DON JUAN.
Yes: I came to believe that in her voice was all the music of the song, in her face all the beauty of the painting, and in her soul all the emotion of the poem.
ANA.
And you were disappointed, I suppose.
Well, was it her fault that you attributed all these perfections to her?
DON JUAN.
Yes, partly.
For with a wonderful instinctive cunning, she kept silent and allowed me to glorify her; to mistake my own visions, thoughts, and feelings for hers.
Now my friend the romantic man was often too poor or too timid to approach those women who were beautiful or refined enough to seem to realize his ideal; and so he went to his grave believing in his dream.
But I was more favored by nature and circumstance.
I was of noble birth and rich; and when my person did not please, my conversation flattered, though I generally found myself fortunate in both.
THE STATUE.
Coxcomb!
DON JUAN.
Yes; but even my coxcombry pleased.
Well, I found that when I had touched a woman's imagination, she would allow me to persuade myself that she loved me; but when my suit was granted she never said
"I am happy: my love is satisfied": she always said, first,
"At last, the barriers are down," and second,
"When will you come again?"
ANA.
That is exactly what men say.
DON JUAN.
I protest I never said it.
But all women say it.
Well, these two speeches always alarmed me; for the first meant that the lady's impulse had been solely to throw down my fortifications and gain my citadel; and the second openly announced that henceforth she regarded me as her property, and counted my time as already wholly at her disposal.
THE DEVIL.
That is where your want of heart came in.
THE STATUE. [shaking his head] You shouldn't repeat what a woman says, Juan.
ANA. [severely] It should be sacred to you.
THE STATUE.
Still, they certainly do always say it.
I never minded the barriers; but there was always a slight shock about the other, unless one was very hard hit indeed.
DON JUAN.
Then the lady, who had been happy and idle enough before, became anxious, preoccupied with me, always intriguing, conspiring, pursuing, watching, waiting, bent wholly on making sure of her prey—I being the prey, you understand.
Now this was not what I had bargained for.
It may have been very proper and very natural; but it was not music, painting, poetry and joy incarnated in a beautiful woman.
I ran away from it.
I ran away from it very often: in fact I became famous for running away from it.
ANA.
Infamous, you mean.
DON JUAN.
I did not run away from you.
Do you blame me for running away from the others?
ANA.
Nonsense, man. You are talking to a woman of 77 now.
If you had had the chance, you would have run away from me too—if I had let you.
You would not have found it so easy with me as with some of the others.
If men will not be faithful to their home and their duties, they must be made to be.
I daresay you all want to marry lovely incarnations of music and painting and poetry.
Well, you can't have them, because they don't exist.