by Nick Joaquin
CANDIDA: Then, what do you advise, senator? Shall we surrender—as you did?
PERICO [after a staring pause]: Why are you so bitter against me? What have I done? I saw my destiny and I followed it. I have no need to be ashamed of what I did! My whole life has been spent in the service of my country; that is more than your father can say for himself! Yes, I have grown rich, I am successful—is that a crime? What would you have wanted me to do? To go on scribbling pretty verses while my family starved? To bury myself alive as your father has buried himself alive? And what can he show for all those lost years? Nothing except this one picture? Look at yourselves, Paula and Candida—look at yourselves, and then tell me if this one picture is enough to justify what he has done to you! Oh, it is not against me that you are so bitter! It is not against me, I know! For what have I done to you?
CANDIDA: Nothing, senator. But what have you done to yourself?
PERICO [recovering himself; embarrassed]: I should not have said those things—
CANDIDA: You had to say them. I suppose you have long been wanting to say them?
PERICO: No, Candida—No! I do not resent your father, I admire him. He is a very happy man.
CANDIDA: Because he did what he has done?
PERICO: Because he always knew what he was doing.
CANDIDA: And you did not know what you were doing?
PERICO: Oh Candida, life is not so simple as it is in Art! We do not choose consciously, we do not choose deliberately—as we like to think we do. Our lives are shaped, our decisions are made by forces outside ourselves—by the world in which we live, by the people we love, by the events and fashions of our times—and by many, many other things we are hardly conscious of. Believe me: I never actually said to myself, “I do not wish to be a poet anymore because I will only starve. I shall become a politician because I want to get rich.” I never said that! I went into politics with the best of intentions—and certainly with no intention of “abandoning poetry.” Oh, I dreamed of bringing the radiance of poetry into the murk of politics—and I continued to think of myself as a poet a long, long time after I had ceased to be one, whether in practice or in spirit. I did not know what was happening to me—until it had happened. I thought I was boldly shaping my life according to the ideals of my youth—but my life was being shaped for me all the time—without my knowing it. Too often, one is only an innocent bystander at one’s own fate . . .
CANDIDA [approaching]: Forgive me, ninong. [She kisses his hand.]
PERICO: It is you who must forgive me, Candida—if I have bitterly disappointed you. [He shrugs.] But I could not help it—and I cannot help you. I look back on my life and I have no regrets because I know that I would have been unable to live it differently. There is nothing I could have changed. You can choose to go along with the current—or you can choose to stay on the bank—but those who try to stop the current are hurled away and destroyed. I chose to go along with the current; your father chose to stay or the bank—and neither of us can say of the other that he did wrong. Oh I may dream wistfully now and then of the fine pale poet I used to be—but believe me, I feel no remorse for that poet. I did not kill him—he was bound to die.
[He pauses, smiling, and looks at his hands. When he speaks again, his voice is tender and rather sad.]
To feel that driving urge, that imperious necessity to write poetry, a poet needs an audience; he must be conscious of an audience—not only of a present audience but of a permanent one, an eternal one, an audience of all the succeeding generations. He must feel that his poems will generate new poets. Well, poetry withered away for the writers of my time because we knew that we had come to a dead end, we had come to a blind alley. We could go on writing if we liked—but we would be writing only for ourselves—and our poems would die with us, our poems would die barren. They were written in a dying tongue; our sons spoke another language. Oh, they say that no two succeeding generations ever speak the same language—but it was literally true of my time and of the present. My generation spoke European, the present generation speaks American. Who among the young writers now can read my poems? My poems may as well be written in Babylonian! And who among the writers of my time can say that his poems have generated new poets? No one—no, not even poor Pepe Rizal! The fathers of the young poets of today are from across the sea. They are not our sons; they are foreigners to us, and we do not even exist for them. And if I had gone on being a poet, what would I be now? A very unhappy old man, a very bitter old man—a failure and a burden—and with no respect for himself. The choice before me was between poetry and self-respect; I had to choose between Europe and America; and I chose—No I did not choose at all. I simply went along with the current. Quomodo cantabo canticum Domini in terra aliena? [He shrugs, and looks up at PORTRAIT.]
Look at your father up there. He has realized the tragedy of his generation. He, too, has been unable to sing. He, too, finds himself stranded in a foreign land. He, too, must carry himself to his own grave because there is no succeeding generation to carry him forward. His art will die with him. It is written in a dead language, it is written in Babylonian . . . And we all end alike—all of us old men from the last century—we all end the same. The rich and the poor, the failures and the successes, those who moved forward and those who stayed behind—our fate is the same! All, all of us must carry our own dead selves to our common grave . . . We have begotten no sons; we are a lost generation!
Caray, who would have thought we would end so dismally? Oh, we began so confidently, we began so gaily! When we were young it was morning all over the world; it was the Springtime of Freedom! And was there ever a group of young men as noisy and brilliant and boisterous as our own? Your father, and the Luna brothers, and Pepe Rizal, and Lopez Jaena, and Del Pilar—alas for all those young men! And alas for all the places where we were young together! Madrid under the Queen Regent; the Paris of the Third Republic; Rome at the end of the century; and Manila—Manila before the Revolution—la Manila de nuestros amores! Oh, they talk a lot of solemn nonsense now about the Revolution—we were not solemn! The spirit of those days was one of boyish fun, of boyish mischief! Just imagine us—with out top hats and swagger sticks and mustachios—and imagine the secret meetings in the dead of the night; the skull on the table; the dreadful oaths; the whispers and flickering candlelight; and the signing of our names in our own blood! Oh, we were all hopeless romantics! And the Revolution was a wild melodrama in the style of Galdos! And I drank it all up—all the color and the excitement and the romance! I was a poet then; the world existed only that I might put it to music! Even the Revolution was happening only to make my verses more vivid and my rhymes more audacious! I was a poet then—
[From the stairway comes the noise of feet, and of feminine mirth & chatter.]
MANOLO: Here come your womenfolk, senator.
PERICO [the smile fading from his lips]: But I was hungry and I traded my birthright—
[Enter DOÑA LOLENG, PATSY, ELSA MONTES, & CHARLIE DACANAY.]
LOLENG: Who is hungry? Hola, Manolo! And Pepang too! My dear, if I had known you were here, we would have come sooner. And are these Candida and Paula? Jesús, what big girls you are now! And how delighted I am to see you again! Your mother was one of my dearest friends. May she rest in peace, poor woman! You remember me?
PAULA & CANDIDA: Yes, Doña Loleng.
LOLENG: This is my daughter Patsy. She is my youngest. And this is Elsa Montes—the Elsa Montes. You have heard all about her of course. She is the girl who brought the Conga to Manila. And this is Charlie Dacanay. Oh, Mr. Dacanay is not anybody in particular—just somebody who keeps following us around, all the time. Oh Pepang, we were all over at Kikay Valero’s—the charity mah-jongg, you know—and, my dear, you will never believe how much I lost! Oh, I am rabid! But do tell me, Paula and Candida, how is your dear papa?
PAULA: He is quite well, Doña Loleng. Thank you.
CANDID
A: He is having a nap just now.
LOLENG: But how unfortunate for me! I would like to see Lorenzo again. Oh, your father was the great hero of my girlhood! He must let me come and see him sometime.
PAULA: We will tell him, Doña Loleng.
LOLENG: And what were you saying, Perico?
PERICO: I was saying, my dear, that I was hungry—
LOLENG: You must forgive me! I forgot we were to pick you up. Charlie you brute, I told you to remind me!
PAULA: What can we offer you, ninong? What would you like?
PERICO: A mess of pottage.
LOLENG: What on earth is that?
PERICO: Just an old joke. So please do not bother, Paula. I really desire nothing.
LOLENG [moving forward]: And is this the painting everybody is talking about?
PERICO: Would you like to look at it, my dear?
LOLENG: We all want to look at it. Come, come—all of you. Study this work of art and be uplifted.
[Don Perico steps away from in front of PORTRAIT to give place to his wife & her companions. Dressed & bejeweled in the grand style, Doña Loleng is, at fifty, still statuesque & stunning—no wrinkles, no gray hair, no baggy flesh—the eyes languid, the nose patrician, the mouth rapacious. Her daughter Patsy is eighteen, pretty, but sullen-looking. Elsa Montes is a sophisticated forty, and strenuously “chi-chi.” Charlie Dacanay is around twenty-five, a typical ante-bellum glamour-boy, rather the worse for wear. All these people stand a moment in silence, looking up at PORTRAIT—Doña Loleng, sadly smiling; Patsy, sulky; Elsa, interested; and Charlie, vacant. The senator watches them ironically, standing at left side of stage. Pepang & Manolo are just behind the newcomers. Candida & Paula have quietly left the room.]
LOLENG [smiling at PORTRAIT]: The young Lorenzo . . . The great hero of my girlhood . . .
PERICO: And what does he say to you, my dear?
LOLENG: He says . . . He says that I am an old woman . . .
CHARLIE: Doña Loleng, I protest!
LOLENG: Be silent, Charlie! Who asked for your consolations?
ELSA: I’m wondering myself.
PERICO: Our Charlie was only trying to be gallant, my dear.
CHARLIE: Senator, you and I belong to the days when knighthood was in flower!
PATSY: Oh, shut up, Charlie! You know how mommy loves to go around telling everybody she’s an old woman.
MANOLO: Anybody as beautiful as your mother, Patsy, can afford to tell the truth. The truth can do her no harm. She is above reproach.
PERICO: Being Caesar’s wife.
LOLENG: Thank you, Manolo. Thank you, Perico. You are both too kind.
CHARLIE: Now wait a minute—how about me!
PEPANG: Poor Charlie! Nobody wants his consolations!
ELSA: He could try me—but I’m not an old woman yet, am I?
LOLENG: Certainly not, Elsa—whatever people may think.
ELSA [sweetly]: You mean, whatever you may try to make them think, darling!
PATSY: Oh, mommy is a wonderful mind-reader! Talk to her about bicycles, and tomorrow she’ll be telling everybody you’re having an affair with the postman!
LOLENG: Patsy—
PATSY [wide-eyed]: Oh mommy, did I say something wrong?
LOLENG [studying her fingernails]: You ought not to play mah-jongg. You do not have the cold blood for it. You get nervous.
PATSY: Oh, I’m not nervous. I’m just hysterical. Charlie darling, do give me a cigarette.
CHARLIE [fetching out his case]: At your service, mam-selle!
LOLENG [shaking her head]: Uh-uh, Charlie!
CHARLIE [lightly slapping Patsy’s hand as she reaches for cigarette]: Sorry, mam-selle—but the mamang, she say no.
PATSY [her hair flying as she whirls around]: But, mommy, I must have a smoke!
LOLENG [languorously]: Perico, will you tell your daughter that she cannot smoke in public? She will not listen to me.
PERICO: Charlie, remember to send me a bill for the cigarettes my family consumes.
CHARLIE: The smokes are on the house, senator. May I offer you one?
PERICO: No, Charlie. Thank you very much.
CHARLIE [putting cigarette in his own mouth & offering the case around]: Well, does anybody else want one? No—not you, Patsy! Elsa?
ELSA [taking cigarette]: Oh yes—yes indeedy!
LOLENG [as Charlie lights his & Elsa’s cigarettes]: Elsa has been saying nothing but “Oh yes—yes indeedy!” since she came back from New York. She must have had plenty of practice over there.
ELSA: Did you say something, darling?
LOLENG: Do the women in New York say “Oh yes—yes indeedy” all the time?
ELSA: I really couldn’t say. I never had time to go out with the women.
CHARLIE: I’ll bet!
PEPANG: You must give us your opinion of this picture, Elsa darling. Having been to New York, you must have become frightfully cultured.
ELSA: Oh, the picture is swellegant! It’s delovely! And what’s more, it’s very inspiring!
PERICO [who can’t believe his ears]: My dear Elsa, did you say—inspiring?
ELSA: Yes, senator—it fills me with such divine ideas!
LOLENG: Such as what?
ELSA [moving closer & gesturing at PORTRAIT with her cigarette]: Such as a divine idea for an evening gown—a really eye-stopping evening gown—just like that absolutely stupendous costume that young man up there is wearing—see? The same cut, the same draping, and the same shade of white—no, it’s not white really—more like old ivory . . .
[Pepang, Doña Loleng & Patsy have also gathered closer in front of PORTRAIT.]
And with those marvelous designs on the borders! Haven’t you noticed them? Pepang, you must ask your father to give me a sketch of those designs!
MANOLO: And you said, senator, that this picture is written in Babylonian! The women seem to understand it perfectly.
CHARLIE [staring at PORTRAIT]: I don’t understand that picture!
MANOLO: Just listen to the women, Charlie, and get wise.
ELSA [with gestures]: Just imagine those designs in gold embroidery—up here on the bodice—
PERICO: Yes, women can turn Art into Reality.
ELSA: And all around the hemline.
MANOLO: And the sublime into the ridiculous.
ELSA: And just look at that cute belt he’s wearing!
PERICO: Naturally. They are the enemies of the Absolute.
ELSA: Will you look at that gorgeous, gorgeous belt! A sort of golden rope with little black figures hanging all around it—Oh, it’s different, I tell you! It’s divine!
PERICO: Divine is absolutely the right word!
MANOLO: The Lares and Penates, senator.
ELSA: Imagine yourself dancing the conga in a gown like that—
CHARLIE: What did you say those little black figures are?
MANOLO: They are the gods of his father.
ELSA: Your skirts flying—
CHARLIE: Then why is he wearing them around his belt?
ELSA: And those ornaments around the belt would go click-click-click—
PERICO: So the women cannot steal them, Charlie.
ELSA: As you whirled and whirled!
MANOLO: The hell they can’t!
PEPANG: And what material would you use for the gown?
ELSA: Let me see . . .
CHARLIE: Who are those two guys anyway?
MANOLO: They are a fellow named Aeneas and his old father Anchises.
ELSA: Some kind of rayon velvet, I think.
CHARLIE: Who the heck are they?
PERICO: They are the Artist and his Conscience.
LOLENG: A silk tafetta would do better.
CHARLIE [grinning at PORTRAIT]: I don’t thi
nk they like me much . . .
PEPANG: Or a yellow silk organdie.
CHARLIE: As a matter-of-fact, they don’t like me at all!
PATSY: Oh Elsa, imagine a gown like that in white cotton tulle!
MANOLO: Well, Charlie—that shouldn’t be a new experience for you.
ELSA [LOOKING AROUND]: Charlie, lend me your fountain-pen, will you—and a piece of paper.
[Charlie, who’s still staring fascinated at PORTRAIT, does not hear her.]
MANOLO: As a matter-of-fact, all of us don’t really like one another very much.
LOLENG [looking around]: But hurry up, hurry up, idiot!
CHARLIE [blankly]: Huh?
LOLENG: Pero, qué animal!
ELSA: Your fountain-pen, Charlie, and a piece of paper.
CHARLIE: Oh, sorry, girls. Here.
[He gives Elsa his fountain-pen & pocket notebook.]
MANOLO: No, we don’t like one another at all. I wonder why we all keep hanging together.
PERICO: So we won’t hang separately.
ELSA [pondering PORTRAIT; fountain-pen poised over notebook]: What I want is that clear classic effect—
MANOLO: Besides, we enjoy tormenting each other.
ELSA: A marble make-up—
PERICO: And being tormented by each other.
ELSA: The arms and one shoulder bare—
CHARLIE: I suppose you mean I enjoy being tormented?
ELSA: No jewels at all—
PERICO: Yes, Charlie—and I sympathize with you very much—
ELSA: And a Greek hair-do.
PERICO: But I cannot help you.
PATSY: And sandals, Elsa?
PERICO: You were born to be a victim—
ELSA: Sandals, of course—
PERICO: You were born to be eaten up.
ELSA: Just like those ones he’s wearing. You see his red-and-black sandals? Dramatic is the word for them! Oh, I’ve got the whole ensemble complete in my mind. Wait—
[She begins to sketch rapidly, glancing repeatedly at PORTRAIT, her companions watching intently & paying no attention to the men’s talk.]
CHARLIE: Well, well, well! And I thought I was doing the eating up! I was beginning to feel really bad about it, senator. Oh, I’ve got a conscience too—like that guy up there—a conscience riding on my back. I can feel its hot breath down my neck.