The bridge of San Luis Rey - Thornton Wilder [24]
�icaela." "I do not wish to offend you, Do�icaela, but when you let me call you Camila for twenty years, I should think--" "Oh, do as you like. Do as you like." "Camila, promise me that you will listen to me. Promise me that you will not run away at my first sentence." At once she burst out with unexpected passion: "Uncle Pio, listen to me. You are mad if you think you can make me return to the theatre. I look back at the theatre with horror. Understand that. The theatre! The theatre, indeed! The daily payment of insults in that filthy place. Understand that you are wasting your time." He answered gently: "I would not have you come back if you are happy with these new friends." "You don't like my new friends, then?" she answered quickly. "Whom do you offer me in their stead?" "Camila, I only remember..." "I will not be criticized. I don't want any advice. It will be cold in a moment, I must go back to my house. Just give me up, that's all. Just put me out of your mind." "Dear Camila, don't be angry. Let me talk to you. Just suffer me for ten minutes." He did not understand why she was weeping. He did not know what to say. He talked at random: "You never even come to see the theatre, and they all notice it. The audiences are falling away now, too. They only put on the Old Comedy twice a week; all the other nights there are those new farces in prose. All is dull and childish and indecent. No one can speak Spanish any more. No one can even walk correctly any more. On Corpus Christi Day they gave Belshazzar's Feast where you were so wonderful. Now it was shameful." There was a pause. A beautiful procession of clouds, like a flock of sheep, was straying up from the sea, slipping up the valleys between the hills. Camila suddenly touched his knee, and her face was like her face twenty years before: "Forgive me, Uncle Pio, for being so bad. Jaime was ill this afternoon. There's nothing one can do. He lies there, so white and... so surprised. One must just think of, other things. Uncle Pio, it would be no good if I went back to the theatre. The audiences come for the prose farces. We were foolish to try and keep alive the Old Comedy. Let people read the old plays in books if they choose to. It is not worth while fighting with the crowd." "Wonderful Camila, I was not just to you when you were on the stage. It was some foolish pride in me. I grudged you the praise that you deserved. Forgive me. You have always been a very great artist. If you come to see that you are not happy among these people you might think about going to Madrid. You would have a great triumph there. You are still young and beautiful. There will be time later to be called Do�icaela. We shall be old soon. We shall be dead soon." "No, I shall never see Spain. All the world is alike, Madrid or Lima." "Oh, if we could go away to some island where the people would know you for yourself. And love you." "You are fifty years old and you are still dreaming of such islands, Uncle Pio." He bent his head and mumbled: "Of course I love you, Camila, as I always must and more than I can say. To have known you is enough for my whole life. You are a great lady now. And you are rich. There is no longer any way that I can help you. Put I am always ready." "How absurd you are," she said smiling. "You said that as boys say it. You don't seem to learn as you grow older, Uncle Pio. There is no such thing as that kind of love and that kind of island. It's in the theatre you find such things." He look shamefaced, but unconvinced. At last she rose and said sadly: "What are we talking about! It is growing cold. I must be going in. You must be resigned. I have no heart for the theatre." There was a pause. "And for the rest?... Oh, I do not understand. It is just circumstance. I must be what I must. Do not try to understand either. Don't think about me, Uncle Pio. Just forgive, that's all. Just try to forgive." She stood still a moment, searching for something deeply felt to say to him. The fast cloud reached the terrace; it was dark; the last stragglers were leaving the gardens. She was thinking of Don Jaime, and of Don Andr