[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?