Scene—Madrid of our day.
A study; to the left a balcony, on right a door; in the middle a table strewn with papers and books, and a lighted lamp upon it. Towards the right a sofa. Night.
SCENE I
Ernest. [Seated at table and preparing to write.] Nothing—impossible! It is striving with the impossible. The idea is there; my head is fevered with it; I feel it. At moments an inward light illuminates it, and I see it. I see it in its floating form, vaguely outlined, and suddenly a secret voice seems to animate it, and I hear sounds of sorrow, sonorous sighs, shouts of sardonic laughter … a whole world of passions alive and struggling.… They burst forth from me, extend around me, and the air is full of them. Then, then I say to myself: ''Tis now the moment.' I take up my pen, stare into space, listen attentively, restraining my very heart-beats, and bend over the paper.… Ah, but the irony of impotency! The outlines become blurred, the vision fades, the cries and sighs faint away … and nothingness, nothingness encircles me.… The monotony of empty space, of inert thought, of dreamy lassitude! and more than all the monotony of an idle pen and lifeless paper that lacks the life of thought! Ah! How varied are the shapes of nothingness, and how, in its dark and silent way, it mocks creatures of my stamp! So many, many forms! Canvas without colour, bits of marble without shape, con-
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