Act II
Scene I The Scene Remains the Same as at the Close of the First Act. Don Juan and Diego Are Still Sleeping — Alonzo Walks About Mournfully Among the Trees
Alonzo.
Will this night never come to an end?—The stars still twinkle in the heavens, the moon scarcely yet begins to lose her lustre, and a deep and solemn silence reigns around.—More grateful to the sinner’s soul are noise and tumult, for they assist to deaden the voice of conscience.—What said the fool Diego lately?—that it is the same with conscience as with the stomach, the moment either compels us to feel its existence, we may be sure it is not in perfect health.—And the fool spoke truly.—Oh my excellent mother! thy golden instructions may one day conduct me into a better world—they have not taught me how to conduct myself in another hemisphere!—Perhaps at this very moment thou art upon thy knees, praying for a blessing upon thy fallen son!—Ah, pray for him! intercede for him!—he needs the intercession of a saint!—But away, away ye gloomy thoughts!—All may yet be well!—Night is followed by twilight—twilight by the first rays of the rising sun!—(Looking towards the east) And see there the precursor of returning joy!—Already the east begins to be streaked with purple, and the stars are disappearing.—Hist! I hear the chirping of a distant bird!—the moment draws near which is to bring Cora back to her Alonzo!—while I press her to my bosom, conscience is mute, and I can laugh at danger. I will awaken these sleepers. (He shakes Diego) Diego, rise,—it is already day.
Diego. (Rubbing his eyes) Hey!—how!—you joke! it is still dark.
Alonzo. No, no, the moon is going down, the stars are vanishing.
Diego. (Yawning) Take heed what you are about, or you will soon find that it is dark enough. (He turns on the other side, mutters some inarticulate words, and falls asleep again.)
Alonzo. If that fellow have not slept, or eaten his fill, he is like a watch not wound up. (He shakes Don Juan) Velasquez, the day begins to break!
Juan. (Raising himself up, and looking about) Well!—and what of that?
Alonzo. Will you not rise and enjoy so fine a morning?
Juan. Write an Ode upon the Morning, if it be so very fine; but prithee let me sleep quietly. (He lies down again.)
Alonzo. Have you forgotten that we may soon expect Cora?
Juan. That is no concern of mine, she does not come to see me.
Alonzo. And don’t you think it worth while to unbar your eyes a few minutes earlier, to see an angel?
Juan. I will dream of her. (He falls asleep.)
Alonzo. There they lie and sleep as tho’ in mockery of the troubles of my soul. Ah, it is only the unembarrassed mind which can thus recruit itself by inactivity. Yes, I perceive that the more man throws off his rational nature, and assimilates himself with the brute, who looks to sense alone for his enjoyments, the happier is his lot.—Happier?—Most certainly so; in his own eyes, at least, if not in the eyes of wisdom; and what more can be required? (A clapping of hands is heard behind the walls) But hark?—she comes!—Oh, all that I have said of sensual delight is false! One moment, when the soul partakes of real transport, outweighs whole hours of mere corporeal pleasure. (He hastens to meet Cora.)