by Karel Čapek
But not from vengeance; rather, for the joy
Of giving life to words with hand and pen.
Yet — merely write? Should I not speak instead?
To be an orator, to lead the people
And to speak, to speak as bird gives voice
To song — so captivatingly that I
Would quite convince myself, that I’d believe
The very words I speak! — That’s it. To be
Something whole: those are the redeeming words!
To be an actor. Or to write? Or speak
And stir the people? This or that? Oh, hell!
Which shall I choose? What then shall Hamlet be?
What I could achieve, accomplish
If only I were something! — Yes, but what?
That is the question!
October 28, 1934
Don Juan’s Confession
The death of the unhappy Doña Elvira was avenged; Don Juan Tenorio lay in the Posada de las Reinas, a deep wound in his chest, and was obviously near death. “Emphysema of the lungs,” muttered the local doctor. “Some people might yet recover from such a wound, but a caballero as dissipated as Don Juan — These are serious matters, Leporello; I can tell you, I don’t like his heart. Of course, it’s only to be expected: after such excesses in venere — a clear case of asthenia, gentlemen. Just to be on the safe side, Leporello, I would summon a priest for him; he may yet pull through, although given the state of science today — I don’t know. I have the honor to take my leave of you, caballeros.”
Thus it happened that Padre Jacinto sat at the foot of Don Juan’s bed waiting for the patient to come around; in the meantime, he prayed for the caballero’s notoriously sinful soul. If only I might succeed in redeeming this hellacious sinner, thought the good father; he certainly looks like he’s done for — maybe his arrogance will be quelled and his mind brought to a state of humble remorse. It isn’t everyone who gets his hands on such a famous and unscrupulous libertine; for all I know, not even the Bishop of Burgos has had such a celebrated case. People will whisper: Look, it’s Padre Jacinto, the man who saved Don Juan’s soul —
The Padre shuddered and crossed himself, partly because he had recovered from the devilish temptation of pride, and partly because he had become aware that the burning and slightly mocking eyes of the dying Don Juan were fastened directly on him.
“My dear son,” the reverend Padre said as affably as he could, “you are dying; before very long you will stand before the judgment seat of God, burdened with all the sins which you have committed in your dissolute life. I beg you, for the love of our Lord, cast them aside while you still have time. It is not fitting that you make your pilgrimage to the next world clad in the unclean garments of your depravities and soiled with the filth of your worldly conduct.”
“Yes,” came the faint voice of Don Juan, “I must change my clothes one more time. I’ve always been particular, Padre, about dressing to suit the circumstances.”
“I fear,” said Padre Jacinto, “that you do not quite understand me. I am asking you if you wish to confess your sins and repent.”
“Confess,” Don Juan echoed weakly, “thoroughly blacken my character. Ah, Father, you wouldn’t believe the effect that has on women.”
“Juan,” admonished the good father, frowning, “forswear these earthly matters; remember that you must speak with your Creator.”
“I know,” Don Juan replied politely. “I also know that it is proper for me to die like a Christian. I’ve always been quite careful to do the proper thing — insofar as possible, Father. On my honor, I’ll tell you everything without any shilly-shallying. In the first place, I’m too weak for lengthy speeches; and in the second place, it’s always been my policy to get straight to the point, no words wasted.”
“I commend your obedience,” said Father Jacinto. “But first and foremost, my son, prepare yourself properly, examine your conscience, and awaken in yourself humble repentance for your wrongdoings. In the meantime, I shall wait.”
Whereupon Don Juan closed his eyes and examined his conscience, while the Padre quietly prayed for God’s aid and enlightenment.
“I’m ready, Father,” Don Juan said after a time, and he began his confession. Padre Jacinto nodded his head again and again in satisfaction; the confession appeared to be frank, heartfelt, and full, omitting nothing in the way of lies or blasphemy, murder, perjury, pride, deception, or betrayal — Don Juan was indeed a grievous sinner. Then suddenly the Don fell silent, apparently exhausted, and closed his eyes.
“Rest a moment, dear son,” the priest encouraged him patiently, “and then continue.”
“I’ve finished, reverend Father,” said Don Juan. “If I have forgotten anything, surely it will be only trifles which God will vouchsafe to forgive me.”
“How can it be,” cried Father Jacinto, “that you speak of trifles? What of the fornication in which you have wallowed throughout your life? What of the women whom you have seduced? What of the lewd passions in which you indulged so unrestrainedly? Confess yourself properly, if you please. Not one of your shameless acts will be concealed before God, you unprincipled man; better for you to repent of your vices and unburden your sinful soul!”
A painful and impatient expression appeared on Don Juan’s face. “I’ve already told you, Father,” he declared stubbornly: “I’ve finished. On my honor, I have nothing more to tell you.”
At that moment the innkeeper of the Posada de las Reinas heard a loud, thunderous roar from the room of the wounded man. “God preserve us!” he cried, and he crossed himself. “It sounds as if Padre Jacinto is exorcising the devil from that poor señor. Oh Lord, I don’t at all like such goings-on at my inn.”
The aforementioned roaring went on for a very long while, about as long you’d boil beans; at times it sank to urgent entreaty, at times it flared up in a wild clamor. Then suddenly the reverend Father Jacinto, red as a turkey cock and calling on the Mother of God, bolted from the wounded gentleman’s room and vanished into the church. Then there was silence at the inn, and the grieving Leporello crept back into the room of his master, who lay with his eyes closed, groaning.
That afternoon Father Ildefonso of the Society of Jesus came to town. He was traveling by mule from Madrid to Burgos, and because it was terribly hot that day, he dismounted at the rectory and called on Padre Jacinto. He was a gaunt priest, dried out as an old sausage, with eyebrows as bristly as the armpits of an old cavalryman.
When they had drunk a cup of sour milk together, the Jesuit fixed his eyes on Padre Jacinto, who had been endeavoring in vain to conceal the fact that something was bothering him. It was so quiet that the buzzing of the flies seemed almost like cannon fire.
“You see, it’s like this,” the worried Padre Jacinto burst out at last. “We have a grievous sinner here who is lying on his deathbed. As a matter of fact, Don Ildefonso, it is the deplorable Don Juan Tenorio. He was mixed up in some sort of affair here, a duel or something — at any rate, I went to confess him. At first, he made a fine job of it; he confessed very handsomely, to tell you the truth. But when it came to the seventh commandment — nothing. I couldn’t get a word out of him. He said he had nothing to tell me. Mother of God, what a scoundrel! When I consider that he’s the greatest rake in the two Castiles — they say that not in Valencia, not even in Cadiz, is there anyone to equal him. They say that over these last few years he’s seduced six hundred and ninety-seven young women; a hundred and thirteen of them went into convents, maybe fifty were killed by their fathers or husbands in righteous anger, and about the same number died of a broken heart. And now, if you can believe it, Don Ildefonso, this libertine insists on his deathbed, straight to my face, that in puncto fornicationis he has nothing to confess! What say you to that?”
“Nothing,” said the Jesuit father. “And you refused him absolution?”
“Of course,” Padre Jacinto replied dejectedly. “Nothing I said worked. I gave him a talking-to that would have
roused sincere repentance in a stone — but it was a complete waste of effort on that arch-reprobate. ‘No doubt I have committed the sin of pride, Father,’ he told me, ‘I have sworn false oaths, whatever you like; but as to that about which you inquire, I have nothing to say.’ And you know what that means, Don Ildefonso, don’t you?” the Padre suddenly blurted out, hastily crossing himself. “I think he was in league with the devil. That’s why he cannot confess these things. It was a foul enchantment. He seduced women by means of some diabolical power.” Father Jacinto shuddered. “You should go and take a look at him, Dominie. I’d say he has that glint in his eyes.”
Don Ildefonso, S.J., reflected in silence. “If you think so,” he said at last, “I will go and see this man.”
Don Juan was dozing when Don Ildefonso quietly entered the room and dismissed Leporello with a wave of his hand; he then sat down in a chair near the head of the bed and studied the ravaged face of the dying Don.
At length the wounded man groaned and opened his eyes.
“Don Juan,” the Jesuit said gently, “it appears that it would exhaust you to speak.”
Don Juan nodded weakly.
“No matter,” said the Jesuit. “Your confession, Don Juan, was not clear on one point. I’ll not subject you to questioning, but perhaps you could indicate your agreement or disagreement with what I am going to say to you — about you.”
The wounded man’s eyes fastened almost in anguish on the emotionless face of the priest.
“Don Juan,” Don Ildefonso began easily and smoothly, “I have heard of you for a long time now, and I have pondered upon precisely why it is that you dash so impetuously from woman to woman, from one love affair to another, why you can never pause, never come to rest in that fulfillment and serenity we humans call happiness — ”
Don Juan displayed his teeth in a grimace of pain.
“From one love affair to another,” Don Ildefonso went on, his voice calm and composed, “as though you were trying, over and over again, to convince someone — obviously yourself — that you are worthy of love, that you are the kind of man whom women love — poor Don Juan!”
The lips of the wounded man moved; it seemed as if he were repeating the Jesuit’s last words.
“And never, in all that time,” the priest continued, “were you a man, Don Juan; only your spirit was the spirit of a man, and it was ashamed, señor, and struggled desperately to conceal the fact that nature had not given you that which is bestowed upon every living creature — ”
From the bed came the sound of a boyish wail.
“And that is why, Don Juan, you have played at being a man from your adolescence on; you have been recklessly brave, adventurous, proud, and flamboyant, so that you might conquer within you this humiliating sense that others were better and more virile than you. But it was a lie, and that is why you went on intemperately heaping proof upon proof; no one could satisfy you, because it was only hollow pretense — you have never seduced a single woman, Don Juan. You have never known what it is to love, you have only striven feverishly, whenever you encountered a desirable and well-born woman, to beguile her with your spirit, your chivalry, your passion, convincing yourself in the process. All of this you did perfectly, because you were playing a role. And at the moment when a woman’s knees began to buckle — it must have been hell for you, Don Juan, it must have been hell because, in that moment, you had to confront both your accursed pride and your most terrible humiliation. And you had to tear yourself from the embrace you had won at the risk of your life and flee, poor Juan, flee from the arms of the woman you had conquered, flee with some beautiful lie still on those irresistible lips. It must have been hell, Don Juan.”
The wounded man turned his face to the wall and wept.
Don Ildefonso rose to his feet. “Poor man,” he said, “you were ashamed to admit it even in holy confession. Well, it is over now, but I must not deprive Padre Jacinto of his penitent.”
He sent for the parish priest, and when Padre Jacinto arrived Don Ildefonso said to him: “Look, Father, he has confessed everything and wept. His repentance is humble beyond all shadow of doubt; I think we may grant him absolution.”
March 20, 1932
Romeo and Juliet
A young English nobleman, Oliver Mendeville, on a leisurely tour of Italy to broaden his education, received news in Florence that his father, Sir William, had departed this world. Sir Oliver therefore bade farewell with a heavy heart and copious tears to Signorina Maddalena, swore that he would return as soon as possible, and set out with his servant on the road to Genoa.
On the third day of their journey, a heavy rainstorm overtook them just as they came to a remote hamlet. Sir Oliver reined in his horse under an ancient elm. “Paolo,” he said to his servant, “see if there is some sort of albergo here where we might wait out this torrential downpour.”
“As for your servant and horses,” came a voice from above, “there’s an albergo right around the bend in the road; but you, cavaliere, would do great honor to my parish if you would take shelter under my modest roof.”
Sir Oliver doffed his broad-brimmed hat and looked up at the window from which a stout old priest was beaming at him cheerfully. “Vossignoria reverendissima,” he said deferentially, “you show far too much kindness to a stranger who is leaving your beautiful land overburdened with gratitude for all the good which has been heaped upon him so bounteously.”
“Bene, dear son,” said the priest, “but if you go on talking a moment longer you’ll be thoroughly drenched. Kindly dismount from your mare and get yourself in here in a hurry, for it’s raining very hard.”
Sir Oliver was surprised when the molto reverendo parocco came out through the rectory hallway to greet him: he had never seen such a diminutive clergyman before. When Sir Oliver bowed, he had to bend so low that the blood rushed to his head.
“Come come, none of that,” said the priest. “I’m only a Franciscan, cavaliere. They call me Padre Ippolito. Hé, Marietta, bring us some sausage and wine. This way, sir; it’s confoundedly dark in here. You are Inglese, yes? Ah, well, since you English broke away from the Holy Church of Rome there’ve been swarms of you in Italy. I understand, signore. You must feel homesick. You see, Marietta? The gentleman is Inglese. Poor boy, so young and an Englishman already! Cut yourself some of this sausage, cavaliere, it’s genuine Verona. Nothing goes better with wine than Verona sausage, I always say. Let the Bolognese stuff themselves with their mortadella if they like; you stick with Verona sausage and salted almonds, dear son. You weren’t in Verona? A pity. It was the birthplace of the divine Veronese, signore. Actually, I’m from Verona myself. A celebrated city, sir. They call it the city of the Scaligeri. Is the wine to your liking?”
“Grazie, Padre,” murmured Sir Oliver. “In England we call Verona the city of Juliet.”
“You don’t say!” Padre Ippolito exclaimed in amazement. “And why is that? I didn’t know there’d been a Princess Juliet in Verona. But then, it’s more than forty years since I was there. Which Juliet would that be?”
“Juliet Capulet,” explained Sir Oliver. “You see, we have a play about her . . . by a man called Shakespeare. A beautiful play. Do you know it, Padre?”
“No, but wait a minute . . . Juliet Capulet, Juliet Capulet,” Padre Ippolito babbled, “I should know her. I used to go to the Capulets’ house with Padre Laurence — ”
“You knew Friar Laurence?” gasped Sir Oliver.
“How could I not know him? Why, I served as his acolyte, sir! Listen, might she be the Juliet who married Count Paris? I knew her. A most pious and praiseworthy lady, the Countess Juliet. She was a Capulet by birth, one of the Capulets in the velvet trade.”
“That can’t be the one,” declared Sir Oliver. “The real Juliet died when she was still a girl, in the most touching manner you can possibly imagine.”
“Aha,” said the molto reverendo , “then it wasn’t the same one. The Juliet I knew married Count Paris, and they had eigh
t children. A virtuous and exemplary wife, young sir, may God grant you one like her. True, there was a rumor that she had lost her head earlier over some young crapulone — Eh, signore, hasn’t something of the sort been said about everyone? Youth, as we know, is headstrong and foolish. Be glad, cavaliere, that you are young. Are all the English young?”
“They are,” sighed Sir Oliver. “Ah, Father, we too are consumed by the fire that consumed young Romeo.”
“Romeo?” Padre Ippolito repeated, and he took a sip of his wine. “I think I know that name. Say, wasn’t he that young sciocco, that fop, that scoundrel of a Montague who stabbed Count Paris? People said it was because of Juliet. Yes, that’s it. Juliet was to marry Count Paris — a good match, signore; that Paris was a very rich and well-brought-up young gentleman — but evidently Romeo had taken it into his head that Juliet was promised to him — That’s nonsense, sir,” scoffed the Padre. “As if the wealthy Capulets would have given their daughter to one of those bankrupt Montagues. And besides, the Montagues backed Mantua, whereas the Capulets were on the side of the Duke of Milan. No, no. I think the assalto assassinatico against Paris was nothing but routine, run-of-the-mill politics. There’s politics in everything these days, dear son. Of course, after that kind of rank hooliganism, Romeo had to flee to Mantua, and he never came back.”
“Oh, but that isn’t true!” Sir Oliver burst out. “Forgive me, Padre, but that’s not at all how it was. Juliet loved Romeo, but her parents forced her to marry Count Paris — ”
“With good reason,” interjected the old priest. “Romeo was a ribaldo, and he sided with Mantua.”
“But before her wedding, Friar Laurence gave Juliet a potion,” continued Sir Oliver, “so that she would fall into a death-like trance.”
“That’s a lie,” Padre Ippolito said vehemently. “Friar Laurence would never have done such a thing. But it is true that Romeo attacked Paris in the street and wounded him. Perhaps he was drunk.”
