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.
To his sculptor he owes a perfectly trained figure, which he carries erect and trim; and the ends of his moustache curl up, elastic as watchsprings, giving him an air which, but for its Spanish dignity, would be called jaunty.
He is on the pleasantest terms with Don Juan.
His voice, save for a much more distinguished intonation, is so like the voice of Roebuck Ramsden that it calls attention to the fact that they are not unlike one another in spite of their very different fashion of shaving.
DON JUAN.
Ah, here you are, my friend.
Why don't you learn to sing the splendid music Mozart has written for you?
THE STATUE.
Unluckily he has written it for a bass voice.
Mine is a counter tenor.
Well: have you repented yet?
DON JUAN.
I have too much consideration for you to repent, Don Gonzalo.
If I did, you would have no excuse for coming from Heaven to argue with me.
THE STATUE.
True.
Remain obdurate, my boy.
I wish I had killed you, as I should have done but for an accident.
Then I should have come here; and you would have had a statue and a reputation for piety to live up to.
Any news?
DON JUAN.
Yes: your daughter is dead.
THE STATUE. [puzzled] My daughter? [Recollecting] Oh! the one you were taken with.
Let me see: what was her name?
DON JUAN.
Ana.
THE STATUE.
To be sure: Ana.
A goodlooking girl, if I recollect aright.
Have you warned Whatshisname—her husband?
DON JUAN.
My friend Ottavio?
No: I have not seen him since Ana arrived.