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CHARACTERS
YERMA
MARIA
JUAN
VICTOR
PAGAN
CRONE
DOLORES
FIRST
LAUNDRESS
SECOND
LAUNDRESS
THIRD
LAUNDRESS
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS
SIXTH
LAUNDRESS
FIRST
YOUNG GIRL
SECOND
YOUNG GIRL
THE
FEMALE MASK
THE
MALE MASK
FIRST
SISTER-IN-LAW
SECOND
SISTER-IN-LAW
FIRST
WOMAN
SECOND
WOMAN
THE
CHILD
FIRST
MAN
SECOND
MAN
THIRD
MAN
ACT ONE
SCENE
1
When
the curtain rises Yerma is asleep with an embroidery frame at her
feet. The stage is in the strange light of a dream. A Shepherd enters on
tiptoe looking fixedly at Yerma. lie leads by the hand a Child dressed
in white. The clock sounds. When the Shepherd leaves,
the light changes into the happy brightness of a spring morning.
Yerma awakes
VOICE,
within, singing
For
the nursery, nursery, nursery
For the little nurse we’ll make
A tiny hut out in the fields
And
there we’ll shelter take
YERMA.
Juan, do you hear me? Juan!
JUAN.
Coming
YERMA.
It’s time now
JUAN.
Did the oxen go by?
YERMA.
They’ve already gone.
JUAN.
See you later.
He
starts to leave.
YERMA.
Won’t you have a glass of milk?
JUAN.
What for?
YERMA.
You work a lot and your body’s not strong enough for it.
JUAN.
When men grow thin they get strong as steel.
YERMA.
But not you. You were
different when we were first married. Now you've
got a face as white as though the
sun had never shone on
it. I'd like to see you
go to the river and swim
or climb up on the roof
when the rain beats down on our house. Twenty-four months we've been
married and you only get sadder, thinner, as if you were growing
backwards.
JUAN.
Are you finished?
YERMA, rising. Don't take it wrong. If I were sick
I'd like you to take care of me. "My wife's sick. I'm going to
butcher this lamb and cook her a good meat dish." "My wife's
sick. I'm going to save this chicken-fat to relieve her chest; I'm going
to take her this sheepskin to protect her feet from the snow."
That's the way I am. That's why I take care of you.
JUAN. I'm grateful.
YERMA. But you don't let me take care of you.
JUAN. Because there's nothing wrong with me. All these
things are just your imagination. I work hard. Each year I'll get older.
YERMA.
Each year. You and I will just go on here each year...'
JUAN, smiling. Why. of course. And very peacefully. Our
work goes well, we've no children to worry about.
YERMA. We've no children. ...Juan!
JUAN. What is it?
YERMA. I love you, don't I?
JUAN. Yes, you love me.
YERMA. I know girls who trembled and cried before getting
into bed with their husbands. Did I cry the first time I went to bed
with you? Didn't I sing as I turned back the fine linen bed-clothes? And
didn't I tell you, "These bed-clothes smell of apples!"
JUAN. That's what you said!
YERMA. My mother cried because I wasn't sorry to leave
her. And that's true! No one ever got married with more happiness. And
yet...
JUAN. Hush! I have a hard enough job hearing all the time
that I'm...
YERMA. No. Don't tell me what they say. I can see with my
own eyes that that isn't so. The rain just by the force of its falling
on the stones softens them and makes weeds grow-weeds which people say
aren't good for anything. "Weeds aren't good for anything,"
yet I see them plainly enough-moving their yellow flowers in the wind.
JUAN.
We've got to wait!
YERMA.
Yes; loving each other.
Yerma
embraces and kisses her husband. She takes the initiative.
JUAN.
If you need anything, tell me, and I'll bring it to you. You know
well enough I don't like you to be going out.
YERMA.
I never go out.
JUAN.
You're better off here.
YERMA.
Yes.
JUAN.
The street's for people with nothing to do.
YERMA,
darkly. Of course.
The
husband leaves. Yerma walks toward her sewing. She passes her hand over
her belly, lifts her arms in a beautiful sigh, and sits down to sew.
YERMA.
From
where do you come, my love, my baby?
"From
the mountains of icy cold."
What
do you lack, sweet love, my baby?
"The
woven warmth in your dress."
She
threads the needle.
Let
the branches tremble in the sun
and
the fountains leap all around!
As If she spoke to a child.
In
the courtyard the dog barks,
In
the trees the wind sings.
The
oxen low for the ox-herd,
and
the moon curls up my hair.
What
want you, boy, from so far away?
Pause.
"The
mountains white upon your chest."
Let
the branches tremble in the sun
and
the fountains leap all around!
Sewing.
I
shall say to you, child, yes, for you I'll torn and broken be.
How
painful is this belly now, where first you shall he cradled! When, boy,
when will you come to me?
Pause.
"When
sweet your flesh of jasmine smells." Let the branches tremble in
the sun and the fountains leap all around!
Yerma
continues singing. Maria enters through the door carrying a bundle of
clothes.
YERMA.
Where are you coming from?
MARIA.
From the store.
YERMA.
From the store so early?
MARIA.
For what I wanted, I'd have waited at the door till they opened. Can't
you guess what I bought?
YERMA,
You probably bought some coffee for breakfast; sugar, bread.
MARIA.
No. I bought laces, three lengths of linen, ribbons, and colored
wool to make tassels, My husband had the money and he gave it to me
without my even asking for it.
YERMA.
You're going to make a blouse?
MARIA.
No, it's because . . . Can't you guess?
YERMA.
What?
MARIA.
Because . . . well .
. it's here now!
She
lowers her head. Yerma rises and looks a
her in admiration.
YERMA.
In just five months?
MARIA.
Yes.
YERMA.
You can tell it's there?
MARIA.
Naturally.
YERMA,
with curiosity. But, how does
it make you feel?
MARIA.
I don't know. Sad; upset.
YERMA.
Sad? Upset? Holding her.
But
. . when did he come? Tell
me about It. You weren't expecting him.
MARIA.
No, I wasn't expecting him.
YERMA.
Why, you might have been singing; yes? I sing. You.. . tell me..
MARIA.
Don't ask me about it. Have you ever held a live bird pressed in
your hand?
YERMA.
Yes.
MARIA.
Well-the same way-but more in your blood.
YERMA.
How beautiful!
She
looks at her, beside herself.
MARIA.
I'm confused. I don't know anything.
YERMA.
About what?
MARIA.
About what I must do. I'll ask my mother.
YERMA.
What for? She's old now and she'll have for-gotten about these things.
Don't walk very much, and when you breathe, breathe as softly as if you
had a rose between your teeth.
MARIA.
You know, they say that later he kicks you gently with his little legs.
YERMA.
And that's when you love him best, when you can really say: "My child!"
MARIA.
In the midst of all this, I feel ashamed.
YERMA.
What has your husband said about it?
MARIA.
Nothing.
YERMA.
Does he love you a lot?
MARIA.
He doesn't tell me so, but when he's close to me his eyes tremble
like two green leaves.
YERMA.
Did he know that you were...?
MARIA, Yes.
YERMA.
But, how did he know it?
MARIA.
I don't know. But on our
wedding night he kept telling me about it with his mouth pressed against
my cheek; so that now it seems to me my child is a dove of fire he made
slip in through my ear.
YERMA.
Oh, how lucky you are!
MARIA.
But you know more about these things than I do.
YERMA.
And what good does it do me?
MARIA.
That's true? why should it be like that? Out of all the brides of your
time you're the only one who...
YERMA.
That's the way it is. Of course, there's still 6m7.
Helena was three years, and long ago some in my mother S time were much
longer, but two years and twenty days-like me-is too long to wait. I
don't think it's right for me to burn myself out here. Many nights I go
out barefooted to the patio to walk on the ground. I don't know why I do
it. If I keep on like this, I'll end by turning bad.
MARIA.
But look here, you infant, you're talking as if you were an old
woman. You listen to me, now! No one can complain about these things. A
sister of my mother's had one after fourteen years, and you should have
seen what a beautiful child that was?
YERMA,
eagerly. What was he like?
MARIA.
He used to bellow like a little bull, as loud as a thousand locusts all
buzzing at once, and wet us, and pull our braids; and when he was four
months old he scratched our faces all over.
YERMA,
laughing. But those things don't hurt.
MARIA.
Let me tell you-
YERMA.
Bah! I've seen my sister nurse her child with her
breasts
full of scratches. It gave her great pain, but it was a fresh pain-good,
and necessary for health.
MARIA.
They say one suffers a lot with children.
YERMA.
That's a lie. That's what weak, complaining mothers
say. What do they have them for? Having a child is no bouquet of
roses. We must suffer to see them grow. I sometimes think half our blood
must go. But that's good, healthy, beautiful. Every woman has blood for
four or five children, and when she doesn't have them it turns to poison
as it will in me.
MARIA.
I don't know what's the matter with me.
YERMA.
I've always heard it said that you're frightened the first time.
MARIA,
timidly. We'll see. You know, you sew so well
YERMA,
taking the bundle. Give it here. I'll cut you two little
dresses. And ....?
MARIA.
For diapers.
YERMA,
she sits down. All right.
MARIA.
Well. . . See you later.
As
she comes near, Yerma lovingly presses her hands against her
belly.
YERMA.
Don't run on the cobblestones.
MARIA.
Good-bye.
She
kisses her and leaves.
YERMA.
Come back soon.
Yerma
is In the same
attitude as at the
beginning of the scene. She takes her scissors and starts to cut. Victor
enters.
Hello,
Victor.
VICTOR,
he is deep looking and has a firm gravity about
him. Where's Juan?
YERMA.
Out in the fields.
VICTOR.
What's that you're sewing?
YERMA.
I’m cutting
some diapers.
VICTOR,
smiling. Well, now!
YERMA,
laughs. I'm going to border them with lace.
VICTOR.
If it's a girl, you give her your name.
YERMA,
trembling. How's that?
VICTOR.
I’m happy for
you.
YERMA,
almost choking. No . . .
they aren't for me. They're for Maria's child.
VICTOR.
Well then, let's see if her example will encourage you. This house needs
a child in it.
YERMA,
with anguish. Needs one!
VICTOR.
Well, get along with it. Tell your husband to think less about
his work. He wants to make money and he will, but who's he going to
leave it to when he dies? I'm going out with my sheep. Tell Juan to take
out the two he bought from me, and about this other thing-try harder!
He
leaves, smiling.
YERMA,
passionately. That's it!
Try . ..
I
shall say to you, child, yes,
for
you I'll torn and broken be.
How
painful is this belly now,
where
first you shall be cradled!
When, child, when will you come to me?
Yerma, who has risen thoughtfully, goes to the place
where Victor stood, and breathes deeply-like one who breathes mountain
air. Then she goes to the other side of the room as If looking for
something, and after that sits down and takes up the sewing again. She
be gins to sew. Her eyes remain fixed on one point.
CURTAIN
ACT ONE
SCENE
2
A
field. Yerma enters carrying a basket. The First Old Woman enters.
YERMA.
Good morning!
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Good
morning to a beautiful
girl! Where are you going?
YERMA.
I've just come from taking dinner to my husband who's working in the
olive groves.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Have
YOU been married very long?
YERMA.
Three years.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Do
you have any children?
YERMA.
No.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Bah! You'll have them!
YERMA,
eagerly. Do you think so?
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Well, why
not?
She
sits down.
I,
too, have just taken my husband his food. He's old. He still has to
work. I have nine children, like nine golden suns, but since not one of
them is a girl, here you have me going from one side to the other.
YERMA.
You live on the other side of the river?
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Yes. In the mills. What family are you from?
YERMA.
I'm Enrique the shepherd's daughter.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Ah! Enrique the shepherd. I knew him. Good people. Get
up, sweat, eat some bread and die. No playing, no nothing. The fairs for
somebody else. Silent creatures. I could have married an uncle of yours,
but then . . . I I've been a woman with her skirts to the wind. I’ve
run like an arrow to melon cuttings, to parties, to sugar cakes. Many
times at dawn I've rushed to the door thinking I
heard the music of guitars going along and coming nearer, but it
was only the wind.
She
laughs.
You'll laugh at me. I've had two husbands,
fourteen children-five of them dead-and yet I'm not sad, and I'd like to
live much longer. That's what I say! The fig trees, how they last! The
houses, how they last! And only we poor bedeviled women turn to dust for
any reason.
YERMA.
I’d like to ask you a question.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Let's see.
She
looks at her.
I
know what you're going to ask me, and there's not a word you can say
about those things.
She
rises.
YERMA,
holding her. But, why not? Hearing you talk has given me
confidence. For some time I've been wanting to talk about it with an
older woman-because I want to find out. Yes, you can tell me-
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Tell you what?
YERMA,
lowering her voice. What you already know. Why am I
childless? Must I be left in the prime of my life taking care of little
birds, or putting up tiny pleated curtains at my little windows? No.
You've got to tell me what to do, for I'll do anything you tell me-even
to sticking needles in the weakest pad of my eyes.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN.
Me, tell you? I don't know anything about it. I laid down face up
and began to sing. Children came like water. Oh, who can say this body
we've got isn't beautiful? You take a step and at the end of the street
a horse whinnies. Ay-y-y! Leave me alone, girl; don't make me talk. I
have a lot of ideas I don't want to tell you about.
YERMA.
Why not? I never talk about anything else with my husband!
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Listen:
Does your husband please you?
YERMA.
what?
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. I
mean-do you really love him? Do you
long to be with him?
YERMA.
I don't know.
FIRST OLD WOMAN.
Don't you tremble when he
comes near you? Don't you feel
something like a dream
when he brings his
lips close to yours? Tell
me.
YERMA.
No. I’ve never noticed it.
FIRST OLD WOMAN.
Never? Not even when
you've danced?
YERMA,
remembering. Perhaps . .
one time . . . with Victor
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Go on.
YERMA.
He took me by the waist and I couldn't say a word to him, because I
couldn't talk. Another time this same Victor, when I was fourteen years
old-he was a husky boy-took me in his arms to leap a ditch and I started
shaking so hard my teeth chattered. But I've always been shy.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. But with your husband. ..?
YERMA.
My husband's something else. My father gave him to me and I took him.
With happiness. That's the plain truth. Why, from the first day I was
engaged to him I thought about . . . our children. And I could see
myself in his eyes. Yes, but it was to see myself reflected very small,
very manageable, as if I were my own daughter.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. It was just the opposite with me. Maybe that's why you
haven't had a child yet. Men have got to give us pleasure, girl. They've
got to take down our hair and let us drink water out of their mouths, So
runs the world.
YERMA.
Your world, but not mine. I think about a lot of things, a lot, and I'm
sure that the things I think about will come true in my son. I gave
myself over to my husband for his sake, and I go on giving to see if
he'll be born-but never just for pleasure.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. And
the only result is-you're empty!
YERMA. No, not empty, because I'm
filling up with hate. Tell me; is it my fault? in a man do you have to
look for only the man, nothing more? Then, what are you going to think
when he lets you lie in bed looking at the ceiling with sad eyes, and he
turns over and goes to sleep? Should I go on thinking of him or what can
come shining out of my breast? I don't know; but you tell me-out of
charity!
She
kneels.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Oh, what an open flower! What a beautiful creature you
are. You leave me alone. Don't make me say any more. I don't want to
talk with you any more. These are matters of honor. And I don't burn
anyone's honor. You'll find out. But you certainly ought to be less
innocent.
YERMA,
sadly. Girls like me who grow up in the country have all
doors closed to them. Everything becomes half-words, gestures, because
all these things, they say, must not be talked about. And you, too; you,
too, stop talking and go off with the air of a doctor-knowing
everything, but keeping it from one who dies of thirst.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. To
any other calm woman, I could speak; not to you. I’m an old woman and
I know what I'm saying.
YERMA.
Then, God help me.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Not
God; I've never liked God. when will people realize he doesn't exist?
Men are the ones who'll have to help you.
YERMA.
But, why do you tell me that? Why?
FIRST
OLD WOMAN, leaving.
Though there should be a God,
even a tiny one, to send his lightning against those men of rotted seed
who make puddles out of the happiness of the fields.
YERMA.
I don't know what you're trying to tell me.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Well,
I know what I'm trying to say. Don't you be unhappy. Hope for the best.
You're still very young. What do you want me to do?
She
leaves. Two Girls appear.
FIRST
GIRL. Everywhere we
go we meet people.
YERMA.
With all the work, the men have to be in the olive groves, and we
must take them their food. No one I left at home but the old people.
SECOND
GIRL. Are you
on your way back to the village?
YERMA.
I'm going that way.
FIRST
GIRL. I’m in
a great hurry. 1 left my baby asleep and there's
no one in the house.
YERMA.
Then hurry up, woman. You can't leave babies alone
like that. Are there any pigs at your place?
FIRST
GIRL. No. But
you're right. I'm going right away.
YERMA.
Go on. That's how things happen. Surely you've locked him in?
FIRST
GIRL. Naturally.
YERMA.
Yes, but even so, we don’t realize what a tiny child is. The
thing that seems most harmless to us might finish him off. A little
needle. A swallow of water.
FIRST
GIRL. You're right. I'm on my way. I just don't think of
those things.
YERMA.
Get along now!
SECOND
GIRL. If you had four
or five, you wouldn't talk like that.
YERMA.
Why not? Even if I had forty.
SECOND
GIRL. Anyway,
you and I, not having any, live more peacefully.
YERMA.
Not I.
SECOND
GIRL. I do.
What a bother! My mother, on the other hand, does nothing but give me
herbs so I'll have
them,
and in October we're going to the saint who, they say,
gives them to women who ask for them eagerly. My mother will ask
for them, not I.
YERMA.
They, why did you marry?
SECOND
GIRL. Because they married me off. They get everyone married. If we
keep on like this, the only unmarried ones will be the little girls.
Well, anyway, you really get married long before you go to the church.
But the old women keep worrying about all these things. I'm nineteen and
I don't like to cook or do washing. Well, now I have to spend the whole
day doing what I don't like to do. And all for what? We did the same
things as sweethearts that we do now. It's all just the old folks' silly
ideas.
YERMA.
Be quiet; don't talk that way.
SECOND
GIRL. You'll
be calling me crazy, too. That crazy girl-that crazy girl!
She
laughs.
I'll tell you the only thing I've learned from life: every
body's stuck inside their house doing what they don't like to do. How
much better it is out in the streets. Sometimes I go to the arroyo,
sometimes I climb up and ring the bells, or again I might just take a
drink of anisette.
YERMA.
You're only a child.
SECOND
GIRL. why,
yes-but I'm not crazy.
She
laughs.
YERMA.
Does your mother live at the topmost door in the village?
SECOND
GIRL. Yes.
YERMA.
In the last house?
SECOND
GIRL. Yes.
YERMA.
What's her name?
SECOND
GIRL. Dolores.
Why do you ask?
YERMA.
Oh, nothing.
SECOND
GIRL. You
wouldn't be asking because of . .
YERMA.
I don't know . . people say...
SECOND
GIRL. Well,
that's up to you. Look, I'm going to take my
husband his food.
She
laughs.
That's
something to see! Too bad I can't say my sweetheart,
isn't it?
She
laughs.
Here
comes that crazy girl!
She
leaves, laughing happily. Good-bye!
VICTOR
S VOICE, singing.
Why,
shepherd, sleep alone?
Why,
shepherd, sleep alone?
On
my wool-quilt deep
you'd
finer sleep.
Why, shepherd, sleep alone?
YERMA,
listening.
Why, shepherd, sleep alone?
On my wool-quilt deep
you'd finer sleep.
Your quilt of shadowed stone,
shepherd,
and your shirt of frost,
shepherd,
gray rushes of the winter
on the night-tide of your bed.
The oak-roots weave their needles,
shepherd,
Beneath your pillow silently,
shepherd,
and
if you hear a woman's voice
it's
the torn voice of the stream.
Shepherd,
shepherd.
What does the hillside want of you,
Shepherd?
Hillside of bitter weeds.
What child is killing you?
The thorn the broom-tree bore!
She
starts to leave and meets Victor as he enters.
VICTOR,
happily. Where is all this beauty going?
YERMA.
Was that you singing?
VICTOR.
Yes.
YERMA.
How well you sing! I'd never heard you.
VICTOR.
No?
YERMA.
And what a vibrant voice! It's like a stream of water that fills your
mouth.
VICTOR.
I'm always happy.
YERMA.
That's true.
VICTOR.
Just as you're sad.
YERMA.
I'm not usually sad, but I have reason to be.
VICTOR.
And your husband's sadder than you.
YERMA.
He is, yes. It's his character-dry.
VICTOR.
He was always like that.
Pause.
Yerma is seated.
Did
you take his supper to him?
YERMA.
Yes.
She
looks at him. Pause.
What
have you here?
She
points to his face.
VICTOR.
Where?
YERMA,
she rises and stands near Victor. Here .
. . on your cheek. Like a burn.
VICTOR.
It's nothing.
YERMA.
It looked like one to me.
Pause.
VICTOR.
It must be the sun...
YERMA.
Perhaps...
Pause.
The silence is accentuated
and without the slightest gesture, a struggle between the two begins.
YERMA,
trembling. Do you hear that?
VICTOR.
What?
YERMA.
Don't you hear a crying?
VICTOR,
listening. No.
YERMA.
I thought I heard a child crying.
VICTOR.
Yes?
YERMA.
Very near. And he cried as though drowning.
VICTOR.
There are always a lot of children around here who come to steal
fruit.
YERMA.
No, it's the voice of a small child.
Pause.
VICTOR.
I don't hear anything.
YERMA.
I probably just imagined it.
She
looks at him fixedly. Victor also looks at her, then slowly shifts his
gaze as q afraid. Juan enters.
JUAN.
Still here? What are you doing here?
YERMA.
I was talking.
VICTOR.
Salud!
He
leaves.
JUAN.
You should be at home.
YERMA.
I was delayed.
JUAN.
I don't see what kept you.
YERMA.
I heard the birds sing.
JUAN.
That's all very well. But this is just the way to give people something
to talk about.
YERMA,
strongly. Juan, what can you be thinking?
JUAN.
I don't say it because of you. I say it because of other people.
YERMA.
Other people be damned!
JUAN.
Don't curse. That's ugly in a woman.
YERMA.
I wish I were a woman.
JUAN.
Let's stop talking. You go home.
Pause.
YERMA.
All right. Shall I expect you?
JUAN.
No. I'll be busy all night with the irrigating. There's very
little water; it's mine till sun-up, and I've got to guard it from
thieves. You go to bed and sleep.
YERMA,
dramatically. I'll sleep.
She
leaves.
CURTAIN
ACT TWO
SCENE
1
A
fast flowing mountain stream where the village women wash their clothes.
The laundresses are arranged at various levels.
Song
before the curtain rises.
SONG
Here
in this icy current
let me wash your lace,
just like a glowing jasmine.
is your laughing face.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. I
don't like to be talking.
SECOND
LAUNDRESS. Well, we talk here.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. And there's no harm in it.
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS. Whoever
wants a good name, let her earn it.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS.
I
planted thyme,
I
watched it grow.
Who
wants a good name
Must
live just so.
They
laugh
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS. That's
the way we talk.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. But
we never really know anything for certain.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Well,
it's certain enough that her husband's brought his two sisters to live
with them.
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS, The
old maids?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Yes.
They used to watch the church, and now they watch their sister-in-law. I
wouldn't be able to live with them.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. Why
not?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. They'd give me the creeps. They're like those big leaves
that quickly spring up over graves. They're smeared with wax. They grow
inwards. I figure they must fry their food with lamp oil.
THIRD
LAUNDRESS. And they're in the house now?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Since
yesterday. Her husband's going back to
his fields again now.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. But can't
anyone find out what happened?
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS. She
spent the night before last sitting on
her doorstep-in spite of the cold.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. But
why?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. It's
hard work for her to stay in the house.
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS. That's
the way those mannish creatures are. When they could be making lace, or
apple cakes, they like to climb up on the roof, or go wade barefoot in
the river.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. Who are you
to be talking like that? She hasn't
any children but that's not her fault.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. The one
who wants children, has them. These spoiled, lazy and soft girls
aren't up to having a wrinkled belly.
They
laugh.
THIRD
LAUNDRESS. And
they dash face powder and rouge on
themselves, and pin on sprigs of oleander, and go looking for some man
who's not their husband.
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS. Nothing could
be truer!
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. But have
you seen her with anybody?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. We
haven't, but other people have.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. Always
other people!
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS. On two
separate occasions, they say.
SECOND
LAUNDRESS. And what were they doing?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Talking.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. Talking's no sin.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. In this world just a glance can be something. My mother
always said that. A woman looking at roses isn't the same thing as a
woman looking at a man's thighs. And she looks at him.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. But
at whom?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Someone. Haven't you heard? You find out for yourself.
Do you want me to say it louder?
Laughter.
And
when she's not looking at him-when she's alone, when he's not right in
front of her-she carries his picture in her eyes.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. That's
a lie?
There
is excitement.
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS. But
what about her husband?
THIRD
LAUNDRESS. Her
husband acts like a deaf man. Just stands around blankly-like a lizard
taking the sun.
Laughter.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. All
this would take care of itself if they had children.
SECOND
LAUNDRESS. All
this comes of people not being content
with their lot.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Every passing
hour makes the hell in that
house worse. She and her
sisters-in-law, never opening cir
lips, scrub the walls all day, polish the copper, clean the windows with
steam, and oil the floors: but the more that house shines, the more it
seethes inside.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. It's
all his fault; his. When a man doesn't give children, he's got to take
care of his wife.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. It's
her fault-because she's got a tongue hard as flint.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. What devil's got into your hair that makes you talk that
way?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Well!
Who gave your tongue per-mission to give me advice?
SECOND
LAUNDRESS. Quiet, you two!
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. I'd like to string all these clacking tongues on a
knitting needle.
SECOND
LAUNDRESS. Quiet, you!
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. And I the nipples of all hypocrites.
SECOND
LAUNDRESS, Rush up! Can't you see? Here come the sisters-in-law.
There
is whispering. Yerma's two sisters-In-law enter. The9
are dressed In mourning. in the silence, they start their
washing. Sheep belts are heard.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
Are the shepherds leaving already?
THIRD
LAUNDRESS. Yes, all the flocks leave today.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS, taking a deep breath. I like the smell of sheep.
THIRD
LAUNDRESS. You do?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Yes. And why not? The smell of what's ours. Just as I
like the smell of the red mud this river carries in the winter.
THIRD
LAUNDRESS. Whims!
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS, looking. All the flocks are leaving together.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. It's a flood of wool. They sweep everything along. If the
green wheat had eyes it'd tremble to see them coming.
THIRD
LAUNDRESS. Look
how they run! What a band of devils!
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. They're
all out now, not a flock is missing.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Let's
see. No . . Yes, yes. One
is missing.
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS. Which
one?
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Victor's.
The
two Sisters-in-law sit up and look at each other.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS, Singing.
Here
in this icy current
let
me wash your lace.
Just
like a glowing jasmine
is
your laughing face.
I
would like to live
within
the tiny snowstorm
that
the jasmines give.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
Alas
for the barren wife!
Alas
for her whose breasts are sand!
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS.
Tell
me if your husband
has
fertile seed
so
water through your clothes
will
sing indeed.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS.
Your
petticoat to me
is
silvery boat and breeze
that
sweep along the sea.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
These
clothes that are my baby's
I
wash here in the stream
to
teach the stream a lesson
how
crystal-like to gleam.
SECOND
LAUNDRESS.
Down
the hillside he comes
at
lunchtime to me,
my
husband with one rose
and
I give him three.
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS.
Through meadows at dusk comes
my husband to eat.
To
live coals he brings me I give myrtle sweet.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS.
Through
night skies he comes,
my
husband, to bed.
I,
like red gillyflowers,
he,
a gillyflower red.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
And
flower to flower must be wed
when
summer dries the reaper's blood so red.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS.
And
wombs be opened to birds without sleep
when
winter tries the door and cold's to keep.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
The
bedclothes must receive our tears.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS.
But
we must sing in bed!
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS.
when
the husband comes
to
bring the wreath and bread.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS.
Because
our arms must intertwine.
SEGOND
LAUNDRESS.
Because
in our throats the light is rent.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS,
Because
the leaf-stem becomes fine.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
And
the hill is covered with a
breeze's tent.
SIXTH
LAUNDRESS, appearing
at the topmost part of the swiftly flowing stream.
So
that a child may weld
white
crystals in the dawn.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
And
in our waists be held torn stems
of coral tree.
SIXTH LAUNDRESS.
So
that oarsmen there will be
in
the waters of the sea.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
A
tiny child, one.
SECOND
LAUNDRESS.
And
when the doves stretch wing and beak
THIRD
LAUNDRESS.
an
infant weeps, a son.
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS.
And
men push ever forward
like
stags by wounds made weak.
FIRST
LAUNDRESS. Joy, joy,
joy!
of
the swollen womb beneath the dress!
SECOND
LAUNDRESS. Joy, joy,
joy!
The
waist can miracles possess!
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
But,
alas for the barren wife!
Alas
for her whose breasts are sand!
THIRD
LAUNDRESS.
Let
her shine out resplendent!
FOURTH
LAUNDRESS. Let her
run!
FIFTH
LAUNDRESS.
And
shine out resplendent again!
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
Let
her sing!
SECOND
LAUNDRESS.
Let
her hide!
FIRST
LAUNDRESS.
And
sing once more.
SECOND
LAUNDRESS.
Of
whiteness like the dawn's
my
baby's clean clothes store.
FIRST
AND SECOND
LAUNDRESS, they
sing together.
Here
in this icy current let me wash your lace.
Just
like a glowing jasmine
is
your laughing face. Ha! Ha! Ha!
They
move the clothes in rhythm and beat them.
CURTAIN
ACT TWO
SCENE 2
Yerma's
house. it is twilight. Juan is seated. The two Sisters-in-law are standing.
JUAN.
You say she went out a little while ago?
The
Older Sister answers with a nod.
She's
probably at the fountain. But you've known all along I don't like her to
go out alone.
Pause.
You
can set the table.
The
Younger Sister enters.
The
bread I eat is hard enough earned!
To
his Sister.
I
had a hard day yesterday. I was pruning the apple trees, and when
evening fell I started to wonder why I should put so much into my work
if I can't even lift an apple to my mouth. I'm tired.
He
passes his hand over his face. Pause.
That
woman's still not here. One of you should go out with her. That's why
you're here eating at my table and drinking my wine. My life's in the
fields, but my honor's here. And my honor is yours too.
The
Sister bows her head
Don't take that wrong.
Yerma
enters carrying two pitchers. She stands at the door.
Have
you been to the fountain?
YERMA.
So we'd have fresh water for supper. The other Sister enters.
How
are the fields?
JUAN.
Yesterday I pruned the trees.
Yerma
sets the pitchers down. Pause.
YERMA.
Are you going to stay in?
JUAN.
I have to watch the flocks. You know that's an owner's duty.
YERMA.
I know it very well, Don't repeat it.
JUAN.
Each man has his life to lead.
YERMA.
And each woman hers. I'm not asking you to stay. I have everything I
need here. Your sisters guard me well. Soft bread and cheese and roast
lamb I eat here, and in the field your cattle eat grass softened with
dew. I think you can live in peace.
JUAN.
In order to live in peace, one must be contented.
YERMA.
And you're not?
JUAN.
No, I'm not.
YERMA.
Don't say what you started to.
JUAN.
Don't you know my way of thinking? The sheep in the fold and women at
home. You go out too much. Haven't you always heard me say that?
YERMA. Justly. Women in their homes. When those
homes aren't tombs. When the chairs break and the linen sheets wear out
with use. But not here. Each night, when I go to bed, I find my bed
newer, more shining-as if it had just been brought from the city.
JUAN.
You yourself realize that I've a right to complain. That I have
reasons to be on the alert!
YERMA.
Alert? For what? I don't offend you in any way. I live obedient to you,
and what I suffer I keep close in my flesh. And every day that passes
will he worse. Let's be quiet now. I'll learn to bear my cross as best I
can, but don't ask me for anything. If I could suddenly turn into an old
woman and have a mouth like a withered flower, I could smile and share
my life with you. But now-- now you leave me alone with my thorns.
JUAN.
You speak in a way I don't understand. I don't deprive you of
anything. I send to nearby towns for the things you like. I have my
faults, but I want peace and quiet with you. I want to be sleeping out
in the fields-thinking that you're sleeping too.
YERMA.
But r don't
sleep. I can't sleep.
JUAN.
Is it because you need something? Tell me. Answer me!
YERMA,
deliberately, looking fixedly at her husband. Yes, I need
something.
Pause.
JUAN.
Always the same thing. It's more than five years. I've almost
forgotten about it.
YERMA.
But I'm not you. Men get other things out of life: their cattle, trees,
conversations, but women have only their children and the care of their
children.
JUAN.
Everybody's not the same way. Why don't you bring one of your
brother's children here? I don't oppose that.
YERMA.
I don't want to take care of somebody else's children.
I think my arms would freeze from holding them.
JUAN.
You brood on this one idea till you're half crazy-instead
of thinking about something else-and you persist in running your head
against a stone.
YERMA.
stone, yes; and it's shameful that it is a stone, because it ought to be
a basket of flowers and sweet scents.
JUAN.
At your side one feels nothing but uneasiness, dissatisfaction.
As a last resort, you should resign yourself.
YERMA.
I didn't come to these four walls to resign my sell. When a cloth
binds my head so my mouth won't drop open, and my hands are tied tight
in my coffin-then, then I'll resign myself!
JUAN.
Well then, what do you want to do?
YERMA.
I want to drink water and there's neither water nor a glass. I want to
go up the mountain, and I have no feet. I want to embroider skirts and I
can't find thread.
JUAN.
What's happened is that you're not a real woman, and you're trying to
ruin a man who has no choice in the matter.
YERMA.
I don't know what I am. Let me walk around; get myself in hand
again. I have in no way failed you.
JUAN.
I don't like people to he pointing me out. That's why I want to see this
door closed and each person in his house.
The
First Sister enters slowly and walks toward some shelves.
YERMA.
It's no sin to talk with people.
JUAN.
But it can seem one.
The
other Sister enters and goes toward the water jars, from one of which
she fills a pitcher.
JUAN,
lowering his voice. I'm not strong enough for this sort of
thing. When people talk to you, shut your mouth and remember you're a
married woman.
YERMA,
with surprise. Married!
JUAN.
And that families have honor, And that honor is a burden
that rests on all.
The
Sister leaves slowly with the pitcher.
But
that it's both dark and weak in the same channels of the blood
The other Sister leaves with a platter in almost a
processional manner. Pause.
Forgive
me.
Yerma looks at her husband. He raises his head and his
glance catches hers.
Even
though you look at me so that I oughtn't to say to you: "Forgive
me," but force you to obey me, lock you up, because that's what I'm
the husband for.
The two Sisters appear at the door.
YERMA.
I beg you not to talk about it. Let the matter rest.
JUAN.
Let's go eat. The two Sisters leave.
Did
you hear me?
YERMA,
sweetly. You eat with your sisters. I'm not hungry yet.
JUAN.
As you wish. He leaves.
YERMA,
as though dreaming.
Oh,
what a field of sorrow!
Oh,
this is a door to beauty closed:
to
beg a son to suffer, and for the wind
to
offer dahlias of a sleeping moon!
These
two teeming springs I have
of
warm milk are in the closeness
of
my flesh two rhythms of a horse's gallop,
to
make vibrate the branch of my anguish.
Oh,
breasts, blind beneath my clothes!
Oh,
doves with neither eyes nor whiteness!
Oh,
what pain of imprisoned blood
is
nailing wasps at my brain's base!
But
you must come, sweet love, my baby,
because
water gives salt, the earth fruit,
and
our wombs guard tender infants,
just
as a cloud is sweet with rain.
She looks toward the door.
Maria!
Why do you hurry past my door so?
MARIA,
she enters With a child in her arms. I hurry by whenever I
have the child-since you always weep!
YERMA.
Yes, you're right.
She
takes the child and sits down,
MARIA.
It makes me sad that you're envious.
YERMA,
It's not envy I feel-it's poverty.
MARIA.
Don't you complain.
YERMA.
How can I help complaining when I see you and the other women full of
flowers from within, and then see myself useless in the midst of so much
beauty!
MARIA.
But you have other things. if you'd listen to me you’d be happy.
YERMA.
A farm woman who bears no children is useless like a handful of
thorns-and even bad- even though I may be a part of this wasteland
abandoned by the hand of God.
Maria makes a gesture as if to take the child.
Take
him. He's happier with you. I guess I don't have a mother's hands.
MARIA. Why do you say that?
YERMA,
she rises. Because I'm tired. Because I'm tired of having them,
and not being able to use them on something of my own. For I'm hurt,
hurt and humiliated beyond endurance, seeing the wheat ripening, the
fountains never ceasing to give water, the sheep bearing hundreds of
lambs, the she-dogs; until it seems that the whole countryside rises to
show me its tender sleeping young, while I feel two hammer-blows here,
instead of the mouth of my child.
MARIA.
I don't like you to talk that way.
YERMA.
You women who have children can't think about us who don't! You stay
always fresh, with no idea of it, just as anyone swimming in fresh water
has no idea of thirst.
MARIA.
I don't want to tell you again what I've always said.
YERMA.
Each time I have more desire and less hope.
MARIA.
That's very bad.
YERMA.
I'll end up believing I'm my own son. Many nights I go down to
feed the oxen-which I never did before, because no woman does it-and
when I pass through the darkness of the shed my footsteps sound to me
like the footsteps of a man.
MARIA.
Each one of us reasons things out for herself.
YERMA.
And in spite of all, I go on hoping in myself. You see how I
live!
MARIA.
How are your sisters-in-law?
YERMA.
Dead may I be, and without a shroud, if ever I speak a word to them.
MARIA.
And your husband?
YERMA.
They are three against me.
MARIA.
what do they think about it?
YERMA.
The wildest imaginings; like all people who don't have clear
consciences. They think I like another man. They don't know that even if
I should like another man, to those of my kind, honor comes first.
They're stones in my path, but they don't know that I can be, if I want
to, an arroyo's rushing water and sweep them away.
One
Sister enters and leaves carrying a piece of bread.
MARIA.
Even so, I think your husband still loves you.
YERMA.
My husband gives me bread and a house.
MARIA.
What troubles you have to go through! What troubles! But remember
the wounds of Our Lord.
They
are at the door.
YERMA,
looking at the child. He's awake now
MARIA.
In a little while he'll start to sing.
YERMA.
The same eyes as yours. Did you know that? Have you noticed them?
Weeping.
His
eyes are the same as yours!
Yerma
pushes Maria gently and she leaves silently.
Yerma walks toward the door through which
her husband left.
SECOND GIRL.
Sst!
YERMA,
turning. what?
SECOND GIRL.
I waited fill she left. My mother's expecting you.
YERMA. Is she alone?
SECOND GIRL.
With two neighbors.
YERMA.
Tell them to wait a little.
SECOND GIRL.
But, are you really going to go? Aren't you afraid?
YERMA.
I'm going to go.
SECOND GIRL.
That's up to you!
YERMA.
Tell them to wait for me even if it's late!
Victor
enters.
VICTOR.
Is Juan here?
YERMA.
Yes.
SECOND GIRL,
acting the accomplice. Well then,
I'll bring the blouse later.
YERMA. Whenever you like.
The
Girl leaves.
Sit
down.
VICTOR.
I'm all right like this.
YERMA,
calling. Juan!
VICTOR.
I've come to say good-bye.
He
trembles a little, but his composure returns.
YERMA.
Are you going with your brothers?
VICTOR.
That's what my father wants.
YERMA.
He must be old now.
VICTOR.
Yes. Very old.
Pause.
YERMA.
You're right to change fields.
VICTOR.
All fields are alike.
YERMA.
No. I'd like to go very
far away.
VICTOR.
It's all the same. The same sheep have the same wool.
YERMA.
For men, yes; but it's a different thing with women.
I never heard a man eating say, “How good these apples are!" You
go to what's yours without bothering over trifles. But for
myself, I can say I've grown to hate
the water from these wells.
VICTOR.
That may be.
The
stage is in a soft shadow.
YERMA.
Victor.
VICTOR.
Yes?
YERMA.
Why are you going away? The people here like you.
VICTOR.
I've behaved myself.
Pause.
YERMA.
You always behave yourself. When you were a boy, you carried me once in
your arms, do you remember that? One never knows what's going to happen.
VICTOR.
Everything changes.
YERMA.
Some things never change. There are things shut up behind walls that
can't change because nobody hears them.
VICTOR. That's how things are.
The
Second Sister appears and goes slowly toward the door, where she remains
fixed, illuminated by the last light of evening.
YERMA. But if they came out suddenly and shrieked,
they'd fill the world.
VICTOR. Nothing would be gained. The ditch in its
place, the sheep in fold, the moon in the sky, and the man with his
plow.
YERMA. The great pity is we don't profit from the experience
of our elders!
The
long and melancholy sound of the shepherds' conch-shell horns is heard.
VICTOR. The flocks.
JUAN,
enters. Are you on your way?
VICTOR.
Yes. I want to get through the pass before daybreak.
JUAN.
Have you any complaints to make against me?
VICTOR.
No. You paid me a good price.
JUAN,
to Yerma. I bought his sheep.
YERMA.
You did?
VICTOR,
to Yerma. They're
yours.
YERMA.
I didn't know that.
JUAN,
satisfied. Well, it's so.
VICTOR.
Your husband will see his
lands overflowing.
YERMA.
The harvest comes to the worker who seeks it.
The
Sister who was at the door leaves and goes into another room.
JUAN.
Now we haven't any place to put so many sheep.
YERMA,
darkly. The earth
is large.
Pauses.
JUAN.
We'll go together as far as the arroyo.
VICTOR.
I wish this house the greatest possible happiness.
He
gives Yerma his hand.
YERMA.
May God hear you! Salud!
Victor
is about to leave,
but, at an imperceptible movement
from Yerma, he turns.
VICTOR.
Did you say something?
YERMA,
Salud, I said.
VICTOR.
Thank you.
They
leave. Yerma stands, anguished, looking at her hand that she gave to
Victor. She goes quickly to the left and takes up a shawl.
SECOND
GIRL, silently,
covering her hard. Come, let's go.
YERMA.
Come.
They leave cautiously. The
stage is almost in darkness. The First Sister enters with a lamp that
must not give the stage any light other than its own. She goes to one
side of the stage looking for Yerma. The shepherds' conch-shell horns
sound.
SISTER-IN-LAW,
in a low voice. Yerma!
The other Sister enters.
They look at each other and go toward the door.
SECOND
SISIER-IN-LAW, louder.
Yerma!
FIRST
SISTER-IN-LAW, going
to the door, and in an imperious voice. Yerma!
·
The bells and horns of the shepherds are heard. The stage is
quite dark.
CURTAIN
ACT THREE
SCENE
1
The
house of Dolores, the sorceress. Day is breaking.
Enter
Yerma with Dolores and two Old Women.
DOLORES.
You've been brave.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. There's
no force in the world like desire.
SECOND
OLD WOMAN. Hut
the cemetery was terribly dark.
DOLORES.
Many times I've said these prayers in the cemetery with women who
wanted to have a child, and they've all been afraid. All except you.
YERMA.
I came because I want a child. I don't believe you're a deceitful
woman.
DOLORES.
I'm not. May my mouth fill with ants, like the mouths of the
dead, if ever I've lied. The last time, I said the prayers with a beggar
woman who'd been dry longer than you, and her womb sweetened so
beautifully that she had two children down there at the river because
there wasn't time to get to the village-and she carried them herself in
a diaper for me to take care of.
YERMA.
And she was able to walk from the river?
DOLORES.
She came; her skirts and shoes drenched with blood-- but her face
shining.
YERMA.
And nothing happened to her?
DOLORES.
What could happen to her? God is God.
YERMA.
Naturally, God is God. Nothing could happen to her. Just pick up
her babies and wash them in fresh water. Animals lick them, don't they?
I know a son of my own wouldn't make me sick. I have an idea that women
who've recently given birth are as though illumined from within and the
children sleep hours and hours on them, hearing that stream of warm milk
filling the breasts for them to suckle, for them to play in until they
don't want any more, until they lift their heads, "just a little
more, child..." --and their faces and chests are covered with the
white drops.
DOLORES.
You'll have a child now. I can assure you, you will.
YERMA.
I'll have one because I must. Or I don't under-stand the world.
Sometimes, when I feel certain I'll never, ever . . . a tide of fire
sweeps up through me from my feet and everything seems empty; and the
men walking in the streets, the cattle, and the stones, all seem to be
made of cotton. And I ask myself. "Why are they put here?"
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. It's all right for a married woman to want children, of
course, but if she doesn't have them, why this hungering for them? The
important thing in life is to let the years carry us along. I'm not
criticizing you. You see how I've helped at the prayers. But what land
do you expect to give your son, or what happiness, or what silver chair?
YERMA.
I'm not thinking
about tomorrow; I'm thinking about today. You're old and you see things
now like a book already read. I'm thinking how thirsty I am, and how I
don't have any freedom. I want to hold my son in my arms so I'll sleep
peacefully. Listen closely, and don't he frightened by what I say: even
if I knew my son was later going to torture me and hate me and drag me
through the streets by the hair, I'd still be happy at his birth,
because It's much better to weep for a live man who stabs us than for
this ghost sitting year after year upon my heart.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. You're much too young to listen to advice. But
while you wait for Cod's grace, you ought to take refuge in your
husband's love.
YERMA.
Ah! You've put your finger in the deepest wound In my flesh!
DOLORES.
Your husband's a good man.
YERMA,
she rises He's good! He's good! But what of it? I wish he
were bad. But, no' He goes out with his sheep over his trails,
and counts his money at night. When he covers me, he's doing his duty,
but I feel a waist cold as a corpse's, and I, who've always hated
passionate women, would like to be at that instant a mountain of fire.
DOLORES,
Yerma!
YERMA.
I'm not a shameless married woman, but I know that children are born of
a man and a woman. Oh, if only I could have them by myself'.
DOLORES.
Remember, your husband suffers, too.
YERMA.
He doesn't suffer. The trouble is, he doesn't want children!
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. Don't say that!
YERMA.
I can tell that in his glance, and, since he doesn't want them, he
doesn't give them to me. I don't love him; I don't love him, and yet
he's my only salvation. By honor and
by blood. My only salvation.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN, with
fear. Day will soon be breaking. You ought to go home.
DOLORES.
Before you know it, the flocks will be out, and it wouldn't do for you
to be seen alone.
YERMA.
I needed this relief. How many times do I repeat the prayers?
DOLORES.
The laurel prayer, twice; and at noon, St. Anne's prayer.
When you feel pregnant, bring me the bushel of wheat
you promised me.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN. It's
starting to lighten over the bills already. Go.
DOLORES.
They'll soon start opening the big street
doors; you'd best go around by the ditch.
YERMA,
discouraged. I don't
know why I came!
DOLORES.
Are you sorry?
YERMA.
No!
DOLORES,
disturbed. If you're afraid, I'll go with you to the
corner.
FIRST
OLD WOMAN, uneasily. It'll lust he daylight when you
reach home.
Voices
are heard.
DOLORES.
Quiet?
They
listen.
FIRST OLD WOMAN.
It's nobody. God go with you
Yerma starts toward the door, but at this moment a knock is
heard. The three Women are standing. DOLORES.
Who is it?
VOICE.
It's me.
YERMA.
Open the door,
Dolores is reluctant.
Will you open or not?
Whispering
is heard. Juan enters with the two Sisters.
SECOND
SISTER-IN-LAW, Here
she is,
YERMA.
Here I am.
JUAN.
What are you doing in this place? If I could shout rd wake
up the whole village so they'd see where the good name of my house has
gone to; hut I have to swallow everything
and keep quiet-because you're my wife.
YERMA.
I too would shout, if I could, so that even the dead would rise and see
the innocence that covers me.
JUAN.
No, don't tell me that? I can stand everything but that. You
deceive me; you trick me, and since I'm a man who works in the fields,
I'm no match for your cleverness.
DOLORES.
Juan!
JUAN.
You, not a word out of you!
DOLORES,
strongly. Your
wife has done nothing wrong.
JUAN.
She's been doing it from the very day of the wedding. Looking at
me with two needles, passing wakeful rights with her eyes open at my
side, and fining my pillows with evil sighs.
YERMA.
Be quiet!
JUAN.
And I can't stand any more. Because one would have to he made of
iron to put up with a woman who wants to stick her fingers into your
heart and who goes out of her house at night. In search of what? Tell
me? There aren't any flowers to pick in the streets.
YERMA.
I won't let you say another word. Not one word more. You and your people
imagine you're the only ones who look out for honor, and you don't
realize my people have never had anything to conceal. Come on now Come
near and smell my clothes. Come close! See if you can find an odor
that's not yours, that's not from your body. Stand me naked in the
middle of the square and spit on me.
Do what you want with me, since I'm your wife, but , take care not to
set a man's name in my breast.
JUAN.
I'm not the one who sets it there. You do it by your conduct, and the
town's beginning to say so. It’s beginning to say it openly. When I
come on a group, they all fall silent; when I go to weigh the flour,
they all fall silent, and
even at night, in the fields, when I awaken, it seems to
me that the branches of the trees become silent too.
YERMA.
I don't know why the evil winds that soil the wheat begin-but look you
and see if the wheat is good?
JUAN.
Nor do I know what a woman Is looking for out
side her house at all hours.
YERMA,
bursting out, embracing her husband. I'm looking
for you. I'm looking for you. it's you I look for day and night
without finding a shade where to draw breath. It's your blood and help I
want.
JUAN.
Stay away from me.
YERMA.
Don't put me away-love me?
JUAN.
Get away?
YERMA.
Look how I'm left alone? As if the moon searched
for herself in the sky. Look at me?
She
looks at him.
JUAN,
he looks at her and draws away roughly. I-et
me be-once and for all!
DOLORES.
Juan?
Yerma falls to the floor.
YERMA,
loudly. When I went out looking for my flowers, I ran into
a wall. Ay-y-y! Ay-y-y! It's against that wall I'll break my head.
JUAN.
Be quiet. Let's go.
DOLORES.
Good God!
YERMA,
shouting. Cursed be my father who left me his blood of a father
of a hundred sons. Cursed be my blood that searches for them, knocking
against walls.
JUAN.
I told you to be quiet!
DOLORES.
People are coming! Speak lower.
YERMA.
I don't care. At least let my voice go free, now that I'm
entering the darkest part of the pit.
She
rises.
At
least let this beautiful thing come out of my body and fill the air.
Voices
are heard.
DOLORES.
They're going to pass by here.
JUAN.
Silence,
YERMA.
That's it! That's it!
Silence. Never fear.
JUAN.
Let's go. Quick!
YERMA.
That's it! That's it! And it's no use for me to wring my hands! It's one
thing to wish with one's head...
JUAN.
Be still!
YERMA,
low. It's one thing to wish with one's head and another for the body-
cursed be the body!-not to respond. It's written, and I'm not going to
raise my arms against the sea. That's it! Let my mouth be struck dumb!
She
leaves.
QUICK
CURTAIN
ACT THREE
SCENE
2
Environs
of a hermitage high in the mountains. Down-stage are the wheels of a
cart and some canvas forming the rustic tent where Yerma is. Some
women enter carrying offerings for the shrine. They are barefoot. The
happy Old Woman of the first act is on the stage.
SONG
Heard
while the curtain is still closed.
You
I never could see
when
you were fancy free,
but
now that you’re a wife
I’ll
find you, yes,
and
take off your dress,
you,
pilgrim and a wife
when
night is dark all 'round,
when
midnight starts to sound.
OLD
WOMAN, lazily.
Have you already drunk the holy water?
FIRST
WOMAN. Yes.
OLD
WOMAN. Now let's see
this saint work.
FIRST
WOMAN. We believe in
him.
OLD
WOMAN. You come to
ask the saint for children, and it
just happens that every year more single men come on this pilgrimage
too; what's going on here?
She
laughs.
FIRST
WOMAN, Why do
you come here if you don't believe in
him?
OLD
WOMAN. To see
what goes on. I'm just crazy to see what goes on. And to watch out for
my son. Last year two men killed
themselves over a barren wife, and I want
to be on guard. And lastly, I come because I feel like it.
FIRST WOMAN.
May God forgive you!
She
leaves.
OLD WOMAN,
sarcastically. May He forgive you.
She
leaves. Maria enters with the First Girl.
FIRST GIRL.
Did she come?
MARIA,
There's her cart. It was
hard work to make them come. She's been a month without getting
up from her chair. I'm afraid of her. She has some idea I don't
under-stand, but it's a bad idea.
FIRST GJBL. I
came with my sister. She's been coming here
eight years in vain.
MARIA.
The one who's meant to have children, has them.
FIRST GIRL.
That's what I say.
Voices
are heard.
MARIA. I’ve never liked these pilgrimages. Let's
get down to the farms where there are some people around.
FIRST GIRL. Last year, when it got dark, some young
men -pinched my sister's breasts,
MARIA. For four, leagues 'round nothing is heard hut
these terrible stories.
FIRST GIRL. I saw more than forty barrels of wine
back of the hermitage.
MARIA. A river of single men comes down these mountains.
They
leave. Voices are heard. Yerma enters with six Women who are going to
the chapel. They are barefooted and carry decorated candles. Night
begins to fall.
MARIA.
Lord,
make blossom the rose,
leave
not my rose in shadow.
SECOND
WOMAN
Upon her barren flesh
make
blossom the yellow rose.
MARIA.
And in your servants' wombs
the
dark flame of the earth.
CHORUS
OF WOMEN.
Lord,
make blossom the rose, leave not my rose in shadow.
They
kneel.
YERMA.
The
sky must have such gardens
with
rose frees of its joy,
between
the rose and the rose,
one
rose of all the wonder.
Bright
flash of dawn appears,
and
an archangel guards,
his
wings like storms outspread,
his
eyes like agonies.
While
sweet about its leaves
the
streams of warm milk play,
play
and wet the faces of the tranquil stars.
Lord,
make your rose tree bloom
upon
my barren flesh.
They
rise.
SECOND
WOMAN.
Lord,
with your own hand soothe
the
thorns upon her cheek.
YERMA.
Hark
to me, penitent
in
holy pilgrimage.
Open
your rose in my flesh
though
thousand thorns it have.
CHORUS
OF WOMEN.
Lord,
make blossom the rose,
leave
not my rose in shadow.
YERMA.
Upon
my barren flesh
one
rose of all the wonder.
They
leave.
Girls
running with long garlands in
their hands appear front the left. On the right, three others,
looking backward. On the stage there is something like a crescendo of
voices and harness bells, and bellringers' collars. Higher up appear the
Seven Girls who wave the garlands toward the left. The noise increases
and the two traditional Masks appear. One is Male and the other Female.
They carry large masks. They are not in any fashion grotesque, but of
great beauty and with a feeling of pure earth. The Female shakes a
collar of large bells. The back of the stage fills with people who shout
and comment on the dance. it has grown quite dark.
CHILDREN.
The devil and his wife! The devil and his wife!
FEMALE.
In the wilderness stream
the sad wife was bathing.
About her body crept
the little water snails.
The sand upon the banks,
and the little morning breeze
made her laughter sparkle
and her shoulders shiver.
Ah, how naked stood
the maiden in the stream!
BOY..
Ah, how the maiden wept!
FIRST MAN.
Oh, wife bereft of love
in the wind and water!
SECOND MAN.
Let her say for whom she longs!
FIRST MAN.
Let her say for whom she waits!
SECOND MAN.
Ah, with her withered womb and her color shattered!
FEMALE.
When night-tide falls I'll tell,
when night-tide glowing falls.
In the night-tide of the pilgrimage
I'll tear my ruffled skirt.
BOY.
Then
quickly night-tide fell.
Oh,
how the night was falling!
See
how dark becomes
the
mountain waterfall,
Guitars
begin to sound.
MALE,
he rises and shakes the horn.
Ah, how white
the
sorrowing wife!
Ah,
how she sighs beneath the branches!
Poppy
and carnation you'll later be
when
the male spreads out his cape.
He
approaches.
If
you come to the pilgrimage
to
pray your womb may flower
don't
wear a mourning veil
but
a gown of fine Dutch linen.
Walk
alone along the walls
where
fig trees thickest grow
and
bear my earthly body
until
the white dawn wails.
Ah,
how she shines!
How
she was shining,
ah,
how the sad wife sways!
FEMALE.
Ah,
let love place on her
wreathes
and coronets,
let
darts of brightest gold
be
fastened in her breast.
MALE.
Seven
times she wept
and
nine she rose,
fifteen
times they joined
jasmines
with oranges.
THIRD MAN
Strike
her now with the horn!
SECOND
MAN.
With
both the rose and the dance!
FIRST
MAN.
Ah, how the wife is swaying!
MALE.
In this pilgrimage
the man
commands always.
Husbands are bulls.
The man commands always a
and women are flowers,
for him who wins them.
BOY.
Strike her now with the wind!
SECOND
MAN.
Strike her now with the branch!
MALE.
Come and see the splendor
of the wife washed clean!
FIRST
MAN.
Like a reed she curves.
MEN.
Let young girls draw away!
MALE.
Let the dance burn.
And the shining body
of the immaculate wife.
They disappear dancing amidst Smiles
and the sound of beating palms. They sing.
The sky must have such gardens
with rose trees of its joy,
between the rose and the rose
one rose of all the wonder.
Two Girls pass again, shouting. The Happy Old Woman
enters.
OLD
WOMAN. Let's see if you'll
let us
sleep now. But pretty
soon it'll be something else.
Yerma enters.
You.
Yerma
is downcast and does not speak.
Tell me, what did you come here for?
YERMA. I don't know.
OLD WOMAN. Aren't you sure yet? Where's your husband?
Yerma
gives signs of fatigue and ads like a person whose head is bursting with
a fixed idea.
YERMA. He's there.
OLD
WOMAN. What's he doing?
YERMA. Drinking.
Pause. Putting her hands to her forehead.
Ay-y-y!
OLD WOMAN. Ay-y, ay-y! Less "ay!" and more
spirit. I couldn't tell you anything before, but now I can.
YERMA, What can you tell me that I don't know already?
OLD WOMAN. What can no longer he hushed up what shouts
from all the rooftops. The fault is your husband's. Do you hear? He can
cut off my hands if it isn't. Neither his father, nor his grandfather,
nor his great-grandfather behaved like men of good blood. For them to
have a son heaven and earth had to meet-because they're nothing but
spit. But not your people. You have brothers and cousins for a hundred
miles around. Just see what a curse has fallen on your loveliness.
YERMA.
A curse. A puddle of poison on the wheat heads.
OLD
WOMAN. But you have feet to leave your house.
YERMA.
To leave?
OLD WOMAN. When I saw you in the pilgrimage, my
heart gave a start. Women come here to know new men. And the saint
performs the miracle. My son's there behind the chapel waiting for me.
My house needs a woman. Go with him and the three of us will live
together. My son's made of blood. Like me. If you come to my house,
there'll still be the odor of cradles. The ashes from your bedcovers
will be bread and salt for your children. Come, don't you worry about
what people will say. And as for your husband, in my house there are
stout hearts and strong weapons to keep him from even crossing the
street.
YERMA.
Hush, hush! it's not that, I'd never do it. I can't just go out
looking for someone. Do you imagine I could know another man? Where
would that leave my honor? Water can't run uphill, nor does the full
moon rise at noonday. On the road I've started, I'll stay. Did you
really think I could submit to another man? That I could go asking for
what's mine, like a slave? Look at me, so you'll know me and never speak
to me again. I'm not looking for anyone.
OLD
WOMAN. When one's thirsty, one's grateful for water.
YERMA,
I'm like a dry field where a thousand pairs of oxen plow, and you offer
me a little glass of well water. Mine is a sorrow already beyond the
flesh.
OLD
WOMAN, strongly. Then stay that way-if you want to! Like the
thistles in a dry field, pinched, barren!
YERMA,
strongly. Barren, yes, I know it! Barren! You don't have to throw
it in my face. Nor come to amuse yourself, as youngsters do, in the
suffering of a tiny animal. Ever since I married1
I've been avoiding that word, and this is the first time I've
heard it, the first time it's been said to my face. The first time I see
it's the truth.
OLD
WOMAN. You make
me feel no pity. None. I'll find another
woman for my boy.
She
leaves. A great chorus is heard distantly, sung by·
the pilgrims. Yerma goes toward the can, and front behind it her
husband appears.
YERMA.
Were you there all the time?
JUAN.
I was.
YERMA.
Spying?
JUAN.
Spying.
YERMA.
And you heard?
JUAN.
Yes.
YERMA.
And so? Leave me and go
to the singing.
She
sits on the canvases.
JUAN.
It's time I spoke, too.
YERMA.
Speak!
JUAN.
And complained.
YERMA.
About what?
JUAN.
I have a bitterness in my throat.
YERMA.
And I in my bones.
JUAN.
This is the last time I'll put up with your continual lament for dark
things, outside of life~ for things in the air.
YERMA,
with dramatic surprise. Outside of life, you say? In the air, you
say?
JUAN.
For things that haven't happened and that neither you nor I can control.
YERMA,
violently. Go on! Go on!
JUAN.
For things that don't matter to me. You hear that? That don't matter to
me. Now I'm forced to tell you. What matters to me is what! can hold in
my hands. what my eyes can see.
YERMA,
rising to her knees, desperately. Yes, yes. That's what!
wanted to hear from your lips . . . the truth
isn't felt when it's inside us, but how great it is, how it
shouts when it comes out and raises its arms! It doesn't matter to him!
Now I've heard it!
JUAN,
coming near her. Tell yourself it had to happen like this. Listen
to me.
~He
embraces her to help her rise.
Many
women would be glad to have your life. Without children life is sweeter.
I am happy not having them. !it’s not your fault.
YERMA.
Then what did you want with me?
JUAN.
Yourself!
YERMA,
excitedly. True! You wanted a home, ease, and a woman. But
nothing more. Is what I say true?
JUAN.
It's true. Like everyone.
YERMA. And what about the rest?
What about your son?
JUAN,
strongly. Didn't you hear me say I don't care? Don't ask
me any more about it! Do
I have to shout in your ear so you II understand and perhaps live in
peace now!
YERMA.
And you never thought about it, even when you saw
I wanted one?
JUAN.
Never.
Both
are on the ground.
YERMA.
And I'm not to hope for one?
JUAN.
No.
YERMA.
Nor you?
JUAN.
Nor I. Resign yourself!
YERMA.
Barren!
JUAN.
And lie in peace. You and I-happily, peacefully. Embrace me!
He
embraces her.
YERMA.
What are you looking for?
JUAN.
You. In the moonlight
you're beautiful.
YERMA.
You want me as you sometimes want a pigeon to eat.
JUAN.
Kiss me . . . like this.
YERMA.
That I'll never do. Never.
Yerma
gives a shriek and seizes her husband by the throat. He falls backward.
She chokes him until he dies. The chorus of the pilgrimage begins.
YERMA.
Barren, barren, but sure. Now I really know it for
sure. And alone.
She
rises. People begin to gather.
Now
I'll sleep without startling myself awake, anxious to see if I feel in
my blood another new blood. My body dry forever!
What do you want? Don't come near me, because I've
killed my son. I myself have killed my son!
A
group that remains in the back ground, gathers. The chorus of the
pilgrimage is heard.
CURTAIN
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