All the
wickedness
on earth is done in their name: where else
but in hell should they have their reward?
but in hell should they have their reward?
Man and Superman- A Comedy and a Philosophy by Bernard Shaw
No you don't.
No man would commit such a crime against himself
if he really knew what he was doing. How can you look round at these
august hills, look up at this divine sky, taste this finely tempered
air, and then talk like a literary hack on a second floor in Bloomsbury?
MENDOZA. [shaking his head] The Sierra is no better than Bloomsbury when
once the novelty has worn off. Besides, these mountains make you dream
of women--of women with magnificent hair.
TANNER. Of Louisa, in short. They will not make me dream of women, my
friend: I am heartwhole.
MENDOZA. Do not boast until morning, sir. This is a strange country for
dreams.
TANNER. Well, we shall see. Goodnight. [He lies down and composes
himself to sleep].
Mendoza, with a sigh, follows his example; and for a few moments
there is peace in the Sierra. Then Mendoza sits up suddenly and says
pleadingly to Tanner--
MENDOZA. Just allow me to read a few lines before you go to sleep. I
should really like your opinion of them.
TANNER. [drowsily] Go on. I am listening.
MENDOZA. I saw thee first in Whitsun week Louisa, Louisa--
TANNER. [roaring himself] My dear President, Louisa is a very pretty
name; but it really doesn't rhyme well to Whitsun week.
MENDOZA. Of course not. Louisa is not the rhyme, but the refrain.
TANNER. [subsiding] Ah, the refrain. I beg your pardon. Go on.
MENDOZA. Perhaps you do not care for that one: I think you will like
this better. [He recites, in rich soft tones, and to slow time]
Louisa, I love thee.
I love thee, Louisa.
Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee.
One name and one phrase make my music,
Louisa. Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee.
Mendoza thy lover,
Thy lover, Mendoza,
Mendoza adoringly lives for Louisa.
There's nothing but that in the world for Mendoza.
Louisa, Louisa, Mendoza adores thee.
[Affected] There is no merit in producing beautiful lines upon such a
name. Louisa is an exquisite name, is it not?
TANNER. [all but asleep, responds with a faint groan].
MENDOZA.
O wert thou, Louisa,
The wife of Mendoza,
Mendoza's Louisa, Louisa Mendoza,
How blest were the life of Louisa's Mendoza!
How painless his longing of love for Louisa!
That is real poetry--from the heart--from the heart of hearts. Don't you
think it will move her?
No answer.
[Resignedly] Asleep, as usual. Doggrel to all the world; heavenly music
to me! Idiot that I am to wear my heart on my sleeve! [He composes
himself to sleep, murmuring] Louisa, I love thee; I love thee, Louisa;
Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I--
Straker snores; rolls over on his side; and relapses into sleep.
Stillness settles on the Sierra; and the darkness deepens. The fire
has again buried itself in white ash and ceased to glow. The peaks show
unfathomably dark against the starry firmament; but now the stars dim
and vanish; and the sky seems to steal away out of the universe. Instead
of the Sierra there is nothing; omnipresent nothing. No sky, no peaks,
no light, no sound, no time nor space, utter void. Then somewhere
the beginning of a pallor, and with it a faint throbbing buzz as of a
ghostly violoncello palpitating on the same note endlessly. A couple of
ghostly violins presently take advantage of this bass
(a staff of music is supplied here)
and therewith the pallor reveals a man in the void, an incorporeal but
visible man, seated, absurdly enough, on nothing. For a moment he raises
his head as the music passes him by. Then, with a heavy sigh, he droops
in utter dejection; and the violins, discouraged, retrace their melody
in despair and at last give it up, extinguished by wailings from uncanny
wind instruments, thus:--
(more music)
It is all very odd. One recognizes the Mozartian strain; and on this
hint, and by the aid of certain sparkles of violet light in the pallor,
the man's costume explains itself as that of a Spanish nobleman of the
XV-XVI century. Don Juan, of course; but where? why? how? Besides, in
the brief lifting of his face, now hidden by his hat brim, there was
a curious suggestion of Tanner. A more critical, fastidious, handsome
face, paler and colder, without Tanner's impetuous credulity and
enthusiasm, and without a touch of his modern plutocratic vulgarity, but
still a resemblance, even an identity. The name too: Don Juan Tenorio,
John Tanner. Where on earth---or elsewhere--have we got to from the XX
century and the Sierra?
Another pallor in the void, this time not violet, but a disagreeable
smoky yellow. With it, the whisper of a ghostly clarionet turning this
tune into infinite sadness:
(Here there is another musical staff. )
The yellowish pallor moves: there is an old crone wandering in the void,
bent and toothless; draped, as well as one can guess, in the coarse
brown frock of some religious order. She wanders and wanders in her
slow hopeless way, much as a wasp flies in its rapid busy way, until
she blunders against the thing she seeks: companionship. With a sob of
relief the poor old creature clutches at the presence of the man and
addresses him in her dry unlovely voice, which can still express pride
and resolution as well as suffering.
THE OLD WOMAN. Excuse me; but I am so lonely; and this place is so
awful.
DON JUAN. A new comer?
THE OLD WOMAN. Yes: I suppose I died this morning. I confessed; I had
extreme unction; I was in bed with my family about me and my eyes fixed
on the cross. Then it grew dark; and when the light came back it was
this light by which I walk seeing nothing. I have wandered for hours in
horrible loneliness.
DON JUAN. [sighing] Ah! you have not yet lost the sense of time. One
soon does, in eternity.
THE OLD WOMAN. Where are we?
DON JUAN. In hell.
THE OLD WOMAN [proudly] Hell! I in hell! How dare you?
DON JUAN. [unimpressed] Why not, Senora?
THE OLD WOMAN. You do not know to whom you are speaking. I am a lady,
and a faithful daughter of the Church.
DON JUAN. I do not doubt it.
THE OLD WOMAN. But how then can I be in hell? Purgatory, perhaps: I have
not been perfect: who has? But hell! oh, you are lying.
DON JUAN. Hell, Senora, I assure you; hell at its best that is, its most
solitary--though perhaps you would prefer company.
THE OLD WOMAN. But I have sincerely repented; I have confessed.
DON JUAN. How much?
THE OLD WOMAN. More sins than I really committed. I loved confession.
DON JUAN. Ah, that is perhaps as bad as confessing too little. At all
events, Senora, whether by oversight or intention, you are certainly
damned, like myself; and there is nothing for it now but to make the
best of it.
THE OLD WOMAN [indignantly] Oh! and I might have been so much wickeder!
All my good deeds wasted! It is unjust.
DON JUAN. No: you were fully and clearly warned. For your bad deeds,
vicarious atonement, mercy without justice. For your good deeds, justice
without mercy. We have many good people here.
THE OLD WOMAN. Were you a good man?
DON JUAN. I was a murderer.
THE OLD WOMAN. A murderer! Oh, how dare they send me to herd with
murderers! I was not as bad as that: I was a good woman. There is some
mistake: where can I have it set right?
DON JUAN. I do not know whether mistakes can be corrected here. Probably
they will not admit a mistake even if they have made one.
THE OLD WOMAN. But whom can I ask?
DON JUAN. I should ask the Devil, Senora: he understands the ways of
this place, which is more than I ever could.
THE OLD WOMAN. The Devil! I speak to the Devil!
DON JUAN. In hell, Senora, the Devil is the leader of the best society.
THE OLD WOMAN. I tell you, wretch, I know I am not in hell.
DON JUAN. How do you know?
THE OLD WOMAN. Because I feel no pain.
DON JUAN. Oh, then there is no mistake: you are intentionally damned.
THE OLD WOMAN. Why do you say that?
DON JUAN. Because hell, Senora, is a place for the wicked. The wicked
are quite comfortable in it: it was made for them. You tell me you feel
no pain. I conclude you are one of those for whom Hell exists.
THE OLD WOMAN. Do you feel no pain?
DON JUAN. I am not one of the wicked, Senora; therefore it bores me,
bores me beyond description, beyond belief.
THE OLD WOMAN. Not one of the wicked! You said you were a murderer.
DON JUAN. Only a duel. I ran my sword through an old man who was trying
to run his through me.
THE OLD WOMAN. If you were a gentleman, that was not a murder.
DON JUAN. The old man called it murder, because he was, he said,
defending his daughter's honor. By this he meant that because I
foolishly fell in love with her and told her so, she screamed; and he
tried to assassinate me after calling me insulting names.
THE OLD WOMAN. You were like all men. Libertines and murderers all, all,
all!
DON JUAN. And yet we meet here, dear lady.
THE OLD WOMAN. Listen to me. My father was slain by just such a wretch
as you, in just such a duel, for just such a cause. I screamed: it was
my duty. My father drew on my assailant: his honor demanded it. He fell:
that was the reward of honor. I am here: in hell, you tell me that is
the reward of duty. Is there justice in heaven?
DON JUAN. No; but there is justice in hell: heaven is far above such
idle human personalities. You will be welcome in hell, Senora. Hell
is the home of honor, duty, justice, and the rest of the seven deadly
virtues.
All the wickedness on earth is done in their name: where else
but in hell should they have their reward? Have I not told you that the
truly damned are those who are happy in hell?
THE OLD WOMAN. And are you happy here?
DON JUAN. [Springing to his feet] No; and that is the enigma on which I
ponder in darkness. Why am I here? I, who repudiated all duty, trampled
honor underfoot, and laughed at justice!
THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, what do I care why you are here? Why am I here? I,
who sacrificed all my inclinations to womanly virtue and propriety!
DON JUAN. Patience, lady: you will be perfectly happy and at home here.
As with the poet, "Hell is a city much like Seville. "
THE OLD WOMAN. Happy! here! where I am nothing! where I am nobody!
DON JUAN. Not at all: you are a lady; and wherever ladies are is hell.
Do not be surprised or terrified: you will find everything here that a
lady can desire, including devils who will serve you from sheer love of
servitude, and magnify your importance for the sake of dignifying their
service--the best of servants.
THE OLD WOMAN. My servants will be devils.
DON JUAN. Have you ever had servants who were not devils?
THE OLD WOMAN. Never: they were devils, perfect devils, all of them. But
that is only a manner of speaking. I thought you meant that my servants
here would be real devils.
DON JUAN. No more real devils than you will be a real lady. Nothing is
real here. That is the horror of damnation.
THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, this is all madness. This is worse than fire and the
worm.
DON JUAN. For you, perhaps, there are consolations. For instance: how
old were you when you changed from time to eternity?
THE OLD WOMAN. Do not ask me how old I was as if I were a thing of the
past. I am 77.
DON JUAN. A ripe age, Senora. But in hell old age is not tolerated. It
is too real. Here we worship Love and Beauty. Our souls being entirely
damned, we cultivate our hearts. As a lady of 77, you would not have a
single acquaintance in hell.
THE OLD WOMAN. How can I help my age, man?
DON JUAN. You forget that you have left your age behind you in the realm
of time. You are no more 77 than you are 7 or 17 or 27.
THE OLD WOMAN. Nonsense!
DON JUAN. Consider, Senora: was not this true even when you lived on
earth? When you were 70, were you really older underneath your wrinkles
and your grey hams than when you were 30?
THE OLD WOMAN. No, younger: at 30 I was a fool. But of what use is it to
feel younger and look older?
DON JUAN. You see, Senora, the look was only an illusion. Your wrinkles
lied, just as the plump smooth skin of many a stupid girl of 17, with
heavy spirits and decrepit ideas, lies about her age? Well, here we have
no bodies: we see each other as bodies only because we learnt to think
about one another under that aspect when we were alive; and we still
think in that way, knowing no other. But we can appear to one another at
what age we choose. You have but to will any of your old looks back, and
back they will come.
THE OLD WOMAN. It cannot be true.
DON JUAN. Try.
THE OLD WOMAN. Seventeen!
DON JUAN. Stop. Before you decide, I had better tell you that these
things are a matter of fashion. Occasionally we have a rage for 17; but
it does not last long. Just at present the fashionable age is 40--or say
37; but there are signs of a change. If you were at all good-looking at
27, I should suggest your trying that, and setting a new fashion.
THE OLD WOMAN. I do not believe a word you are saying. However, 27 be
it. [Whisk! the old woman becomes a young one, and so handsome that in
the radiance into which her dull yellow halo has suddenly lightened one
might almost mistake her for Ann Whitefield].
DON JUAN. Dona Ana de Ulloa!
ANA. What? You know me!
DON JUAN. And you forget me!
ANA. I cannot see your face. [He raises his hat]. Don Juan Tenorio!
Monster! You who slew my father! even here you pursue me.
DON JUAN. I protest I do not pursue you. Allow me to withdraw [going].
ANA. [reining his arm] You shall not leave me alone in this dreadful
place.
DON JUAN. Provided my staying be not interpreted as pursuit.
ANA. [releasing him] You may well wonder how I can endure your presence.
My dear, dear father!
DON JUAN. Would you like to see him?
ANA. My father HERE! ! !
DON JUAN. No: he is in heaven.
ANA. I knew it. My noble father! He is looking down on us now. What must
he feel to see his daughter in this place, and in conversation with his
murderer!
DON JUAN. By the way, if we should meet him--
ANA. How can we meet him? He is in heaven.
DON JUAN. He condescends to look in upon us here from time to time.
Heaven bores him. So let me warn you that if you meet him he will be
mortally offended if you speak of me as his murderer! He maintains that
he was a much better swordsman than I, and that if his foot had not
slipped he would have killed me. No doubt he is right: I was not a good
fencer. I never dispute the point; so we are excellent friends.
ANA. It is no dishonor to a soldier to be proud of his skill in arms.
DON JUAN. You would rather not meet him, probably.
ANA. How dare you say that?
DON JUAN. Oh, that is the usual feeling here. You may remember that on
earth--though of course we never confessed it--the death of anyone
we knew, even those we liked best, was always mingled with a certain
satisfaction at being finally done with them.
ANA. Monster! Never, never.
DON JUAN. [placidly] I see you recognize the feeling. Yes: a funeral was
always a festivity in black, especially the funeral of a relative. At
all events, family ties are rarely kept up here. Your father is quite
accustomed to this: he will not expect any devotion from you.
ANA. Wretch: I wore mourning for him all my life.
DON JUAN. Yes: it became you. But a life of mourning is one thing: an
eternity of it quite another. Besides, here you are as dead as he. Can
anything be more ridiculous than one dead person mourning for another?
Do not look shocked, my dear Ana; and do not be alarmed: there is plenty
of humbug in hell (indeed there is hardly anything else); but the humbug
of death and age and change is dropped because here WE are all dead and
all eternal. You will pick up our ways soon.
ANA. And will all the men call me their dear Ana?
DON JUAN. No. That was a slip of the tongue. I beg your pardon.
ANA. [almost tenderly] Juan: did you really love me when you behaved so
disgracefully to me?
DON JUAN. [impatiently] Oh, I beg you not to begin talking about love.
Here they talk of nothing else but love--its beauty, its holiness, its
spirituality, its devil knows what! --excuse me; but it does so bore me.
They don't know what they're talking about. I do. They think they have
achieved the perfection of love because they have no bodies. Sheer
imaginative debauchery! Faugh!
ANA. Has even death failed to refine your soul, Juan? Has the terrible
judgment of which my father's statue was the minister taught you no
reverence?
DON JUAN. How is that very flattering statue, by the way? Does it still
come to supper with naughty people and cast them into this bottomless
pit?
ANA. It has been a great expense to me. The boys in the monastery school
would not let it alone: the mischievous ones broke it; and the studious
ones wrote their names on it. Three new noses in two years, and fingers
without end. I had to leave it to its fate at last; and now I fear it is
shockingly mutilated. My poor father!
DON JUAN. Hush! Listen! [Two great chords rolling on syncopated waves of
sound break forth: D minor and its dominant: a round of dreadful joy to
all musicians]. Ha! Mozart's statue music. It is your father. You had
better disappear until I prepare him. [She vanishes].
From the void comes a living statue of white marble, designed to
represent a majestic old man. But he waives his majesty with infinite
grace; walks with a feather-like step; and makes every wrinkle in his
war worn visage brim over with holiday joyousness.
if he really knew what he was doing. How can you look round at these
august hills, look up at this divine sky, taste this finely tempered
air, and then talk like a literary hack on a second floor in Bloomsbury?
MENDOZA. [shaking his head] The Sierra is no better than Bloomsbury when
once the novelty has worn off. Besides, these mountains make you dream
of women--of women with magnificent hair.
TANNER. Of Louisa, in short. They will not make me dream of women, my
friend: I am heartwhole.
MENDOZA. Do not boast until morning, sir. This is a strange country for
dreams.
TANNER. Well, we shall see. Goodnight. [He lies down and composes
himself to sleep].
Mendoza, with a sigh, follows his example; and for a few moments
there is peace in the Sierra. Then Mendoza sits up suddenly and says
pleadingly to Tanner--
MENDOZA. Just allow me to read a few lines before you go to sleep. I
should really like your opinion of them.
TANNER. [drowsily] Go on. I am listening.
MENDOZA. I saw thee first in Whitsun week Louisa, Louisa--
TANNER. [roaring himself] My dear President, Louisa is a very pretty
name; but it really doesn't rhyme well to Whitsun week.
MENDOZA. Of course not. Louisa is not the rhyme, but the refrain.
TANNER. [subsiding] Ah, the refrain. I beg your pardon. Go on.
MENDOZA. Perhaps you do not care for that one: I think you will like
this better. [He recites, in rich soft tones, and to slow time]
Louisa, I love thee.
I love thee, Louisa.
Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee.
One name and one phrase make my music,
Louisa. Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee.
Mendoza thy lover,
Thy lover, Mendoza,
Mendoza adoringly lives for Louisa.
There's nothing but that in the world for Mendoza.
Louisa, Louisa, Mendoza adores thee.
[Affected] There is no merit in producing beautiful lines upon such a
name. Louisa is an exquisite name, is it not?
TANNER. [all but asleep, responds with a faint groan].
MENDOZA.
O wert thou, Louisa,
The wife of Mendoza,
Mendoza's Louisa, Louisa Mendoza,
How blest were the life of Louisa's Mendoza!
How painless his longing of love for Louisa!
That is real poetry--from the heart--from the heart of hearts. Don't you
think it will move her?
No answer.
[Resignedly] Asleep, as usual. Doggrel to all the world; heavenly music
to me! Idiot that I am to wear my heart on my sleeve! [He composes
himself to sleep, murmuring] Louisa, I love thee; I love thee, Louisa;
Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I--
Straker snores; rolls over on his side; and relapses into sleep.
Stillness settles on the Sierra; and the darkness deepens. The fire
has again buried itself in white ash and ceased to glow. The peaks show
unfathomably dark against the starry firmament; but now the stars dim
and vanish; and the sky seems to steal away out of the universe. Instead
of the Sierra there is nothing; omnipresent nothing. No sky, no peaks,
no light, no sound, no time nor space, utter void. Then somewhere
the beginning of a pallor, and with it a faint throbbing buzz as of a
ghostly violoncello palpitating on the same note endlessly. A couple of
ghostly violins presently take advantage of this bass
(a staff of music is supplied here)
and therewith the pallor reveals a man in the void, an incorporeal but
visible man, seated, absurdly enough, on nothing. For a moment he raises
his head as the music passes him by. Then, with a heavy sigh, he droops
in utter dejection; and the violins, discouraged, retrace their melody
in despair and at last give it up, extinguished by wailings from uncanny
wind instruments, thus:--
(more music)
It is all very odd. One recognizes the Mozartian strain; and on this
hint, and by the aid of certain sparkles of violet light in the pallor,
the man's costume explains itself as that of a Spanish nobleman of the
XV-XVI century. Don Juan, of course; but where? why? how? Besides, in
the brief lifting of his face, now hidden by his hat brim, there was
a curious suggestion of Tanner. A more critical, fastidious, handsome
face, paler and colder, without Tanner's impetuous credulity and
enthusiasm, and without a touch of his modern plutocratic vulgarity, but
still a resemblance, even an identity. The name too: Don Juan Tenorio,
John Tanner. Where on earth---or elsewhere--have we got to from the XX
century and the Sierra?
Another pallor in the void, this time not violet, but a disagreeable
smoky yellow. With it, the whisper of a ghostly clarionet turning this
tune into infinite sadness:
(Here there is another musical staff. )
The yellowish pallor moves: there is an old crone wandering in the void,
bent and toothless; draped, as well as one can guess, in the coarse
brown frock of some religious order. She wanders and wanders in her
slow hopeless way, much as a wasp flies in its rapid busy way, until
she blunders against the thing she seeks: companionship. With a sob of
relief the poor old creature clutches at the presence of the man and
addresses him in her dry unlovely voice, which can still express pride
and resolution as well as suffering.
THE OLD WOMAN. Excuse me; but I am so lonely; and this place is so
awful.
DON JUAN. A new comer?
THE OLD WOMAN. Yes: I suppose I died this morning. I confessed; I had
extreme unction; I was in bed with my family about me and my eyes fixed
on the cross. Then it grew dark; and when the light came back it was
this light by which I walk seeing nothing. I have wandered for hours in
horrible loneliness.
DON JUAN. [sighing] Ah! you have not yet lost the sense of time. One
soon does, in eternity.
THE OLD WOMAN. Where are we?
DON JUAN. In hell.
THE OLD WOMAN [proudly] Hell! I in hell! How dare you?
DON JUAN. [unimpressed] Why not, Senora?
THE OLD WOMAN. You do not know to whom you are speaking. I am a lady,
and a faithful daughter of the Church.
DON JUAN. I do not doubt it.
THE OLD WOMAN. But how then can I be in hell? Purgatory, perhaps: I have
not been perfect: who has? But hell! oh, you are lying.
DON JUAN. Hell, Senora, I assure you; hell at its best that is, its most
solitary--though perhaps you would prefer company.
THE OLD WOMAN. But I have sincerely repented; I have confessed.
DON JUAN. How much?
THE OLD WOMAN. More sins than I really committed. I loved confession.
DON JUAN. Ah, that is perhaps as bad as confessing too little. At all
events, Senora, whether by oversight or intention, you are certainly
damned, like myself; and there is nothing for it now but to make the
best of it.
THE OLD WOMAN [indignantly] Oh! and I might have been so much wickeder!
All my good deeds wasted! It is unjust.
DON JUAN. No: you were fully and clearly warned. For your bad deeds,
vicarious atonement, mercy without justice. For your good deeds, justice
without mercy. We have many good people here.
THE OLD WOMAN. Were you a good man?
DON JUAN. I was a murderer.
THE OLD WOMAN. A murderer! Oh, how dare they send me to herd with
murderers! I was not as bad as that: I was a good woman. There is some
mistake: where can I have it set right?
DON JUAN. I do not know whether mistakes can be corrected here. Probably
they will not admit a mistake even if they have made one.
THE OLD WOMAN. But whom can I ask?
DON JUAN. I should ask the Devil, Senora: he understands the ways of
this place, which is more than I ever could.
THE OLD WOMAN. The Devil! I speak to the Devil!
DON JUAN. In hell, Senora, the Devil is the leader of the best society.
THE OLD WOMAN. I tell you, wretch, I know I am not in hell.
DON JUAN. How do you know?
THE OLD WOMAN. Because I feel no pain.
DON JUAN. Oh, then there is no mistake: you are intentionally damned.
THE OLD WOMAN. Why do you say that?
DON JUAN. Because hell, Senora, is a place for the wicked. The wicked
are quite comfortable in it: it was made for them. You tell me you feel
no pain. I conclude you are one of those for whom Hell exists.
THE OLD WOMAN. Do you feel no pain?
DON JUAN. I am not one of the wicked, Senora; therefore it bores me,
bores me beyond description, beyond belief.
THE OLD WOMAN. Not one of the wicked! You said you were a murderer.
DON JUAN. Only a duel. I ran my sword through an old man who was trying
to run his through me.
THE OLD WOMAN. If you were a gentleman, that was not a murder.
DON JUAN. The old man called it murder, because he was, he said,
defending his daughter's honor. By this he meant that because I
foolishly fell in love with her and told her so, she screamed; and he
tried to assassinate me after calling me insulting names.
THE OLD WOMAN. You were like all men. Libertines and murderers all, all,
all!
DON JUAN. And yet we meet here, dear lady.
THE OLD WOMAN. Listen to me. My father was slain by just such a wretch
as you, in just such a duel, for just such a cause. I screamed: it was
my duty. My father drew on my assailant: his honor demanded it. He fell:
that was the reward of honor. I am here: in hell, you tell me that is
the reward of duty. Is there justice in heaven?
DON JUAN. No; but there is justice in hell: heaven is far above such
idle human personalities. You will be welcome in hell, Senora. Hell
is the home of honor, duty, justice, and the rest of the seven deadly
virtues.
All the wickedness on earth is done in their name: where else
but in hell should they have their reward? Have I not told you that the
truly damned are those who are happy in hell?
THE OLD WOMAN. And are you happy here?
DON JUAN. [Springing to his feet] No; and that is the enigma on which I
ponder in darkness. Why am I here? I, who repudiated all duty, trampled
honor underfoot, and laughed at justice!
THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, what do I care why you are here? Why am I here? I,
who sacrificed all my inclinations to womanly virtue and propriety!
DON JUAN. Patience, lady: you will be perfectly happy and at home here.
As with the poet, "Hell is a city much like Seville. "
THE OLD WOMAN. Happy! here! where I am nothing! where I am nobody!
DON JUAN. Not at all: you are a lady; and wherever ladies are is hell.
Do not be surprised or terrified: you will find everything here that a
lady can desire, including devils who will serve you from sheer love of
servitude, and magnify your importance for the sake of dignifying their
service--the best of servants.
THE OLD WOMAN. My servants will be devils.
DON JUAN. Have you ever had servants who were not devils?
THE OLD WOMAN. Never: they were devils, perfect devils, all of them. But
that is only a manner of speaking. I thought you meant that my servants
here would be real devils.
DON JUAN. No more real devils than you will be a real lady. Nothing is
real here. That is the horror of damnation.
THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, this is all madness. This is worse than fire and the
worm.
DON JUAN. For you, perhaps, there are consolations. For instance: how
old were you when you changed from time to eternity?
THE OLD WOMAN. Do not ask me how old I was as if I were a thing of the
past. I am 77.
DON JUAN. A ripe age, Senora. But in hell old age is not tolerated. It
is too real. Here we worship Love and Beauty. Our souls being entirely
damned, we cultivate our hearts. As a lady of 77, you would not have a
single acquaintance in hell.
THE OLD WOMAN. How can I help my age, man?
DON JUAN. You forget that you have left your age behind you in the realm
of time. You are no more 77 than you are 7 or 17 or 27.
THE OLD WOMAN. Nonsense!
DON JUAN. Consider, Senora: was not this true even when you lived on
earth? When you were 70, were you really older underneath your wrinkles
and your grey hams than when you were 30?
THE OLD WOMAN. No, younger: at 30 I was a fool. But of what use is it to
feel younger and look older?
DON JUAN. You see, Senora, the look was only an illusion. Your wrinkles
lied, just as the plump smooth skin of many a stupid girl of 17, with
heavy spirits and decrepit ideas, lies about her age? Well, here we have
no bodies: we see each other as bodies only because we learnt to think
about one another under that aspect when we were alive; and we still
think in that way, knowing no other. But we can appear to one another at
what age we choose. You have but to will any of your old looks back, and
back they will come.
THE OLD WOMAN. It cannot be true.
DON JUAN. Try.
THE OLD WOMAN. Seventeen!
DON JUAN. Stop. Before you decide, I had better tell you that these
things are a matter of fashion. Occasionally we have a rage for 17; but
it does not last long. Just at present the fashionable age is 40--or say
37; but there are signs of a change. If you were at all good-looking at
27, I should suggest your trying that, and setting a new fashion.
THE OLD WOMAN. I do not believe a word you are saying. However, 27 be
it. [Whisk! the old woman becomes a young one, and so handsome that in
the radiance into which her dull yellow halo has suddenly lightened one
might almost mistake her for Ann Whitefield].
DON JUAN. Dona Ana de Ulloa!
ANA. What? You know me!
DON JUAN. And you forget me!
ANA. I cannot see your face. [He raises his hat]. Don Juan Tenorio!
Monster! You who slew my father! even here you pursue me.
DON JUAN. I protest I do not pursue you. Allow me to withdraw [going].
ANA. [reining his arm] You shall not leave me alone in this dreadful
place.
DON JUAN. Provided my staying be not interpreted as pursuit.
ANA. [releasing him] You may well wonder how I can endure your presence.
My dear, dear father!
DON JUAN. Would you like to see him?
ANA. My father HERE! ! !
DON JUAN. No: he is in heaven.
ANA. I knew it. My noble father! He is looking down on us now. What must
he feel to see his daughter in this place, and in conversation with his
murderer!
DON JUAN. By the way, if we should meet him--
ANA. How can we meet him? He is in heaven.
DON JUAN. He condescends to look in upon us here from time to time.
Heaven bores him. So let me warn you that if you meet him he will be
mortally offended if you speak of me as his murderer! He maintains that
he was a much better swordsman than I, and that if his foot had not
slipped he would have killed me. No doubt he is right: I was not a good
fencer. I never dispute the point; so we are excellent friends.
ANA. It is no dishonor to a soldier to be proud of his skill in arms.
DON JUAN. You would rather not meet him, probably.
ANA. How dare you say that?
DON JUAN. Oh, that is the usual feeling here. You may remember that on
earth--though of course we never confessed it--the death of anyone
we knew, even those we liked best, was always mingled with a certain
satisfaction at being finally done with them.
ANA. Monster! Never, never.
DON JUAN. [placidly] I see you recognize the feeling. Yes: a funeral was
always a festivity in black, especially the funeral of a relative. At
all events, family ties are rarely kept up here. Your father is quite
accustomed to this: he will not expect any devotion from you.
ANA. Wretch: I wore mourning for him all my life.
DON JUAN. Yes: it became you. But a life of mourning is one thing: an
eternity of it quite another. Besides, here you are as dead as he. Can
anything be more ridiculous than one dead person mourning for another?
Do not look shocked, my dear Ana; and do not be alarmed: there is plenty
of humbug in hell (indeed there is hardly anything else); but the humbug
of death and age and change is dropped because here WE are all dead and
all eternal. You will pick up our ways soon.
ANA. And will all the men call me their dear Ana?
DON JUAN. No. That was a slip of the tongue. I beg your pardon.
ANA. [almost tenderly] Juan: did you really love me when you behaved so
disgracefully to me?
DON JUAN. [impatiently] Oh, I beg you not to begin talking about love.
Here they talk of nothing else but love--its beauty, its holiness, its
spirituality, its devil knows what! --excuse me; but it does so bore me.
They don't know what they're talking about. I do. They think they have
achieved the perfection of love because they have no bodies. Sheer
imaginative debauchery! Faugh!
ANA. Has even death failed to refine your soul, Juan? Has the terrible
judgment of which my father's statue was the minister taught you no
reverence?
DON JUAN. How is that very flattering statue, by the way? Does it still
come to supper with naughty people and cast them into this bottomless
pit?
ANA. It has been a great expense to me. The boys in the monastery school
would not let it alone: the mischievous ones broke it; and the studious
ones wrote their names on it. Three new noses in two years, and fingers
without end. I had to leave it to its fate at last; and now I fear it is
shockingly mutilated. My poor father!
DON JUAN. Hush! Listen! [Two great chords rolling on syncopated waves of
sound break forth: D minor and its dominant: a round of dreadful joy to
all musicians]. Ha! Mozart's statue music. It is your father. You had
better disappear until I prepare him. [She vanishes].
From the void comes a living statue of white marble, designed to
represent a majestic old man. But he waives his majesty with infinite
grace; walks with a feather-like step; and makes every wrinkle in his
war worn visage brim over with holiday joyousness.
