Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (430 page)

CARELESSNESS

A Comedy in One Act

Scene One
: A street scene in front of Balthazar’s country home. At the right of the house is a stone fence. The house is two - storied, with a balcony. Under the balcony are olive and bay trees.

Discovered
: Donna Dolores sitting on the balcony.

Donna Dolores: I feel very, very gloomy. I have nothing to read; I don’t know how to sew on canvas, and I dare not leave the house. What shall I do here alone? Go into the garden? Never! The garden annoys me. Moreover, what pleasure is there in recollecting that here, on this spot, my husband scolded me; that there, on that spot, he forbade me to look out of the window, and that near yonder tree, he proposed to me? [Sighing.] Oh, that was the worst thing that ever happened to me! [Falls into a meditation, and after a while, begins to sing.]
Tra, la - la - la; tra, la - la - la! There goes a woman neighbor. . . .
What a beautiful evening! What balmy air! How nice it would be to take a walk along the Prado, with some amiable, polite young man. How agreeable it would be to hear the voice of an admirer, instead of the decrepit and hoarse voice of my .
 
[She looks around.] I would come home with him; he would bow, and perhaps ask permission to kiss my hand. And I, without taking my glove off, would let him kiss just that — [She points to her fingers.] . . . How beautiful the stars are! I am more depressed than usual to - day, and I really don’t know why. I think, that if my husband were to dress more fashionably; if he were to wear a hat with a white feather, and a velvet mantle, and spurs, and a sword, — really, I think I could love him . . . although I must confess, that he is awfully fat and very old. ... He always wears worn - out black vests, and forever and aye, the same hat, with the same faded red feather. [Falls into meditation.’] Oh, I am not so very young myself, now. I will soon be 27. For seven years I have been married, and I haven’t lived at all. Why does nothing unusual never happen to me? I am considered an exemplary wife by the whole neighborhood, but what do I care about that? Oh, Lord, forgive me; I think I am sinning. Things will come into one’s head, when one is in a melancholy humor. Is it possible that all my life will pass this way: This same monotonous way? Is it possible that every morning I’ll have to take off my husband’s nightcap, and receive a kiss for that service? Is it possible that I will have to see that unbearable, that hated Sangre, every evening? Is it possible that Margaret will keep watch over me eternally? Save me, Oh, Lord! for I fear such a life. She has gone away for an hour and left me to myself, thank God! I feel that I am virtuous; I feel that nothing in the world ... no, nothing in the world, could persuade me to betray my husband. Then why shouldn’t he, at least at times, permit me to see people. . . . They give me the most gloomy, heavy, old books to read! Only once in my life, I remember, while I was still in the convent, I got hold of a dandy little book. Oh, what a beautiful book it was! It was a novel, written in letters. A young man wrote to his beloved girl, — first, in prose, and then in poetry. Oh, Lord, if I could only receive such letters! But that’s impossible. We are living in the dullest . . . Oh, if only some one would happen to come around here!

Don Rafael [quickly coming out from under the balcony]: What would you do, beautiful Senora?

[Donna Dolores jumps up, frightened, and stands immovable.]

Don Rafael [bowing low]: Senora! Your humble and respectful admirer is still waiting for an answer.

Donna Dolores [tw a trembling voice]: What . . . Admirer! I am seeing you for the first time.

Don Rafael [aside] So am I. [Aloud.] Senora! I have loved you for a long time. What am I talking about! — Love you? I am passionately, desperately in love with you! You have never noticed me, but that is because I have tried in every way not to be seen by you. I was afraid to draw the suspicion of your husband upon either the one or the other of us.

[Donna Dolores starts to go away.]

Don Rafael [despairingly]: You want to go away? And just now, you were complaining of your loneliness, your melancholy! Pardon me, but if you will avoid all acquaintances, how can you expect to rid yourself of your melancholy? It is true, our acquaintance has begun in a most peculiar way, but what of that? I am sure that you became acquainted with your husband in a most usual way.

Donna Dolores: Surely, I don’t know. . . .

Don Rafael [pleadingly]: Oh, remain! Please remain. If you only knew . . . [He sighs.]

Donna Dolores: But where could you have seen me?

Don Rafael [semi - audibly]: Oh, innocent little dove! [Aloud] Where? You ask where? Here, and not only here, but also there — [pointing to the house with his finger] — there. [To himself.] I must puzzle her.

Donna Dolores: It is not possible.

Don Rafael: Listen to me; you don’t know me. You don’t know what dangers I have spurned; how often I have risked my honor, my life, and all because I have wanted to see you once in a while, even from a distance, — to see you,’ to hear your voice, or — [lowering his voice] — or admire you, or torment myself with your peaceful sleep. [To himself.] Bravo!

Donna Dolores: You are frightening me. [Shuddering.] Oh, Lord, I think I hear Margaret’s voice. [Starts to go.]

Don Rafael: Don’t go away, beautiful Senora, don’t go away. Your husband isn’t at home, is he?

Donna Dolores: No.

Don Rafael: Just realize that merely by your presence you are causing another man, — that is, me, — such happiness, — in a word, the greatest happiness! Don’t be cruel; stay, I pray you!

Donna Dolores: But, pardon me, — people might think . . .

Don Rafael: What could they think? Isn’t this a public street? Hasn’t everyone a right to walk on this street? I walk by — [walks] — and suddenly change my mind and turn around — [turns around.] What is there reprehensible about that, — or suspicious? I like this spot . . . and you are sitting on the balcony. You like to sit outdoors. Who could forbid your sitting on your own balcony? You are looking down; you are meditating; you don’t pay the slightest attention to what is going on in the street. I do not ask you to talk to me, though I am extremely much obliged to you for CARELESSNESS
           
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your condescension. You will sit there, and I will pace to and fro and admire you. [Begins to pace.]

Donna Dolores [semi - audibly]: Oh, God! Oh, God! What am I living through! My mind is aflame. I can hardly breathe. I never expected such an occurrence. . . .

Don Rafael [singing softly]:

“Sweet love will never come, Without it, I shall die. . . .

Without it, I shall languish, Shall languish, pine and sigh —

But love will never come, Sweet love will never come.”

Donna Dolores [in a weak voice]: Senor . . . Don Rafael: Senora . . .

Donna Dolores: Surely, I think it would be best for you to go away. My husband, Don Balthazar, is very jealous. . . . And I love my husband. Don Rafael: Oh, I don’t doubt that. Donna Dolores: You don’t doubt it? Don Rafael: I thought you said you were afraid of your husband?

Donna Dolores [confused]: I? . . . You didn’t . . . But I am not alone here. That cross old Margaret. . . . [From a window on the top floor, Margaret looks out, cautiously.] Don Rafael: I am not afraid of her. Donna Dolores: But the gardener, Pepe, a giant . . . Don Rafael [somewhat uneasy]: A giant? A giant? [Looking at his hat.] I am not afraid of him.

Donna Dolores: My husband will be back presently.

Don Rafael: We’ll let him pass by. However, you mustn’t forget, that in case of danger, you can hide yourself at a moment’s notice.

Donna Dolores: But the night . . .

Don Rafael: The night! Oh, the night, the divine night! Do you like the night - time? The very word, “night,” sends me into ecstasies.

Donna Dolores: Ssh! For Heaven’s sake . . .

Don Rafael: Pardon me. I won’t talk any more. But to sing in the street is permitted to everyone. You will hear the song of a friend of mine, a poet from Seville, a student. [He paces the street and sings softly]:

By moonlight, ere dawn break, A moment’s brief bliss, I seek at thy bidding, And one silent kiss. . . .

Beneath thy broad casement, Cut high in the wall, I stand in black shadow, My cloak like a pall.

By starshine, the nightingale’s Passion - choked bar! . . .

Come, answer his summons, Appear, oh my star!

So long as we live —

Till we go to the grave, Make this one night remembered, What it took, what it gave.

On foot lightly tripping, With heart scarcely beating, With quick, frightened glances, Come down to me, sweeting.

In triumph unending, The high steps ascending, I shall gaze in thine eyes, On my knees lowly bending.

All tremors will vanish, The last fear grow pale. . . .

Thy dear lisp will die on Thy lips in betrayal.

.....

Or sleepst thou, hands folded, Thy lover forgot —

And doth the sweet summons Of dawn stir thee not?

Donna Dolores [semi - audibly]: I must go away. . . . I cannot . . . what will this result in? [Looks around.] No one sees us; no one hears us . . . Ssh . . . [Don Rafael goes up to the balcony quickly.] Senor! You are sure that I am a virtuous woman, are you not? [Don Rafael bows low.] You don’t think for a moment . . . mischievous . . . nothing impossible . . . you understand me? — You wouldn’t interpret anything impossible?

Don Rafael [to himself]: What does that mean?

Donna Dolores: I think that you know, yourself, that a piece of mischief is all right only when it ends quickly. . . .

I think we have been mischievous enough. I wish you a good and restful night.

Don Rafael: A peaceful night! It is easy for you to say that.

Donna Dolores: I am sure that you will sleep quietly. But, if you like . . . [Somewhat confused.] Some other time . . .

Don Rafael [to himself]: Aha!

Donna Dolores: I advise you not to come here any more, because somebody might see you. I am very much surprised that you haven’t been seen already.