. I can't do this. I simply can't. The bobbins get mixed, the threads break, all the pins bend. Lace making is idiotic work. My dear, this is like a spoiled child.

Oh. And who am I spoiled by, I'd like to know? By everybody. I wish I were. By me, by your brothers, by life itself. And because in twenty-two years you have never had a pain or a sorrow, you think you've the right to behave like a baby when anything annoys you. Nothing has annoyed me. That makes it all the worse. Rosario, sitting down on the sofa and holding her head in her two hands. It's only that I've got a most awful headache. Doña Barbarita, smiling. Keep those excuses for your husband when you're married. They don't go down with other women. You have no headache. Rosario looks at her, a little alarmed, a little guiltily. I ask you no questions, but when a girl can't control herself, she had better shut herself in her room and not make other people uncomfortable.

Maria Peppa, firing up, as indignant and distressed as if she herself were being scolded. That's right. Now scold the poor child. I am not scolding her. I'm trying to teach her to control her nerves. For she'll need to know how. I like to hear you talk about nerves. If I had as many pennies as you've had attacks of nerves in your life— At the right moment. Never at the wrong. The poor dear child. Don't make a fool of yourself. And what's more important, don't make one of her. There's no need for anyone to pity her. Rosario suddenly showing both. Good temper and good sense. I'm sorry, Grandmama. I'm a fool, and unjust, and ill-tempered. Oh well, if you're going to call yourself names. Rosario smiles affectionately at Maria Peppa, then sits down at her grandmother's feet, who strokes her hair soothingly.

You'd better go to bed. You said you were tired. But not sleepy. She looks at the window. Doña Barbarita, following her look, to Maria Pepa, touchy as always. And I should like to know why I must be supposed to get sleepier than you. But, of course, if I'm in the way... Sit down, then, and don't talk nonsense. Maria Peppa sits down again. There is a silence. Maria Peppa yawns. Rosario sighs. Won't you read aloud a little? That would distract our minds. What about the novel we began the other night? Hmph! The one about the painter-man who made a fool of the girl that sold oranges and she, having no sense at all, threw herself into the river? What's the use of a book like that? Pages and pages to tell me something that I can learn much better by sticking my own nose any day I choose into any corner of this miserable world.

There was Encarna, the porter's daughter, taken in by just such another man. Not a painter, he taught the piano, but it's the same thing. Off he went after a while, and left her with something to remember him by. She didn't throw herself into the river because it's only a foot deep, but she drank half a bottle of disinfectant, and the wonder is that she and the baby were saved. Now that's true, and the book was only lies. Have you quite finished talking nonsense? No. I think you're right, Maria. Novels are lies. And then men who write them laugh in their sleeve at us, and themselves, too. What do you know about it, my dear? I should if I were they. Had such fools of women. Well, if you're not going to read, I'll put out the light.

They keep telling us to save all we can, and the meter ticks it up like a taxi cab. Moonlight's cheap. She turns out the light. There is a bright moon. And good. There is another silence. Too hot to sleep. Shall we tell a rosary? She takes out her rosary, and at that moment, in through the window flies a man's straw hat falling at their feet. Oh, what's that? Maria Peppa picking it up. A hat? Rosario, very agitated, but mischievously satisfied for all that the adventure is not over. Well, now we shall see. See what, my dear? But there's no wind tonight. Rosario, frightened for her secret. Still, oh, better shut the window, perhaps. Do nothing of the sort. Let them climb up and come in. Then we shall know what this is all about.

Come in! And we have our throats cut! There's not a man in the place! Come in! No! No! Outside is heard the noise of someone climbing. Shhh! They're climbing up! Help! Help! Be quiet! Shut the window! Leave the window alone! Help! Thieves! Police! Looking in her terror for something to protect herself with, she seizes the sheepdog paperweight from the table and hurls it through the window, just as a man's head appears there. It catches him full on the forehead. An exclamation follows that sounds very like a curse. Then silence. Now what have you done? I threw it at him. At who? How do I know? But it hit him hard. Oh, my God! She drops on the sofa, half fainting. The two others go to her. What's the matter?

Nothing, that is. Seizing her grandmother's hand. Grandmama, there is something I'd better tell you. Yes, my dear, yes. Then, to get rid of Maria Peppa. Now you can shut the window. Maria Peppa, fully aware that she is being got out of the way, does so. Grandmama, last night? At this moment, there is a loud knocking on the street door. Someone at the door? The door? Obviously. It's the police. That's all you've done by screaming. Shall I go? Of course. And turn on the light. Maria Peppa goes, and in a moment her voice is heard, distressful and alarmed, also de Cordoba's. There's nothing wrong, I assure you. Nothing at all. Holy virgin! Whatever is the matter? Maria Peppa! Maria Peppa appears again, her eyes starting.

Who is it? Is it the police? Maria Peppa shakes an agitated head. Is it the thief? Maria Peppa, bursting into speech. I don't think he is. It's a gentleman. Show him in. Oh, he's coming in, and don't be frightened. The poor thing is wounded. Wounded? Doña Barbarita and Rosario hurry impulsively to the door, much alarmed, but before they can reach it... de Cordoba appears quite at his ease, as usual. In one hand he has a handkerchief, with which he staunches the wound in his forehead, in the other the sheepdog. Nothing serious, dear ladies. Please don't be alarmed. A slight contusion from this little objet d'art advertu, which came flying out of the window as I was passing by. And which I now have the pleasure of returning to you, in tact.

The sheepdog? Maria Pepa. Don't say anything more to me. I feel dreadfully about it. It was sure to be that nasty animal, too, the first thing that came. De Cordoba shows no sign of knowing Rosario, who, having given an exclamation, Almost of triumph on his appearance, now maintains an impersonal silence. I hope you will forgive my intruding on you in this rather unconventional way, but— But it is we must ask your forgiveness. Dear me, you are bleeding dreadfully. Well, if you had a bit of court plaster— Plaster won't do. We'll take more care of you than that. Sit down, please. Maria Peppa, bring me some hot water and some lint and a bandage. Maria Peppa goes out. Child, don't stand there like a statue.

Come and help. She says this while through her glasses she is examining de Cordoba's wound. De Cordoba with a twinkle. I do hope I haven't alarmed her. Is she very easily upset? Rosario makes an angry gesture, but approaches. The hair will have to be cut. I'll get my scissors. She goes out quickly. As soon as they are alone, de Cordoba seizes Rosario's hand. Little Rosario, are you still angry at me? I consider you utterly contemptible. With my head cut open? I didn't cut your head open. But what else did you deserve? De Cordoba, half jesting and half supplicating. Rosario. Maria Peppa enters with a beautiful antique silver water basin and jug, and a basket with bandages, gauze, cotton wool, etc., and puts it all on the table.

Doña Barbarita comes in after her with a pretty scissors case, a little silver bowl, and a small bottle of collodion. Everything is very dainty and pretty, as is usual with old ladies who don't anymore have anything but details to live for, and who have always been accustomed to an infinite number of feminine refinements. Now, let us see. Water, Maria Pepper. Maria Pepa pours some water from the silver jug into the basin and comes up. Child, you cut the hair. Your eyes are good. Rosario, seizing the scissors which her grandmother gives her and treating de Cordoba's head with no great respect, cuts off a large lock of hair. Doña Barbarita scandalized. My dear, not all that. Her hand is shaking.

No wonder. What a shock to you all. Not in the least, thank you. But your hair is so... Tangled. Infernally tangled. And it never used to be. That's all right. I can manage now. She puts Rosario aside and sponges the wound. Now a little collodion. She applies a little. Does it smart? De Cordoba, with an eloquent gesture. Doesn't it? All the better. Now the bandage, child. There, the scar will hardly show. Rosario has watched his suffering with great composure, ignoring completely his appealing looks. Maria Pepa, with deep sympathy. Think if it had been on the nose. Doña Barbarita, washing her hands and drying them with a towel. Now, would you like a comb and a looking-glass? De Cordoba, rising.

No, indeed. I've given you quite enough trouble for this evening. But if I might call on you at a more reasonable hour? Why, of course. But we must introduce ourselves. I am Signora de Castellanos. And I... And Louis-Philippe de Cordoba. The writer? De Cordoba, bowing. Yes. Doña Barbarita, looking at Rosario. The famous author of a spring romance? On hearing this, Maria Pepa stares at him as if he were a prehistoric animal. Am I famous? Wasn't it he wrote that beautiful story about the painter and the orange girl? And you said you were dying to know him. Now I see him, I don't wonder. Rosario, thus appealed to, is covered with confusion, but de Cordoba bows his acknowledgments to Maria Pepa. Doña Barbarita, scolding her good-naturedly, Maria Pepa.

Well, he's very handsome. I'm old enough to be able to tell him so, God knows. Take all this away. Maria goes off with the bowl, jug, etc., smiling sweetly upon de Cordoba, who, when she has gone, puts his hand to his head and reels slightly. What is the matter? Oh, nothing. I'm a little giddy. Of course. The blow and the loss of blood. Sit down. Just keep quiet. Ah, senora. I'll get some brandy. I'll go. No, stay where you are. I have the keys. She goes out. Once more, de Cordoba seizes Rosario's hand. Let me kiss the hand that wounded me. It was Maria Peppa's. I'd sooner think it was yours. I mightn't have aimed so well. Doña Barbarita comes back with a little decanter of brandy and a glass.

Here is the brandy. She gives him some. So many thanks. Excellent brandy. You prefer it to water, with a little orange flower in it? Doña Barbarita, alert, but not knowing what on earth she means. My dear. I much prefer it. Smiling. And, for the future... I'll keep some of my study for the benefit of nervous, high-strung visitors. Ah, do many ladies come to call on you? Quite a number. Actresses? And people of that sort? My dear child! De Cordoba, smiling. An actress will drop in sometimes. Well, do you feel better? Much better, thank you. Well enough to take my leave. No, indeed. I insist on your resting a little longer. Oh, but— And, my child, I think we'll all have some tea or some chocolate and cake.

Maria Peppa! Maria Peppa appears so quickly that she could only have been just on the other side of the door. Well, which, tea or chocolate? Oh, not for me, indeed. We don't often have so distinguished a guest. De Cordoba bows profoundly. And it has been a most trying ten minutes for us all. We shall be the better for a little refreshment. I shall be. She seats herself in her chair. De Cordoba is standing by the writing table. Rosario manages to say to him, You're caught now. Yes, it's very late, but you can't get to the theater in time to see her new dances. Will her picture console you, perhaps? She lays the illustrated paper in front of him. Very like her, isn't it? Maria Peppa has now gone for the chocolate.

There is a silence. Aren't you two going to sit down? They do. And now the air of a formal call supervenes. What a charming house you have. Old-fashioned, but convenient. This is my grandson's study. He's a writer, too. De Cordoba throws out a polite awe, although he takes no interest in that whatever. We are all interested in literature and great admirers of yours. So, though we're sorry you were hurt, we can't but be pleased at the chance of meeting you. "'Señora, the pleasure is mine.' "'But you have paid rather dearly for it.' "'Oh, that wound isn't mortal.' He gives a glance at Rosario. "'And even if it were, one man the less, one flitting ghost the more.' "'Ah, I recognize that quotation.

I have the whole passage in the album I kept as a girl written out in the author's handwriting.' No, I didn't know him personally, but I imitated it from a facsimile there was in the newspaper. It was quite the thing in those days to keep an album and get famous men to write and draw in it if you could. It still is. What a nuisance you must find it. A perfect plague. Yes, I feared you'd think so. But for you? Good heavens! Why, nothing would give me a greater pleasure. Doña Barbarita delighted. Child, get my album at once. The last verses were written, I'm afraid, in 1865. It was still possible then to call me young and golden-haired without taxing too much poetic license. The precious album is produced.

Write something romantic in it. I've not lost my love for romance. Rosario puts the album on the table. De Cordoba sits down, and she silently hands him a pen. They are now hidden from the old lady and her chair. De Cordoba, pretending to write, You don't look nearly so pretty when you're cross. I'm glad to hear it. Couldn't you relax just a little? No. Shall it be in prose or verse? As soon as she stopped talking, Doña Barbarita, overcome no doubt by fatigue, had begun to nod. The voice rouses her, but only a little. Eh? Prose or verse? Prose, if you please. Poetical prose. She nods again. If I were you, do you know what I'd do? Something stupid, probably. I'd answer yes or no to the question we left unsettled this morning.

Will you be my— Rosario, interrupting him furiously— I will be nothing whatever to you. Shh, Grandmama. She's asleep. Then, with a good deal of feeling in the jest— And I was just beginning to fancy that you might be so much— Almost everything. Why almost? Do you think that any woman can completely fulfill a man's requirements, no matter how perfect she may be? Are you wise, then, to be so particular? Wise or unwise, I want you. For a secretary? I want you. "'Evans! Shh!' "'Won't you answer?' Rosario, looking at him askance, but with a little smile. "'What salary do you offer?' "'To my secretary, four hundred pesadas a month.' "'It's very small.' "'Six hours a day, and quite pleasant work.' "'But it costs so much to live in these times.' "'If you'll marry me as well.' I'll add board and lodging for nothing.

Thank you. I want nothing for nothing. Well, I'll raise your salary. Four hundred as secretary, and three hundred and fifty as wife, with board besides. Separate board. You might ask me to dinner sometimes. I shall ask you regularly on Thursdays and Mondays. Rosario with a little quiet and rather happy laugh. How absurd you are! Thank God! I've heard you laugh again. Well, will you or not? Rosario, the modern woman with a vengeance. What guarantee can you give? For the money? That we shall be happy? None. What? Well, what guarantee can you give me? Happiness, believe me. is a very strange thing. You may find it by looking for it, or it may come by pure luck. And, looking back, you may find you weren't happy when you thought you were, or unhappy, for that matter, when you thought you were either.

Guarantees are no good. Oh yes, I know. People always promise each other a heaven on earth. There's no such thing. Isn't there? In the last chapters of novels... Your novels? My last chapters are shockingly bad, don't you think? I'm always too anxious to finish. But life's not a novel. Alas, no. But a far better book than the best of us ever will write. Such a good story, full of passion and thought, full of mysteries and revelation. Worth living, and better. Far better. Worth sharing. No, little Osario, I can't promise you, or you, me, that love will be heaven on earth. But it will be life. No more than life. But nevertheless, I mean well. But I've lots of faults. So have you. Of course I know that.

Or you wouldn't be human. Well? Shall we try the journey together? No doubt we shall stumble a bit, and one or the other may fall now and then. But that won't matter, will it? If the one that is up helps the one that is down, I don't think we'll both ever be down together. That would be awful luck. Yes. We shall have troubles. Who hasn't? But we'll laugh at them when they'll bear it. We'll work a great deal. And we'll always have faith in our work. That's how one keeps young. We'll never think we're important people, so that a little bit of success will always seem a little bit more than we deserve. And we'll be as pleased with it as a child with his new shoes. That would be all very well if you loved me.

But you don't love me. How on earth do you make that out? Because you've been mocking me all the time. That's not like love, with the hat, with the letter you wrote yourself, and even when you walked in with the sheepdog. And my head broken. Yes, that was one to me, though I didn't do it, but the only one. And how beautifully I bear it. Little Rosario, I couldn't have slept tonight if I'd not made peace with you. Would you rather I'd send you a letter in my best literary style? Senorita, since first I had the joy of looking in your face. I thought you had a little more real imagination than that. Rosario falling into his trap. Indeed, but I have. Oh, then why is it that I, so old and serious, must be teaching you that the way to get the best out of even the most serious things in life is still to keep your sense of humor about them.

She says nothing, so now he goes very close to her. Well, which is it to be? Will you take the chance of being loved all your life by a man who gets his head broken so that he may sit here and talk a little real common sense to you? Rosario longs to say yes and struggles, apparently just with her inability to say it. Then suddenly, Doña Barbarita looks up. Oh, my dear child, do say yes or no. The two of them jump out of their skins as she says this. They had quite forgotten her, but Doña Barbarita continues coolly. Quite right to make difficulties up to a point, but... Weren't you asleep? My dear, do you suppose that in eighty years I've not been able to learn when to go to sleep and when to wake up again?

Then Rosario runs to her grandmother like a child, kneeling, her head hidden in the old lady's lap. Oh, Grandmama, you say it to him. You say it. Doña Barbarita Caressing the Child And last night she was asking me for a latch key. She hasn't a mother, you know. I've spoiled her a little, and I'm so old now perhaps I've forgotten what the things are she wants most to learn about life. I haven't been able to teach her, you see, even how to say yes." But Doña Barbarita gives her hand to de Cordoba, who kisses it. And the yes is thus almost said. And, at the moment, as usual, Maria Peppa comes in. Now don't you go away till she has said it, or she'll cry her heart out and give us a terrible time.

For we all love you, all of us, even though it's not my place to tell you, that's true. Rosario. Rosario, getting up and facing him, smiling, still shy but bold. One condition. Juanita. Who's Juanita? You haven't forgotten. The girl in your new book. Good heavens! I had. She's not to marry Don Indalesio. Not on any account whatever. She shall marry her Mariano on the day that you marry me. And pass her examination? With honors. Rosario holding out her two hands to him. You promise? De Cordoba, taking her hands. I promise. The two old people gaze at them with entire delight, and Maria Peppa says, Pretty dears. End of Act III. End of The Romantic Young Lady by Gregorio Martinez Sierra. Translated by Harley-Granville Barker.

queue_music Chapters 3