_Don Lorenzo, Doña Ángela, and Dr. Tomás. The latter two stand at door
on R., half-hidden by the curtains, and watch Don Lorenzo, whose back
is toward them._
DOÑA ÁNGELA. Look at him! as usual, reading and thinking.
DR. TOMÁS. Madam, your husband is a sage, but wisdom may be overdone.
For, if the tenser be the cord, the more piercing its notes, so the
much easier is it to break. And when it breaks, to the divine note
succeeds eternal silence. While the brain works in sublime spasms,
madness is on the watch—don't forget it. [_Pause._]
DON LORENZO. Strange book! Book of inspiration! How many problems
Cervantes, unknowing perhaps, has propounded therein! The hero was
mad, yes, mad [_pause_], he who only gave ear to the voice of duty
upon the march of life; he who ceaselessly subjugated his passions,
silenced his affections, and knew no other rule than justice, no other
law than truth—and to truth and justice conformed each action: who,
with a sacrilegious ambition, strove to attain the perfection of God
above. What a singular being he would appear in any human society! A
new Quixote among so many Sanchos! Having to condemn the greed of this
one, the vanity of that, the good fortune of this other, the
uncontrolled appetites of another, and the frailties of all; in his
own family, like the Knight Errant's housekeeper and niece; in his own
friends not differing from the priest, the barber, and Samson
Carrasco. And strong men and maidens, dukes and inn-keepers, Moors and
Christians with one voice declaring him mad, until he himself should
end by taking himself as such, or dying, feign to think so, that at
least he might be left to die in peace.
DR. TOMÁS. [_Approaches Lorenzo, and places an arm on his shoulder. Doña
Ángela also comes near._] Lorenzo!
DON LORENZO. [_Turning round._] Tomás!—Ángela!—you were here?
DR. TOMÁS. Yes; we were listening to part of your philosophical
monologue. What has provoked these sublime self-revealings of my good
friend?
DON LORENZO. I have been reading _Don Quixote_, and it has gone to my
head, and there got mixed with the other tags of modern philosophy
which are floating about, as my hard-hearted doctor would say, in the
cells of grey substance.
DR. TOMÁS. So would anybody else say who wished to talk the language of
reason.
DOÑA ÁNGELA. How dreadful! Are you two going to begin one of your
interminable discussions on positivism, idealism, and all the other
_isms_ of the dictionary, which are so many abysses for common sense?
DR. TOMÁS. Don't be afraid, madam. I have something more interesting to
say to Lorenzo.
DON LORENZO. [_To Dr. Tomás._] And I have also something more urgent to
ask you.
DOÑA ÁNGELA. I should think so indeed. Our child's health is surely more
interesting and urgent than the follies and delusions with which your
head is crammed.
DON LORENZO. [_Anxiously._] How is my beloved girl to-day?
DOÑA ÁNGELA. Yes, how do you find Inés? [_Pause._]
DON LORENZO. Do tell us. Don't keep us in suspense. [_Pause. Dr. Tomás
shakes his head ominously_.]
DOÑA ÁNGELA. For heaven's sake, doctor, tell me if there be any danger.
DON LORENZO. What are you saying, Ángela? Don't pronounce the word.
DR. TOMÁS. Softly, softly. You go too far. I don't, however, say that it
is nothing serious.
DON LORENZO. What do you mean?
DOÑA ÁNGELA. Oh, what _do_ you mean?
DON LORENZO. What is the matter with her? Has the illness a name?
DOÑA ÁNGELA. What are the remedies?—for I suppose it is curable. Oh, Dr.
Tomás, you must indeed cure my child.
DR. TOMÁS. What is her malady? One of those that causes the greatest
misfortune to mankind. What is its name? The poets call it love—we
doctors give it another name. How is it cured? This very day, with the
aid of the priest; and so excellent a specific is this, that after a
month's appliance neither of the wedded pair retain a vestige of
remembrance of the fatal sickness.
DOÑA ÁNGELA. What nonsense you do talk, Dr. Tomás! You had almost
emptied my veins of their blood.
DR. TOMÁS. Well, to be serious. Given the condition of the young lady,
her nervous temperament, her extreme susceptibility, and her romantic
passion, the malady must be regarded as grave. And if you don't very
speedily seek a remedy in the sweet security of marriage, my friend, I
am grieved to say it, but duty compels me to inform you, that you need
not count upon Inés. [_Gravely._]
DON LORENZO. Tomás!
DOÑA ÁNGELA. You really believe——
DR. TOMÁS. I believe that Inés has inherited her father's excitable and
fantastical imagination. To-day the fever of love runs like a fiery
wave in her veins. If you don't marry her to Edward,—and that very
soon—and she should be given to understand that her hopes are not
destined to be realised, though I cannot predict in what way, I
unhappily know that the delirium of fantasy, and the violence of her
affection will eventually kill her.
DON LORENZO. Good God!
DOÑA ÁNGELA. My poor child!
DR. TOMÁS. You have my opinion, and I have given it in plain language as
the urgency of the case demands, as well as my friendship for you, and
our joint affection for the innocent child.
DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_To Don Lorenzo in a resolute tone._] You have heard? We
must marry Inés to Edward.
DON LORENZO. I would like it well indeed, Ángela. Edward is a good
fellow, very intelligent, and passionately attached to our girl, but——
DOÑA ÁNGELA. But what? Are we not also noble, and why should Edward's
mother, the Duchess of Almonte, oppose the union? And what matter if
she does, since it is he, and not she, that is to be married?
DON LORENZO. Ángela, think well upon it. Ought we to encourage a son in
revolt against his mother?
DOÑA ÁNGELA. _You_ think well upon it. Lorenzo, ought we to sacrifice
our child to that woman's vanity?
DON LORENZO. It is easy enough to lament vanity and misfortune. The
important thing is to find a remedy against evil.
DOÑA ÁNGELA. Why not speak to the duchess? They say she is a kind woman,
apart from her aristocratic pretensions, and that she idolises Edward.
Let us go to her, and beseech and implore her.
DON LORENZO. I beseech! I implore! Humiliate myself! It is certainly not
my place to entreat for her son's hand. She it is who should come to
my house and beg for that of my daughter. Social convention, the
respect of woman, and my own honour ordain it so.
DOÑA ÁNGELA. Here you see the philosopher, the sage, the perfect man
overflowing with vanity and pride. [_Goes over to Dr. Tomás who is
standing at table reading._]
DON LORENZO. You are unjust, Ángela. It is not pride, but common
dignity—yes, dignity. It is not honourable to us to go a-begging on
Inés' behalf the ducal coronet another family chooses to withhold from
her—she who wears herself a far fairer crown. I repeat, it would not
be to our credit to go from door to door, still less to emblazoned
doors, with hands held out for the alms of a name, when Inés bears my
name, as good, as untarnished and honourable as any other, however
great it may be.
DR. TOMÁS. Lorenzo is right—you, too, madam, are right.
DOÑA ÁNGELA. Never mind, you need not go. Preserve intact your dignity
of sage and philosopher. I who am only a poor mother will go. It will
not hurt me to go from door to door a-begging, not coronets, nor coats
of arms, but the life and happiness of my child.
DON LORENZO. Nor will it me, Ángela. You it is who are right. Let the
world say what it will. Let the duchess think what she will, I will
go. [_To Dr. Tomás._] It is my duty, is it not? Your judgment is
upright and austere, and you can pronounce dispassionately. Give me
your frank opinion.
DOÑA ÁNGELA. Ah, what a man! Now don't stay to discuss whether or no you
ought to go. These things, my lord philosopher and husband, are
decided by the heart, and not by the head. It is something to be
thankful for that you have not gone back to your books to seek
solution of the problem. It is a wonder you are not hunting among the
German metaphysicians, or the Greek classics, or in that
unintelligible tangle of mathematics, to see if any author by chance
has treated of the future marriage of Miss Inés de Avendaña with
Edward de Almeida, Duke of Almonte, proving the insuperable
difficulties by _a_ plus _b_, and for the sake of _a_ plus _b_ you
would meanwhile let my poor child die.
DON LORENZO. Don't turn me into ridicule, Angela. You know I adore Inés.