Mariana: an original drama in three acts and an epilogue

Front matter

PQ 6516 .M2 Copy *

IjOSE'EpHEGARAYll

1 Mapiana i if; jjj

Act I

The scene represents a drawing-room adorned with elegance, Doors at the sides and in the back centre. Night. All splendidly lit up. A little "At Home " is taking place. Clara is discovered seated: Trinidad enters to her. .

Trin. I am coming to keep you company, Clarita.

Clara. Are you tired of hearing music ?

Trin. {sitting down beside Clara). I only like music when I am in the Teatro Real. There, it costs me very dear, so it should be very good. The only things worth considering are those that cost money.

Clara. True enough: that's why men are most fond of the women for whom they make most sacrifices.

Trin. That 's why Daniel is so fond of the enchanting Mariana.

Clara. And that 's why your brother, Don Pablo, our heroic general, is so fond of the divine Mariana.

Trin. How am I to know ?

Clara. Don't deny it.

Trin. No, darling, I '11 not deny it. Although I think my heroic brother has plunged into a war in which there will be more defeats than victories.

Clara. One victory, that of the wedding, will be enough for him ; and afterwards — taking into con-

S Mariana.

sideration Mariana's character — there are no disasters to be feared. Moreover, Don Pablo, like a true soldier, would take bloody vengeance for any such.

Trix. The wedding is very doubtful.

Clara. Why? Common sense counsels it. Mariana is a widow who is hardly a widow, and is almost a child: beautiful as a mid-day sun: r h an

incalculable richness— for half America is hers: a reputation without blemish ; a virtue flawless as marble.

Trix. Perhaps the reason of her being so virtuous is that she bears such a resemblance to marble. The Venus of Milo would resist all the amorous assaults of all the wearers of cress-coats or smoking jackets without an evil thought passing through her most beautiful head, without a single tremor agitating her heart of stone.

Clara. But. after all. she is virtuous. And as for your brother . . . ah ! your brother is a soldier of lofty exploits and pure fame : loyal, energetic, attractive : with his forty-eight years he is worth many men of thirty : and in the political world he will mount very high.

Trix. We are agreed that Pablo is heroic and sympathetic, and that Mariana is rich, very beautiful. and virtuous ?

Clara. Quite so.

Trix. Well, mark me : our dear Mariana must be very virtuous, no doubt, but she flirts horribly with Daniel.

Clara laughing)* You call that flirtation? Say that she roasts him at a slow fire, that she torments him without pity, that she plays with him as a cat with a mouse : strokes him. sticks her claws in him; lets him go. springs on to him : makes fond grimaces at him, and covers him with blood. This is not coquetry ; it is more like hatred, cruelty. Poor Daniel ! if he does not fly, he will either be driven mad, or will blow his brains out.

Trin. Climaxes like those are only found in melodrama. He will either be undeceived and marry some one else ... or he will get wedded to Mariana.

Clara. But I tell you she hates him. Am I not likely to know her? When she looks at him she fixes her eyes as when she used to quarrel with a girl at college, and fly at her, and bite and scratch her. Believe me, if the usages of society allowed it, she would bite and scratch Daniel.

Trin. Ah ! Clarita, how dangerous that is !

Clara. For Daniel.

Trin. No, dear, for Mariana. Listen — I will tell you in confidence. The first thing that I felt with regard to my poor, dear Paco — may he rest in peace ! — was an invincible desire to bite his hands — because they were always beautifully white and well cared for . . . you understand ? {Wipes her eyes.)

Clara {laughing). What you tell me is remarkable. Before I was married I never had any desire to bite my dear Castulo. Since our marriage — I've many times longed to do so.

Trin. But if Mariana hates Daniel, as you say, why does she receive him in her house ? why does she call him to her and attract his attention ?

Clara. I don't know. It must be because she delights in tormenting him. Mariana is very good, but she is . . .how shall I say it ? . . . somewhat cruel.

Trin. Certainly. Mariana is very good; but at heart . . . at heart . . . (?nysteriously) God knows what Mariana is.

io Mariana.

Clara. Do you know what she is ? — Selfish.

Trin. I know her to be very cold-natured.

Clara. No; she is dried up at the heart.

Trin. She likes nobody.

Clara. Because she has no feeling. There it is — she has no feeling.

Trin. And she does not believe in anybody or in anything.

Clara. But, in spite of all, she is very good.

Enter Don Joaquin.

Trin. She is indeed; and I am very fond of her.

Clara. And she is so lovely !

Trin. Most lovely !

Clara. Don Joaquin. . . .

Joaq. You are now speaking kindly of some friend.

Trin. That 's true.

Joaq. Was I not sure of it ? It may be known from your faces. . . . You wore the faces of the "grand panegyrists," as Don Castulo would say.

Clara. That is so. We were speaking . . .

Joaq. Of the mistress of the house ?

Trin. Quite so — of Mariana.

Joaq. And you did not require much inspiration to . . .

Clara. To what ?

Joaq. To end by deifying her? . . . {apart) by drawing and quartering her.

Clara. Not very much.

Joaq. Then I shall assist you. Let us continue our raising of Mariana to the rank of the divinities.

Trin. You love her greatly.

Clara. You were always very fond of her.

Trin. You have been almost like a father to her.

Joaq. Not quite so. But, indeed, I take a true

Mariana. i i

interest in her. And at my age a man may interest himself, as I do, in a young woman like Mariana without fear of your deifying us. So say I — if you will take my opinion . . . though I am not very much to be relied upon.

Clara (laughing). No, senor, you 're not indeed.

Trin. {laughing). No, senor; you are still dangerous.

Clara. Dangerous when you have the opportunity.

Joaq. What's that you are telling me ? You really flatter me. I must beg Don Pablo's permission to pay my court to you, Trinidad. I shall ask a license from Don Castulo, our prince of archaeologists, to deliver to you, Clarita, a course of practical lessons in archaeology.

Clara. Put away your flowers of rhetoric, and let us return to Mariana.

Joaq. Then we have not made an end of her?

Clara. No, senor; a great deal still remained to be said about the enchanting young widow !

Trin. A widow ! But she can scarcely be called one. She goes to be married, or her father proceeds to have her married, by power of attorney, to an immensely rich American: he ships her off by the first steamer; the divine betrothed disembarks — to meet the dead body of her bridegroom. Tell me conscientiously: is that being a widow? {To Don Joaquin.)

Joaq. Well, let us call her "a widow by power of attorney." You are not one of that fashion, Trinidad?

Trin. No, senor. Poor Paco !

Joaq. And you — you are not a widow in that way, Clarita?

Clara. Not in any way. Have you forgotten Castulo ?

Joaq. True! true I What a head I have! . . . Castulo ! . . . the high priest of archaeology ! . . . Humph, here he comes at the conjuration.

Clara. And he comes with Luciano : poor lad !

Joaq. What supplicating looks that poor lad directs toward you, Clarita —to save hi

CLARA. Leave them alone; Castulo is initiating him into the mysteries of archaeology.

Joaq. Throw him a life-buoy.

Clara. Exactly. And Castulo will bear up behind. {The three talk in whispers and lau z

Enter Don Castulo and Luciano. Clara. Trinidad, and Dox Joaquin farm a group to

the left of the spectator-. Don Castulo and Luciano come slozvfy from the other dra: rooms and take their places also to leftward. Don Castulo is explaining with enthusiasm. Luciano listens courteously, but does not cease • to direct glances towards Clara.

Cast. Undeceive yourself, Luciano j there is nothing more curious, more instructive, and. I would almost dare to say, more profound, than the history of that utensil so prosaic in appearance. Oh! the histc: the comb from the remotest times — from the cavern of the primeval bear, and the ic hyaena, and

the bristly elephant down to our cays — is the history of humanity ! Do you doubt it ?

Luc. I do not doubt it, Don Castulo. But there I see your good lady. . . .

Cast, (detaining him), Don't believe me on my word alone. We archaeologists are inclined to be vain ; but I have a collection of combs ! . . . Ah! . . .

Luc. I think Clarita is calling me.

Cast, {looking aside for a mo?nent). No, she is not calling you. You shall call on us to-morrow and pass a pleasant time with us.

Luc. I ? With whom ?

Cast. Yes, you — with that unrivalled collection.

Luc. Pah ! — the collection of combs ?

Cast. The British Museum offered me four thousand pounds sterling for it.

Luc. And you did not sell it?

Cast. Sell it ! I ! ... I said to myself, " Now I may call you genuine combs ! " I have — on my word of honor — I have combs made of the backbone of a fish, of porcupine's quills, of wood, of cane, of bone, of crystal, of various metals, even of horn.

Luc. Horn !

Cast. And of bull's horn, indeed. Not to be denied, serior — not to be denied. Always remember this maxim : where there is a graft there are various grafts ; and where there are various grafts or thorns there is a comb.

Luc. The devil ! Can it be true ? I think ... I now really think . . . {Wishing to go to Clara; Don Castulo detains him.)

Cast. You must breakfast with us to-morrow, and you shall see wonders. I have combs of all shapes and of all ages : rectilineal, curvilineal triangular, polygonal, representative, non-representative, smooth, carven, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and composite. I have them from Egypt, Assyria, Greece . . . there have you grafts, indeed ! . . . from Rome . . . there have you combs ! I have those which were shattered by barbarians — a sort of petrifactive devastation — for those people preferred the thistle to the comb for the smoothing of their hair. I have even a comb which is said to have belonged to

Charlemagne ! I have actually . . . actually another comb which is declared to have been used by La Cava ! * . . . Pure legends ! For on the point of combs one must walk with great care.

Luc. Yes, Clarita, I am coming. (Clara has not called him?) Excuse me, Don Castulo ; your wife is decidedly calling me. (Don Castulo, growing still more enthusiastic in his discourse, is not in time to detain him, and Luciano approaches Ci^ara.)

Cast, (aside). How impertinent these women are ! Poor Luciano was enchanted. And you . . . (Approaching the group.)

Trin. (to Don Castulo). Did you say anything?

Cast. Nothing. You come away from those others. (Taking her apart?)

Trin. Were you tired of playing billiards ?

Cast. I never play. It is an empty game. To aim a stroke at a ball, in order that a ball may roll . . . Do you think, my friend, that that noble substance, ivory — pure, classical, with all the softness and delicacy characteristic of the touch of feminine things, and all the sudden energy of masculine strength — do you think, I repeat, that ivory was created to be transformed into diminutive balls, and to endure blows from the cues of four idlers? Ah, if the elephants knew it, how they would raise the sky with their trumpetings ! Make out of ivory artistic little figures ; make combs — let me put a case in point — which may sink voluptuously into the tresses of a beautiful woman — everything, except billiard-balls. And, positively, I have in my collection . . .

Trin. Excuse me ; I must find my brother. . . .

1 Florinda La Cava, the lover of Rodrigo, the last of the Gothic kings.

Mariana. i 5

Cast. We shall look for him together. {Preparing to accompany her.)

Trin. Many thanks. Don Joaquin wants you. — Don Joaquin. {Calling?)

Cast. Wants me? . . . Don Joaquin. . . . {Going towards him.)

Joaq. {meeting Castulo). Did you call me?

Cast. I did not call you . . . but it's all the same ; we '11 suppose that I did call you. {Taking possession of Don Joaquin.)

Trin. (she will have approached Clara and Luciano while uttering the previous sentences, and now says to them). So, good-bye for the present.

Clara. Are you going already ?

Trin. No; I shall come back . . . when the danger is over {pointing to Don Castulo).

(Clara and Luciano to the right, speaking in whispers; Don Castulo and Don Joaquin to the left)

Cast. What high-strung nerves women have ! They cannot be at ease for five minutes : cannot fix their attention for two minutes : cannot listen for half a minute.

Joaq. Cannot listen. That 's not always the case. (Turning a glance towards Clara, who listens with interest, while Luciano speaks with much emphasis)

Cast. Then it must be when you speak to them of fashions. But speak to them of serious things : of my collections, for example. . . .

Joaq. (appalled). Yes. ... I already know . . . about those collections !

Cast. Very well. I was speaking of them to Trinidad. Now you would have listened for an hour consecutively. . . .

Joaq. I hardly think so.

Cast. Why, you heard me yesterday for three hours ; and you heard me breathlessly. Well, Trinidad would not listen to me even during the most insignificant space of time.

Joaq. What do you say? . . . She would not! . . . She would not listen to you? Impossible! . . . Do you hear? . . . Do you hear? (Approaching, with great demonstrations of horror, Clara and Luciano, in order to take part in their conversation and escape from Don Castulo.)

Clara. What do you say, Don Joaquin ?

Joaq. That Trinidad finds no amusement in Archaeology ! Repeat that, Don Castulo.

Luciano. Is it possible?

Cast. It is possible. Ah ! {to Luciano.) People are not all like you. And, by the way {turning to Clara), I have requested Luciano to breakfast with us to-morrow. I have to show him two or three acquisitions. I have fallen in with a Genoese majolica, which will send you raving.

Luc. I can believe it. Clarita, your house contains treasures.

Cast. You may well say that to me.

Luc. How I envy you, Don Castulo !

Cast, {laughing). So I imagine. But they are all my own. And I have added Amenhotep I., Amenhotep II., and Amenhotep III., to the Egyptian gallery. You did not know that.

Luc. (to Clara). Don't you remember that Trinidad is waiting for you ?

Clara (rising). It's true. {To her husband.) She expects us for the customary game of ombre.

Luc. Excuse us, Don Castulo. (To Clara.) Shall we go there ?

Mariana. i 7

Clara. Let us go.

Cast. But does she positively expect you ?

Clara. Positively.

[Exeunt Clara and Luciano.

Joaq. She expects me also. {Going out.

Cast, {taking hiin by the arm). No; not you. There are four already. Pablo, Trinidad, Clarita, and Luciano. You would make one too many.

Joaq. I am one too many everywhere.

Cast. You are never one too many for me. — I was saying that my Egyptian collection is simply marvellous. I have some twenty hybrid little figures . . . thus we called them. . . . When Luciano saw them I thought he would turn faint. I have the Man of Straw, the Winged Horse; I have the Human Ox . . . and, egad! the last-named strongly resembles yourself.

Joaq. Many thanks.

Cast. Give those thanks to the Pharaonic artist. And, passing on to Assyria, what would you say if you saw my collection of beards of Adrammelech and of Sarasar the parricide? And then the collection of eyebrow tweezers of the wife of Assurbanipal ! With them I am now and then seized with the humor of plucking out the superfluous hairs on the eyebrows of Clarita.

Joaq. But those are the refinements of Archaeology.

Cast. And pleasures of which you have no idea. (Becoming aniinated.} Time becomes contracted, races commingle, the ages are confounded together. I live amongst all the men who have been, I jostle against them ; we are almost as familiar with each other as bosom friends. " Give me the tweezers,

Assurbanipal, my wife is waiting." Or else, " Nabopalasar, give me the brush, I have a mud-stain on my trousers." With this pocket-handkerchief Phidias wiped his forehead ; in these little shoes perspired the tiny feet of a Moorish queen. Oh ! grandeurs of history ; oh ! littlenesses of private life ; I have you both in my house in the rigorous order of classification. The immense wheel of the epic runs in a groove with the insignificant pinion of the domestic. What more ? In one glass case I have a comb with a quantity of hairs which may have been from the beard of Assurbanipal. Assurbanipal, Don Joaquin ! In these times, as they vulgarly say, and pardon me the phrase, now that we are in confidence, in the present day we " laugh in the beard " of some one ; but to " laugh in the beard " of Assurbanipal on his throne of Nineveh, at a distance of thirty centuries — can you understand anything more magnificent ?

Joaq. Yes, sir. {Aside.') To do the same to me in this historic moment.

Cast. You are right. There is something more magnificent. For I may tell you . . .

Joaq. At present it is not possible. . . .

Cast. Why?

Joaq. Because Mariana and Daniel are coming here.

Cast. And what then ?

Joaq. Then they must be left alone to prepare the Archaeology of the future.

Cast. True.

Joaq. So good-bye for the present.

Cast. I am going with you. The company of so enlightened a man cannot be sufficiently appreciated by me.

Joaq, (in a tone of despair). Nabucodonosor !

Cast. I have also something about me of Nabucodonosor.

Joaq. Something ! No ; a great deal. \_Exeimt.

Enter Mariana and Daniel, by the right.

Mar. {bursts into a laugh, and follows with her eyes Don Castulo and Don Joaquin). It 's delightful, most delightful. . . . Ha, ha, ha!

Dan. How merry you have become all at once, Mariana! What are you laughing at? . . . Pardon me ; but that laughter . . .

Mar. Set your mind at ease, Daniel. I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at those two — especially at Don Joaquin.

Dan. At Don Joaquin !

Mar. At my good friend ; at my respectable guardian ; at my dear Don Joaquin.

Dan. Why?

Mar. Don't you see Don Castulo bearing him off ? (Laughing.) Under the power of Don Castulo, who will explain to him . . . How do I know what he'll explain to him ! Don Joaquin will now be driven mad.

Dan. And you delight in the misery of that good gentleman who loves you so much !

Mar. I don't delight in his misery : I laugh at it — two very distinct things.

Dan. If you treat your friends thus, how do you treat your enemies ?

Mar. In the same way. I find no great difference between the one and the other of them. Friend . . . enemy ... all depends, as Don Castulo would say, on the historic moment when you consider him. You are my friend to-day ; to-morrow you will be my enemy.

Dan. Never!

Mar. Never is the most useless word in the dictionary. For goodness' sake, Daniel, don't come to me this evening with romanticisms which are out of fashion now ; and permit me to laugh without malice at my dearest Don Joaquin, who is being marched triumphantly through my drawing-rooms by Don Castulo, as a conqueror of ancient times might have dragged behind his chariot of war a vanquished king,

Dan. Ah ! Mariana, Don Castulo is not the only one who drags through your drawing-rooms the poor slaves enchained to a triumphal car.

Mar. There is another who is guilty of similar inhumanities ?

Dan. I think so.

Mar. And that other despot is myself?

Dan. Yourself: and you know it.

Mar. Good: then I will not be inhuman, nor despotic, nor cruel, nor carry slaves about with me. I break the chain and give them liberty. {Rising as if to go away.)

Dan. No, for God's love, Mariana; don't go away. The chain cannot be broken. And even if you should break it, the slave would follow you to the end of the world, to the end of life.

Mar. These fits of exaggeration make me nervous, and, furthermore, they make you and me look ridiculous.

Dan. Do you want us to speak seriously ?

Mar. Speak seriously ! That would be a cruelty. But, in short, speak — and as you please. {Sits down.)

Dan. Mariana, do you love me or hate me? I don't know : tell me the truth yourself.

Mar. {laughs). That he may love me if I love him ; that he may hate me if I hate him.

Dan. That I may live ... or that I may die ; but always for my Mariana.

Mar. What bursts of profound passion !

Dan. Don't sneer at me.

Mar. I am not sneering.

Dan. Then answer me fairly : is it hatred, is it love?

Mar. {approaching him and looking at hint with something of coquetry, something of tenderness). Well ... I don't know, myself. (A pause : they look at each other for some moments)

Dan. Perhaps you say what you feel.

Mar. I am very frank.

Dan. But why did you speak of hating me ? {In a softened tone) I adore Mariana as one adores the angels. I think of you night and day with infinite fondness ; if by any chance you call me, saying simply: "Daniel!" all the fibres of my being tremble, as a man might tremble who is summoned by his God. Is that a motive for hatred? What reason have you to abhor me ?

Mar. {listening to him with a kind of pleasure). None; and that makes it all the more agreeable. A hatred with a motive is a melodramatic hatred ; a hatred without cause is a most artistic, most refined hatred, worthy of you and worthy of me, who are people of good taste.

Dan. So that you hate me?

Mar. If you are tiresome, what must I do ?

Dan. Mariana, Mariana, why do you delight in torturing me?

Mar. How am I to know? Come, let's see: let us discuss the subject together. Let's begin: let's treat it . . . archaeologically ; let 's recall the time when I did not know you.

Dan. And when I did not know you, either.

Mar. Chance caused us to see each other for the first time.

Dan. Chance it was. I was passing one day through the street, my father leaning on my arm — for the poor man was, and is, very ill. . . .

Mar. Does he suffer much ?

Dan. Very much, Mariana.

Mar. Poor sefior ! Some day we must take out the carriage and go and see him. His country house is two or three leagues from Madrid, is it not?

Dan. At most ; and how grateful to you the poor old man would be !

Mar. Go on. You were passing by with your father, who was so enveloped in rugs that I could not see him. You I did see. {Laughing.)

Dan. And I you. It was the first time I had seen you.

Mar. The first . . . and when will the last be? Who can pierce into the future ! {Pensively.)

Dan.. Do you want it to be soon?

Mar. No: frankly; I do not want it. {Softly,) How sad it would be not to see you !

Dan. Mariana!

Mar. How dull and how wearisome existence would be without a person to . . .

Dan. To love?

Mar. What impudence ! I said no such thing.

Dan. Then ... to torment.

Mar. Torment or love, it 's all the same.

Dan. Then let it be ; I accept the torment and the affection.

Mar. For the present — let the former suffice.

Dan. How cruel you are !

Mar. Get on, get on with the romantic first meeting. You passing with your father, and I in an open carriage waiting at the door of a shop. Is n't that it?

Dan. And I looking at you, and thinking, " How happy I should be if that woman would address a word to me, a single word ! Just to hear her voice ! "

Mar. Well, since that time you must have been very happy, for we have spoken a great deal together,

Dan. I have been so.

Mar. And nothing else happened? Because I don't remember.

Dan. Yes ; a poor child, ragged, almost naked, with hungry face, asked an alms from you.

Mar. It 's true. These abandoned children. (Sadly and pensively)

Dan. You looked at her with pity, with sympathy, with affection, and your beautiful eyes were bedimmed with a rain-cloud of tears. You gave her a piece of money, and told her your private address, which I heard plainly. And I thought, " She is very good."

Mar. The proof was conclusive. {Mockingly)

Dan. You raised your glance, you fixed it on me, and your face had changed. Your first look had been like a sunbeam which falls upon a drop of rain and is transformed into a rainbow. Your second look was like the same sunbeam when it wanders on and falls upon a dark and lonely cloud, and is converted into a purple reflex of it. And I reluctantly thought, " That 's a very bad woman."

Mar. The case is clear : you had been guilty of an impertinence and I could not restrain my annoyance. You called to the child and gave her an alms, as if to say, " I must do likewise ; between us two we shall succour this poor creature ; now, madame, there 's a tie that binds us." That's what you thought; and I thought: i; How impertinent that interesting young fellow is ! "

Dan. Mariana ! . . .

Mar. Yes. you may complain, and I have involuntarily called you interesting ; I had almost said prepossessing.

Dan. I shall be what you please; let me conclude. I made inquiries and found that you were the daughter of a rich banker who had died in America. I sought for some one to introduce me to your house . . .

Mar. And I received you very well, did I not?

Dan. Certainly.

Mar. And since then, for all that you may say. I have not treated you badly. I allow you to speak to me of your affection, to accompany me everywhere. Come, I have almost compromised my reputation for you.

Dan. Xo. not that, Mariana. To beg you on my knees — if that be necessary — that you should be my wife, is not to compromise you.

Mar. Your wife ! . . . {laughing) What an idea !

Dan. Why not ? You are rich ... it is true . . .

Mar. Who is thinking of that ?

Dan. But so am I, though not so rich ; you are young and beautiful. . . .

Mar. (jestingly). You are not old, and I have already said what I '11 not now repeat. . .

Dan. Is your position high ? My father's has been so. Are you anxious to mount higher? I shall mount for you. I deliver myself up to you entirely, unconditionally. My life, my happiness, my soul, my honor, all the conceptions of my brain, all the pulsations of my heart, even to the last drop of my blood, everything is yours. To you I shall be as a brother, as a father, as a slave, as a lover; all ! Say to me, " Be my adorer," and, to adore you the sooner, I shall bow down with such violence as to shatter my forehead against the stones ! Say to me, " Fool, amuse me," and I shall adorn my skull with cap and bells. Say to me, " That creature vexes me," then I shall kill the creature and become a murderer. Say to me, " Love me," and on that day, if you have not a heart, I shall die in your arms ; if you have a heart, you shall die in mine !