Your monkey-tricks have had their day; the time has come for realizing that life is earnest.
I take it you have grasped my meaning. As from today you are going to learn to die in an orderly manner. Until now you died in the Spanish manner, haphazard—when you felt like it, so to say. You died because the weather suddenly turned cold, or a mule stumbled; because the skyline of the Pyrenees was blue and the river Guadalquivir has a fascination for the lonely man in springtime. Or else it was because there are always brawling fools ready to kill for money or for honor—when it’s so much more elegant to kill for the delight of being logical. Yes, you muffed your deaths. A dead man here, a dead man there, one in his bed, another in the bull ring—what could be more slovenly? But, happily for you, I shall impose order on all that. There will be no more dying as the fancy takes you. Lists will be kept up—what admirable things lists are!—and we shall fix the order of your going. Fate has learned wisdom and will keep its records. You will figure in statistics, so at last you’ll serve some purpose. For, I was forgetting to tell you, you will die, that goes without saying, but then—if not before—you will be packed off to the incinerator. Nothing could be more hygienic and efficient, and it fits in with our program. Spain first!
So line up for a decent death, that’s your first duty. On these terms you will enjoy my favor. But take care that you don’t indulge in nonsensical ideas, or righteous indignation, or in any of those little gusts of petulance which lead to big revolts. I have suppressed these mental luxuries and put logic in their stead, for I can’t bear untidiness and irrationality. So from this day on you are going to be rational and tidy; the wearing of badges will be compulsory. Besides the mark on your groins you will have the plague star under your armpits, for all to see—meaning that you are marked down for elimination. So the others, people who think these marks are no concern of theirs and line up cheerfully for the bullfight every Sunday, will treat you as suspects and edge away from you. But you need not feel aggrieved; these marks concern them also, they’re all down on our lists and nobody is overlooked. In fact all are suspects—that’s the long and the short of it.
Don’t take all this to mean I haven’t any feelings. As a matter of fact I like birds, the first violets of the year, the cool lips of girls. Once in a while it’s refreshing, that sort of thing. Also, I’m an idealist. My heart.… No, I fear I am getting sentimental—that’s enough for today. Just a word more, by way of summing up. I bring you order, silence, total justice. I don’t ask you to thank me for this; it’s only natural, what I am doing here for you. Only, I must insist on your collaboration. My administration has begun.
CURTAIN
SECOND PART
A public square in Cadiz. Stage-left: the cemetery entrance and keeper’s office; stage-right: a wharf, near which is the Judge’s residence.
When the curtain rises gravediggers in convict uniform are collecting dead bodies. The creaking of the death-cart is heard off stage; presently it comes into view and halts in the center of the stage. The convicts load the bodies onto it; then it creaks off toward the cemetery. As it halts at the entrance a military band starts playing and one wall of the cemetery office slides open, enabling the audience to see the interior: a large, roofed-in vestibule resembling the covered play ground of a school. The SECRETARY is sitting there, presiding, while at a lower level are aligned some tables like those in food offices where ration cards are distributed. At one of the tables the white-mustached FIRST ALCALDE is seated with some other members of the staff. On the other side of the stage Plague Guards are rounding up the crowd and herding them toward the food office, men and women being kept apart.
A light plays on the center and the PLAGUE is seen on the summit of his palace, directing a gang of workers for the most part concealed from view, though we have occasional glimpses of their activities on the outskirts.
THE PLAGUE: Now then! Don’t dawdle! It’s really scandalous how slowly things move in this town, I never saw such a pack of idlers. Leisure is what you like, that’s evident. Well, I don’t stand for inactivity—except in barracks and in bread lines. That sort of leisure suits my book; it drains the energy from heart and limbs, and serves no purpose. Get a move on! Finish building my observation tower, and put a hedge of barbed wire around the town. Everyone has the spring flowers he prefers; mine are iron roses. Stoke up the death-ovens, they’re our stand-bys. Guards, affix our stars to the houses where I’m going to get busy. And you, my dear, start compiling our lists and drawing up our certificates of existence. [Exit the PLAGUE.]
THE FISHERMAN [acting as spokesman]: A certificate of existence, he said? What’s the big idea?
THE SECRETARY: What’s the idea, you say? Why, how could you live without a certificate of existence?
THE FISHERMAN: We used to get along quite well without one.
THE SECRETARY: That’s because you weren’t governed. Now you are. And the whole point of our government is that you always need a permit to do anything whatever. You can dispense with bread and with a wife, but a properly drawn-up certificate, no matter what it says, is something you can’t possibly dispense with.
THE FISHERMAN: For three generations we’ve been fishing folk in my family, we have lived by casting our nets into the sea, and we have always given satisfaction to our customers—and there never was no question of a certificate, that’s the gospel truth, young lady.
A VOICE: For years and years, from father to son, we have been butchers, and we never needed a certificate for slaughtering sheep.
THE SECRETARY: You were living in a state of anarchy, that’s all. Mind you, we have nothing against slaughterhouses—quite the contrary. Only, we apply to them the latest methods of accounting, we’ve brought them up to date, in short. There was some mention of casting nets just now; well, you’ll discover that we, too, are experts in that line.
Now, Mr. First Alcalde, have you the forms ready?
FIRST ALCALDE: Quite ready.
THE SECRETARY: Officers, will you help the gentleman to come forward.
[The FISHERMAN is led up to the table.]
FIRST ALCALDE [reading]: Family name, Christian names, occupation?
THE SECRETARY: Let that be. He can fill in the blanks himself.
FIRST ALCALDE: Your curriculum vita?
THE FISHERMAN: My what? I didn’t catch it.
THE SECRETARY: You are to record on the dotted line the chief events of your life. It’s our way of becoming acquainted with you.
THE FISHERMAN: My life’s my private concern, and nobody else’s business.
THE SECRETARY: Your private concern, you say? Those words don’t mean anything to us. What interests us is your public life, and that as a matter of fact is the only life you are allowed by us to have. Well, Mr. Alcalde, let’s get down to details.
FIRST ALCALDE: Married?
THE FISHERMAN: Yes. I married in ’31.
FIRST ALCALDE: Your reasons for the marriage?
THE FISHERMAN: Reasons indeed! God! It’s enough to make one’s blood boil.
THE SECRETARY: It’s in the rules. And it’s an excellent way of making public what has got to cease being private.
THE FISHERMAN: Well, if you must know, I got married because that’s a thing one usually does when one’s a man.
FIRST ALCALDE: Divorced?
THE FISHERMAN: No, a widower.
FIRST ALCALDE: Remarried?
THE FISHERMAN: No.
THE SECRETARY: Why not?
THE FISHERMAN [furiously]: Damn it, I loved my wife!
THE SECRETARY: How quaint! May we know why?
THE FISHERMAN: Can one account for everything one does?
THE SECRETARY: Yes, in a well-organized community.
THE ALCALDE: Your record?
THE FISHERMAN: Meaning what?
THE SECRETARY: Have you been convicted of robbery, perjury, or rape?
THE FISHERMAN: Certainly not.
THE SECRETARY: An upright man—I suspected as much. Mr. First Alcalde, please add a footnote: “To be watched.”
FIRST ALCALDE: Civic feelings?
THE FISHERMAN: I’ve always dealt fairly by my fellow citizens, if that’s what you mean. What’s more, I never let a poor man leave my fish-stall empty-handed.
THE SECRETARY: That’s not a proper answer to the question.
FIRST ALCALDE: Oh, that anyhow I can explain. What we call civic feelings, needless to say, are in my line. We want to know, my good fellow, if you are one of those who respect the existing order for the sole reason that it exists.
THE FISHERMAN: Certainly, if it’s just and reasonable.
THE SECRETARY: Doubtful. Write that his civic feelings are doubtful. And now read the last question.
FIRST ALCALDE [deciphering the words with difficulty]: Reasons for existing?
THE FISHERMAN: Well, let my mother be bitten at the place where it hurts most, if I can understand a word of this
