Federico García Lorca

Yerma

1934

A tragic poem in three acts and six scenes

Act II

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Contents

Act II Scene 1. 4

Act II Scene 2. 13

Act II Scene 1

(A mountain stream where women from the village are washing their clothes. The washer-women are positioned at various levels.)

SINGING: (Before the curtain rises)

I’ll wash your fine ribbons,

in the chill water.

Like glowing jasmine,

you’re filled with laughter.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: I don’t like gossip.

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN: Well, we talk here.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: There’s no harm in it.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: Whoever wants a good name must earn it.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

I planted a sprig,

I watched it grow.

Who wants a good name

should live just so.

(They laugh)

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: That’s how we say it.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: But nothing is known.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: It’s certain her husband’s brought both his sisters to live with them.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: The old maids?

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Yes. They used to watch over the church and now they’re watching over their sister-in-law. I couldn’t bear them.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: Why not?

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Because they make my flesh creep. They’re like those huge leaves that spring up over graves. They’re all waxy. They’re all wrapped up in themselves. I think they must cook their food in lamp-oil.

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN: So they’ve arrived?

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Yesterday. Her husband’s back to the fields again.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: But doesn’t anyone know what happened?

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: The night before last she spent sitting on her doorstep, in spite of the cold.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: But, why?

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: It’s all uphill work in that house.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: That’s the way those masculine creatures are! When they should be making lace or apple pies, they prefer to climb on the roof or wade barefoot in the river.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: Who are you to say that? She’s no children, but it’s not her fault.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Those who want children have them. The ones who are spoiled, lazy, and soft aren’t prepared to suffer a wrinkled belly.

(They laugh)

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN: And they dab on face-powder and rouge and pin a spray of oleander on, and go looking for anyone but their husband.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: That’s the truth!

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: But have you seen her with anyone?

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Not us, but others have.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: Always, others!

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: On two occasions, they say.

SECOND WASHER-WOMAN: And what were they up to?

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Talking.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: Talking’s no sin.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: In this world just a glance can mean something, my mother used to say. A woman gazing at roses is not the same as a woman gazing at a man. She gazes at him.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: At whom?

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Someone. Haven’t you heard? Find out for yourself. Do you want me to say it out loud? (Laughter) And when she’s not gazing at him, when she’s alone, when he’s not right in front of her, she sees him behind her eyes.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: That’s not true!

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: And the husband?

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN: The husband acts as if he’s deaf to everything. Unmoving: like a lizard in the sun.

(Laughter)

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: It would all sort itself out if they had a child.

SECOND WASHER-WOMAN: It’s all about people who aren’t content with their lot.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Hour by hour that house gets more hellish. She and the sisters-in-law, never opening their lips, washing the walls all day, polishing the copper, cleaning the windows with their breath, and oiling the floors. But, the more that house gleams, the more it seethes inside.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: It’s all his fault; his. When a man can’t give her children he should take more care of his wife.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: It’s her fault, because she’s a tongue hard as flint.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: What the devil’s got into you that you talk about her so?

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: And who gave you licence to offer me advice?

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: Be quiet, you two!

(Laughter)

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: I’d like to pierce all gossiping tongues with a knitting needle.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: Be quiet.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: And I the breasts of all hypocrites.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: Hush. Look, don’t you see the sisters-in-law are here.

(They murmur. Yerma’s two Sisters-in-Law appear. They are dressed in black. They begin their washing in silence. A sound of sheep-bells.)

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: Are the shepherds off already?

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN: Yes, all the flocks will be moved today.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: (Breathing deeply) I love the smell of sheep.

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN: You do?

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: And why not? They smell of what’s ours. Just as I like the smell of red mud that the river carries in winter.

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN: Fancy!

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: (Gazing) The flocks are mingling together.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: It’s a woollen flood. Sweeping everything before it. If the green wheat had eyes it would tremble to see them coming.

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN: See how they run! What a herd of rascals!

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN: They’re all going, not one flock’s missing.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Let’s see….No…Yes, yes one is missing.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN: Whose?...

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: Victor’s.

(The Sisters-in-Law sit up and look at one another)

(Quietly singing)

I’ll wash your fine ribbons,

in the chill water.

Like glowing jasmine,

you’re filled with laughter.

I’d like to live

in the jasmine’s

white snowfall.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN:

But, alas, for a wife’s barrenness!

Alas, for the one with sand at her breast!

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN:

Say if your man

has the true seed,

that through your dress

the stream may run free.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

Your dress is a boat

of silver and air

sailing the shore.

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN:

My child’s clothes now

I wash in the river

teaching the water

its lessons of crystal.

SECOND WASHER-WOMAN:

From the mountain he comes,

my husband, to eat.

He brings me one rose

and I yield him three.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN:

From the meadows he comes,

my husband, to dinner,

He brings me live coals

that with myrtle I cover.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

With the breeze he comes,

my husband, to sleep.

Red wallflowers for him,

Red wallflowers for me.

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN:

Flower with flower then shall be allied

when summer the reaper’s blood has dried.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

And wombs be opened to sleepless birds

when winter comes shivering through the firs.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN:

In the sheets, tears must be shed.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

Let there be singing too!

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN:

When our husband brings us

the garland, the bread.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

Because bodies entwine and are wed.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN:

Because light stabs our throats through.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

And the branch’s stem, it turns sweet.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN:

And the hills are roofed by the tent of the breeze.

SIXTH WASHER-WOMAN: (Appearing higher up the stream)

So that a child might fuse

the morning’s frozen dew.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

And our bodies might hold

furious branches of coral.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN:

So that there might be rowers

riding the waves of the sea.

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN:

A child, now then, a little one.

SECOND WASHER-WOMAN:

Opening wings and beak, the pigeons.

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN:

A child crying, a son.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

And men advancing

like wounded stags so.

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN:

Happiness, happiness, happiness

of the swelling belly beneath the dress!

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN:

But, alas, for a wife’s barrenness!

Alas, for the one with sand at her breast!

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN:

Let her shine!

FIFTH WASHER-WOMAN:

Let her ride!

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN:

Let her shine out once more!

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN:

Let her sing!

FIRST WASHER-WOMAN:

Let her hide!

THIRD WASHER-WOMAN:

Let her sing as before!

SIXTH WASHER-WOMAN:

Oh, the dawn that my child

brings, in its clean pinafore.

FOURTH WASHER-WOMAN: (They sing together)

I’ll wash your fine ribbons,

in the chill water.

Like glowing jasmine,

you’re filled with laughter.

Ha, ha, ha!

(They wash and beat the clothes rhythmically)

Curtain

Act II Scene 2

(Yerma’s house. Dusk. Juan is seated. The two Sisters-in-Law, standing.)

JUAN: You say she went out not long ago? (The older sister nods) She must be at the spring. But, you know, I don’t like her to go out alone. (Pause) You can lay the table. (The younger sister enters) The bread I eat is hard earned. (To the sister) I had a hard day yesterday. I was pruning the apple-trees, and as evening fell I began to wonder why I put so much effort into my work when I can’t even raise an apple to my mouth. I’m tired. (He passes his hand over his face. Pause) She’s not coming…One of you should have gone with her, that’s why you’re here eating at my table and drinking my wine. My life’s in the fields, but my honour is here. And my honour is your honour too. (The sister bows her head) Don’t take that amiss. (Yerma enters carrying two pitchers. She halts in the doorway.) Have you been to the spring?

YERMA: To fetch fresh water for the meal. (The other sister enters) How was it in the fields?

JUAN: Yesterday I pruned the trees.

(Yerma puts down the pitchers. Pause.)

YERMA: Are you staying?

JUAN: I have to guard the flock. You know it’s the owner’s duty.

YERMA: I know it only too well. You needn’t repeat it.

JUAN: Every man has to lead his life.

YERMA: And every woman hers. I’m not asking you to stay. I have everything I need here. Your sisters look after me well. I eat roast lamb, soft bread and cheese here, and on the hillsides your cattle eat grass drenched with the dew. I’d have thought you’d be able to live peacefully.

JUAN: To live peacefully one must be tranquil.

YERMA: And you’re not?

JUAN: No, I’m not.

YERMA: Don’t say it.

JUAN: You know what I think. The ewe in the fold and the woman at home. You go out too much. Haven’t I always said so?

YERMA: That’s right. A woman in her home. When that home is not a tomb. When the chairs and the linen sheets wear out with use. But not here. Every night, when I go to bed, the bed seems newer, gleaming, as if it had just been brought from town.

JUAN: You yourself know I’ve a right to complain. That I have reason to be careful!

YERMA: Careful? About what? I’ve offended in nothing. I live obediently, and what I suffer I keep close to my chest. And every day that passes is worse. Let’s be silent. I’ll learn to bear my cross as best I can, but don’t ask for anything more. If I suddenly turned into an old woman with a mouth like a withered flower, I might be able to smile and share my life with you more easily. Now…now leave me alone with my thorns.

JUAN: I don’t understand you. I don’t deprive you of anything. I send to town for whatever you wish. I have my faults, but I want to live peacefully and quietly with you. I want to sleep in the fields knowing you are asleep too.

YERMA: But I don’t sleep, I can’t sleep.

JUAN: Are you in need of something? Tell me. (Pause) Answer me!

YERMA: (Deliberately, looking fixedly at her husband) Yes, I’m in need.

(Pause)

JUAN: Always the same thing. It’s more than five years. I’ve almost lost interest in it.

YERMA: But I’m not you. Men have another life: flocks, trees, comradeship; women only have children and childcare.

JUAN: Everyone is different. Why don’t you have one of your brother’s children here. I wouldn’t object.

YERMA: I don’t want to look after other people’s children. I think my arms would freeze from holding them.

JUAN: You’re half crazy with these ideas, instead of thinking only about what you should, and so you insist in running your head against a rock.

YERMA: A rock, and shameful that it is a rock, when it should be a basket of flowers and fragrances.

JUAN: Near you one feels only inquietude, dissatisfaction. In the end you’ll become resigned to it.

YERMA: I didn’t enter these four walls to become resigned. When my head is bound with a cloth so my mouth remains shut, and my hands are tied fast in the coffin, that’s when I’ll resign myself!

JUAN: Well, what do you want?

YERMA: I want to drink water and there’s neither water nor glass; I want to climb the mountain and I’ve no feet; I want to embroider my dress and can’t find the thread.

JUAN: The reality is you’re not a woman, and you’re trying to ruin a man against his will.

YERMA: I don’t know what I am. Let me wander about and ease the pressure. I’ve not failed you in anything.

JUAN: I don’t like people pointing me out. That’s why I want to see this door closed tight, and all of you here in the house.

(The First Sister enters slowly and walks towards some shelves.)

YERMA: To talk with people’s no sin.

JUAN: But it may appear so. (The other Sister enters and goes towards the water-jars, from one of which she fills a pitcher.) (He lowers his voice.) I’m not happy about it all. When people engage you in conversation, keep your mouth shut and remember you’re a married woman.

YERMA: (With amazement) Married!

JUAN: And that there’s such a thing as family honour, and honour is a burden we all must bear. (The Sister with the pitcher leaves slowly.) But it can run dark or pale in the one set of veins. (The other Sister leaves with a platter, in a ceremonial manner. Pause.) Forgive me. (Yerma looks at her husband. He raises his head and his gaze meets hers.) Even though you look at me in such a way that I shouldn’t ask forgiveness, but force you to obey me, lock you up, since that’s what a husband should do.

(The two Sisters appear at the door.)

YERMA: I beg you not to talk this way. Let the matter rest. (Pause.)

JUAN: Let’s go and eat. (The two Sisters go inside.) Did you hear me?

YERMA: (Sweetly) Eat with your Sisters. I’m not hungry yet.

JUAN: As you wish. (He goes inside.)

YERMA: (Dreamily)

Ay, what a field of stones!

Ay what a door closed to beauty,

to ask for a son, to suffer, while the breeze

offers flowers of the slumbering moon!

These two springs of warm milk

I have, in the courts of my flesh

are twin beats of a horse’s hooves,

to shake the branch of my anguish.

Ay, blind breasts under my dress!

Ay, doves without sight or whiteness!

Ay, what grief of the captive blood

goes nailing wasp-stings into my neck!

But you must come, my love, my child,

because water gives salt, and earth fruit,

and our wombs hold tender children

as the clouds are filled with sweet rain.

(She gazes towards the doorway.)

Maria! Why are you rushing past the door like that?

MARIA: (Entering with her child in her arms.) I hurry past whenever I have the child…You always weep! ...

YERMA: You’re right. (She takes the child and sits down.)

MARIA: It make’s me sad that you’re envious. (She sits.)

YERMA: It’s not envy I feel; it’s my poverty.

MARIA: You shouldn’t complain.

YERMA: How can I not complain, when I see you and other women filled with flowers within, and see myself, useless in the midst of so much beauty!

MARIA: But you’ve other things. If you’d listen to me, you’d be happy.

YERMA: A farmer’s wife who can’t bear children is as useless as a handful of thorns, almost seen as evil, even though I too come from this wasteland abandoned by God. (Maria gestures as if to take the child) Take him; he’s happier with you. I seem to lack a mother’s hands.

MARIA: Why do you say that?

YERMA: (Rising.) Because I’m tired: tired of them: of not being able to use them for something of my own. Because I’m hurt, hurt and humiliated beyond endurance, seeing the crops ripen, the fountains give water endlessly, the ewes bear scores of lambs, and the bitches pups, till the whole countryside seems to rise up to show me its tender sleeping young, while I feel only two hammer-blows here, instead of a child’s mouth.

MARIA: I don’t like what you’re saying.

YERMA: Women, when they have children, don’t think of those who don’t. You’re always refreshed, unknowing, as those who swim in fresh water have no idea of thirst.

MARIA: I won’t repeat what I’ve always said.

YERMA: Every moment I feel more longing and less hope.

MARIA: That’s wrong.

YERMA: I’ll even end up imagining I’m my own child. Many a night I go down to feed the oxen, which I never did before, because women don’t do that work: and when I cross the dark shed my footsteps sound like a man’s.

MARIA: Everyone has their own ways.

YERMA: In spite of it all, I go on seeking. See how I live!

MARIA: And your sisters-in-law?

YERMA: You’ll see me dead, without a shroud, if I should ever say a word to them.

MARIA: And your husband.

YERMA: All three are against me.

MARIA: What do they think of you?

YERMA: They’re full of fantasies. Like all whose consciences are not clear. They think I want another man and don’t realise that, even if I were to want one, with my kind honour comes first. They are stones in my path. But they don’t see that if I wished I could become a flood of water sweeping them away.

(One Sister enters, and leaves, carrying a loaf of bread)

MARIA: Even so, I think your husband still loves you.

YERMA: My husband gives me bread and shelter.

MARIA: What troubles you endure, what troubles, but remember the sufferings of Our Lord! (They reach the doorway.)

YERMA: (Gazing at the child) He’s awake now.

MARIA: In a little while he’ll start to sing.

YERMA: He has your eyes, you know? Have you noticed? (Weeping) He has the same eyes as you!

(Yerma pushes Maria gently and she leaves silently. Yerma walks towards the door through which her husband went.)