Works of Alexander Pushkin (107 page)

LEPORELLO. What of it? On her heels came others.

DON JUAN. — True!

LEPORELLO. And if we live there will be others still.

DON JUAN. E’en so.

LEPORELLO. — And now what lady in Madrid
Shall we be seeking out?

DON JUAN. — Why, whom but Laura!
I’m off to show myself to her.

LEPORELLO. — Now that’s
The way to talk.

DON JUAN. — Just watch me walk straight in;
And if there’s someone with her, I’ll suggest
His exit through the window.

LEPORELLO. — Why, of course!
Well, now we have recovered our good spirits.
It’s not for long dead women can disturb us.
But who is this that comes our way?
{Enter
MONK.)

MONK. — She will
Be here this instant. Who are you? The servants
Of Dona Anna?

LEPORELLO. We are our own masters,
Out for a stroll.

DON JUAN. — But whom are you awaiting?

MONK. Good Dona Anna will be here to visit
Her husband’s tomb, and shortly.

DON JUAN. — Dona Anna
De Solva? What? The wife of the commander
Slain by... the name I can’t recall...?

MONK. — The vile,
The dissolute, the godless Don Juan.

LEPORELLO. Oho! Well, well! The fame of Don Juan
Has even reached the peaceful convent now;
His eulogies are sung by anchorites.

MONK. Perhaps you know him?

LEPORELLO. — We? No, God forbid.
And where can he be now?

MONK. — He isn’t here.
He’s far away in exile.

LEPORELLO. — Thank the Lord!
The farther off the better. Would that all
Such rascals in a single sack were sewn
And thrown into the sea.

DON JUAN. — What stuff and nonsense
Is this?

LEPORELLO. Be silent: ‘twas on purpose I...

DON JUAN. SO here it was they buried the commander?

MONK.’ Twas here. And here his widow did erect
A monument to him and every day
She comes to weep, and pray that God may grant
His soul salvation.

DON JUAN. — What a curious widow!
And is the lady pretty?

MONK. — Anchorites,
Like us, should not be moved by woman’s beauty;
But lying is a sin: a saint himself
Must yet admit her wondrous loveliness.

DON JUAN. The dead man had good reason to be jealous;
He kept this Dona Anna bolted up:
Not one of us e’er caught a glimpse of her.
I’d like to have a talk with her sometime.

MONK. Oh, Dona Anna never talks with men.

DON JUAN. She talks with you, good father, doesn’t she?

MONK. Oh, that’s a different matter — I’m a monk.
But there she is.
— (Enter
DONA ANNA.)

DONA ANNA. Come, open, holy father.

MONK. I come, Senora; I was waiting for you.
(DONA ANNA
follows the
MONK.)

LEPORELLO. Well, what’s she like?

DON JUAN. — There’s nothing visible
Of her beneath her somber widow’s veil;
I just but glimpsed a trim and narrow heel.

LEPORELLO. That’s quite enough for you. Imagination
Will in a jiffy sketch you out the rest;
Your fancy’s quicker than the painter’s brush.
The starting-point is all the same to you —
The forehead, or the foot.

DON JUAN. — O Leporello,
I’ll get to know her.

LEPORELLO.
(to himself.)
There you have the man!
That’s the last straw! The fellow, having killed
The husband, now would like to feast his eyes
Upon the widow’s tears! The wretch!

DON JUAN. — But see
The dusk is on us. Ere the moon arise
Above us and transform this inky black
Into a glowing twilight, let us creep
Into Madrid.

LEPORELLO. A Spanish nobleman,
Like any thief, awaits the night — and fears
The moon. O Heavens! What a cursèd life!
Ah, how much longer must I bear with him?
My strength, in truth, is nearly at an end!

SCENE II

Room. Supper at
LAURA’S.

FIRST GUEST. I swear to you, dear Laura, never yet
Was such perfection in your acting shown!
How thoroughly you understood your rôle!

SECOND GUEST. And with what power its meaning you
unfolded!

THIRD GUEST. And with what art!

LAURA. — To-day, indeed, success
Did crown my every movement, every word:
I yielded freely to my inspiration;
The words flowed forth, as though it was the heart,
And not the timid memory, gave them birth.

FIRST GUEST. ‘Tis true; and even now your eyes are shin-
ing,
Your cheeks are burning — no, your ecstasy
Has not yet faded. Laura, let it not
Grow cold before it bear some fruit: pray, Laura,
Do sing us something!

LAURA. — Give me my guitar.
(Sings.)
ALL. Ah,
brava! bravai
Wonderful! Superb!

FIRST GUEST. Our thanks, enchantress! You have cast a
spell
Upon our hearts. Among the joys of life,
To love alone does music yield the prize;
But love itself is melody.... Behold:
Carlos himself, your surly guest, is touched!

SECOND GUEST. What harmonies! And how much soul
therein!
Who wrote the words, dear Laura?

LAURA. — Don Juan.

DON CARLOS. What? Don Juan?

LAURA. — Some time or other he,
My loyal friend — and fickle lover — wrote them.

DON CARLOS. Your Don Juan’s an atheist and a rascal;
While you, you’re but a fool.

LAURA. — Have you gone mad?
Grandee of Spain though you may be, I’ll bid
My servants cut your throat straightway for this.

DON CARLOS. (
Gets up.)
Well, call them then.

FIRST GUEST. — No, Laura, do not do it;
Don Carlos, don’t be angered. She forgot...

LAURA. Forgot? That Don Juan in single combat
Quite honorably killed his brother? True,
‘Twere better he had killed Don Carlos.

DON CARLOS. — I
Was stupid to get angry.

LAURA. — You admit
That you were stupid — let us make our peace.

DON CARLOS. Forgive me, Laura; it was all my fault.
But still you know I cannot hear that name
With equanimity.

LAURA. — Am I to blame
If that name’s on my tongue at every moment?

GUEST. Come, Laura, as a sign your anger’s passed,
Sing once again.

LAURA. — I’ll sing a good-night song.
‘Tis time — for night has come. What shall I sing?
Ah! listen.
(Sings.)
ALL. — Charming! Matchless! How sublime!

LAURA. Good night, my friends.

GUESTS. — Good night and thanks,
sweet Laura.
(They go out.
LAURA
stops
DON CARLOS.)
422 — dramatic writings

LAURA. You utter madman, you! Remain with me.
You took my fancy; you reminded me
Of Don Juan, the way you rated me
And set your teeth and ground them.

DON CARLOS. — Lucky mam
You loved him then? (LAURA
nods.)
You loved him
deeply?

LAURA. Deeply.

DON CARLOS. And do you love him now?

LAURA. — This very minute?
Why, no. I cannot love two men at once.
It’s you I love at present.

DON CARLOS. — Tell me, Laura,
How old are you?

LAURA. — I am eighteen, my friend.

DON CARLOS. O Laura, you are young... and will be
young
For five or six years more. Around you men
Will throng for six years more and shower you
With flattery, with gifts and with caresses,
Divert you with nocturnal serenades,
And kill each other for you at the cross-roads
By night. But when your prime has passed, and
when
Your eyes are sunken, and their puckered lids
Grow dark, and in your tresses gray hairs glint,
And men begin to call you “an old woman,”
Well, what will you say then?

LAURA. — Ah, then... But why
Be thinking now of that? What conversation!
Or are you always thinking things like that?
Come out upon the balcony. How calm
The sky! The air is still and warm; the night
Is odorous with lemon and with laurel;
The bright moon’s shining in the dense, dark blue —
The watchmen’s drawn-out cry resounds: “All’s
well!”...
But far away now in the north — in Paris —
Perhaps the sky is overcast with clouds,
A cold rain’s falling and the wind is blowing.
But what is that to us? Now listen, Carlos:
I order you to smile at me. — That’s right.

DON CARLOS. You fascinating demon! (
Knoc\ at door.)

DON JUAN. — Laura, ho!

LAURA. Who’s there? Whose voice is that?

DON JUAN. — Unlock the door...

LAURA. Lord! Can it be?
(Opens the door, enter
DON JUAN.)

DON JUAN. — Good evening!

LAURA. — Don Juan!...
(LAURA
throws herself on his nec
k
.)

DON CARLOS. What! Don Juan!...

DON JUAN. — Laura, my darling girl!...
(Kisses her.)
Whom have you here, my Laura?

DON CARLOS. — It is I —
Don Carlos.

DON JUAN. What an unexpected meeting!
To-morrow I am at your service...

DON CARLOS. — No!
Not then — at once.

LAURA — Don Carlos, stop, I say!
You’re in my house, not in the public street —
I beg you, go away.

DON CARLOS. (
Not listening to her.)
I’m waiting. Well?
Your sword is at your side.

DON JUAN. — Oh, if you have
No patience, very well.... — (
They fight.)

LAURA. — Oh! oh! Juan!...
(‘Throws herself on the bed.
DON CARLOS
falls.)

DON JUAN. Get up, my Laura, it’s all over.

LAURA. — What
Lies there? He’s killed? How lovely! In my room!
And what shall I do now, you scapegrace, devil?
And how shall I dispose of him?

DON JUAN. — Perhaps
He’s still alive. (
Examines the body.)

LAURA. — Alive, forsooth! Why look,
You wretched man! You pierced him through the
heart —— ,
No fear, you didn’t miss! No blood is flowing
From the three-cornered wound, nor is he breathing.
So what do you say now?

DON JUAN. — It can’t be helped.
He asked for it himself.

LAURA. — Ah, Don Juan,
It’s most annoying, really. Your old tricks!...
And yet you’re ne’er to blame! Whence come you
now?
How long have you been here?

DON JUAN. — I just arrived
And on the quiet — for I’ve not been pardoned.

LAURA. And instantly you recollected Laura?
So far so good. But stop! I don’t believe you.
You happened to be passing through the street,
And saw my house.

DON JUAN. — NO, Laura, you can ask
My servant Leporello. I am lodging
Outside the city in a wretched tavern.
For Laura’s sake I’m visiting Madrid. (
Kisses her.)

LAURA. You are my darling!... Stop... not right
before
The dead man! Oh, what
shall
we do with him?

DON JUAN. Just leave him here — before the break of day,
I’ll take him out enfolded in my cloak,
And place him on the cross-roads.

LAURA. — Only look
That no one sees you. ‘Twas a stroke of luck
Your visit was not timed a minute sooner!
Your friends were supping here with me. They just
Had left. Suppose that you had found them here!

DON JUAN. HOW long, my Laura, have you loved him?

LAURA. — Whom?
You must be raving.

DON JUAN. — Laura, come, confess
How many times you’ve been unfaithful since
My absence?

LAURA. — What about yourself, you scapegrace?

DON JUAN. Come, tell me... No, we’ll talk about it
later!...

SCENE III

The Commander’s Monument

DON JUAN. All’s for the best: for, having slain Don
Carlos
Without intent, in humble hermit’s guise
I’ve taken refuge here — and every day
I see my charming widow, who has noticed
Me too, I think. Until the present we
Have stood on formal terms with one another;
To-day, however, I shall break the ice;
‘Tis time! But how to start? “May I presume?”...
Or no: “Senora”... Bah! whatever comes
Into my head, I’ll say spontaneously
Like one whose serenade is improvised.
It’s time she came. Without her, I believe
The poor commander has a tedious time.
They’ve made him look a very giant here!
What mighty shoulders! What a Hercules!...
Whereas the man himself was small and puny;
If he were here and, standing on tip-toe,
Stretched out his arm, he could not reach his nose.
When hard by the Escurial we met,
He ran upon my sword-point and expired,
Just like a dragon-fly upon a pin.
But he was proud and fearless — and he had
A rugged spirit... there she is (
Enter
DONA ANNA.)

DONA ANNA. — Again
He’s here. O father, I’ve distracted you
From holy meditations. Pardon me.

DON JUAN. ‘Tis I who must beseech
your
pardon, rather,
Senora; for perhaps I am preventing
Your grief from flowing freely as it might.

THE STONE GUEST

DONA ANNA. NO, father, for my sorrow is within me.
E’en in your presence may my prayers ascend
Humbly to Heaven; and I beg you join
Your voice with mine.

DON JUAN. — I pray with Dona Anna!
A lot so happy I do not deserve!
These vicious lips of mine will never dare
Repeat your holy supplications; I
But from afar with reverence do look
On you, when, bowing silently, you spread
Your raven tresses o’er the pallid marble —
And then it seems to me that secretly
An angel has alighted on this tomb.
Within my troubled heart it is not prayers
That I find then. I stand in speechless wonder
And think — Oh! happy man, whose chilly marble
Is warmed with breath from her celestial lips
And with the tears of her great love bedewed.

DONA ANNA. Strange words are these!

DON JUAN. — Senora?

DONA ANNA. — Said to me!...
You have forgotten...

DON JUAN. — What? That I am only
A wretched hermit? That my sinful voice
Should not resound so loudly in this place?

DONA ANNA. It seemed to me... I did not under-
stand...

DON JUAN. Aha! I see; you have discovered all!

DONA ANNA. I have discovered! What?

DON JUAN. — That I’m no monk...
451
And at your feet I humbly beg your pardon.

DONA ANNA. O Heavens! Pray get up! Who are you
then?

DON JUAN. Unhappy victim of a hopeless passion!

DONA ANNA. O God in Heaven! Here, before this tomb!
Begone!...