SCENE XV

_Don Lorenzo, Ángela, Inés, the Duchess, Edward, and

Dr. Tomás._

DUCHESS. [_With exquisite courtesy._] Señor de Avendaña.

DON LORENZO. Avendaña, Avendaña! I don't know where he is, madam. [_In

sombre absent tone._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Aside._] What is he saying?

INÉS. Goodness, what does this mean?

DUCHESS. I understand, Señor de Avendaña, how unwelcome must be my

visit, since I come to claim of you the most precious of your

possessions [_points to Inés_], and certainly it is not surprising

that you should receive me as an enemy. [_Sweetly._]

DON LORENZO. Fate is my enemy, nobody else, madam.

INÉS. [_Aside._] Oh, what can have happened?

DUCHESS. You are right. It is the ruthless enemy of the parents.

DON LORENZO. Still more so of the children.

DUCHESS. I do not deny it. But in spite of it, 'tis divine law that

governs our human sorrows, and we are forced to respect it. [_Makes an

effort to turn the conversation, but does not conceal her

wonderment._]

DON LORENZO. Ah, madam, those laws might often prove less cruel if it

were only human cruelty that dictated them. [_The duchess evinces

marked impatience. Edward approaches her. Inés goes to her father,

while Doña Ángela and Dr. Tomás look on gloomily._]

INÉS. [_Aside to Don Lorenzo._] Father, I entreat you——

EDWARD. [_Aside to Duchess._] For my sake, mother.

DUCHESS. [_Haughtily and dryly._] I am a mother, and I adore my son. I

know that happiness is not possible for him without this young lady,

and rather than lose one child I prefer to gain two.

INÉS. [_To Don Lorenzo._] See how kind she is, father.

DON LORENZO. To lose a son were a terrible misfortune.

DUCHESS. [_Gently and approaching Don Lorenzo._] Will you not consent to

bestow also the name of son upon my boy?

INÉS. [_In low voice of entreaty._] Answer, father.

DON LORENZO. [_Looks sadly at his daughter, takes her_ _head between his

hands, and contemplates her yearningly._] How sweet you are! It seems

incredible that you should not prove stronger than the law of honour.

DUCHESS. [_Unable to control herself._] To make an end of the matter,

Señor de Avendaña, do you wish my son, the Duke of Almonte, to give

his name to your daughter Inés?

DON LORENZO. [_In magnificent fury._] If I were a scoundrel, madam, this

were an excellent occasion for procuring an honest name for my

nameless child.

INÉS. Father!

DR. TOMÁS. } Lorenzo!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. }

DUCHESS. I must frankly confess that I can make nothing of your answers

nor of your attitude, which is quite other than what I had expected. I

will content myself with asking for the last time—do you consent?

DON LORENZO. I am an honourable man. Misfortune may conquer me, but it

will never disgrace me. Your Grace, this marriage is impossible.

DUCHESS. [_Offended, retreats a step._] Ah!

INÉS. What do you say, father? Impossible!

DON LORENZO. Yes, impossible. For I am not Avendaña. My parents were not

my parents. This house is not my house. To you, my dearest girl, I can

only give a soiled and an unworthy name,—because I am the wretchedest

of men and I do not wish to be the basest.

INÉS. Father, father—oh, why are you killing me? [_Falls into a chair._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What have you done, you madman?

DON LORENZO. Inés, my child! Thou hast conquered, O God; but have pity

on me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

ACT II

SCENE—_The same as First Act. Night, a fire is burning,

a shaded candle on the study table._

SCENE I

_Edward listens at door R., then comes up C._

EDWARD. I hear nothing. Has she recovered consciousness? To think how

close a thing to life is death! [_Pause._] They believe that I must

give up my beloved girl! They suppose me capable of crediting Don

Lorenzo's absurd tale. Poor scholar! Why, he doesn't know what he is

saying. [_Pause._] And even if his assertion were true, would that

make Inés other than the loveliest, the most adorable of women? Mine

she will be, though I should have to cast myself at my mother's feet

and bathe them with my tears. Don Lorenzo must consent, even if we

have to gag him and put him into a strait-jacket. And that wretched

beggar from whom the ill-advised philosopher has caught his delirium

must be sent away, far away from everybody. How will my poor Inés bear

up against the blow her father has inflicted upon her? [_Again

approaches the door and listens._] Nothing, nothing. Silence, always

the same silence. [_Comes down._] Her father! her own father! Heaven

help me, but I almost hate the man. [_With increasing passion._] The

madman! How he delighted to torture her! Her father!—that brainless

scholar! an atheist clothed in sanctity! a new Don Quixote _minus_ wit

and _plus_ pedantry! a mock Bayard of honour! What sort of father is

he who pretends to a reputation for virtue through his daughter's

broken heart? A fig for such virtue! Vice itself is more lovable. No

one comes, and the hours go by—ah, I hear somebody coming at last.

SCENE II

_Edward and the Duchess, who enters R._

EDWARD. How is Inés, mother? Has she regained consciousness?

DUCHESS. She has now, thank God. Poor child! I could not go until I was

assured it was all right, and that she was better. And you, my son?

EDWARD. I must see her.

DUCHESS. Edward!

EDWARD. Then we have to talk to Don Lorenzo, and afterwards——

DUCHESS. Afterwards you will get to the end of my patience. I have done

all for you that honour, dignity, and social convention permit—even

more. But the moment has come for you to show yourself a man, to

remember who you are and listen to the voice of duty.

EDWARD. Rightly said, mother, that is what I am prepared to do, but it

remains to be seen if we entertain the same idea of duty.

DUCHESS. You must give Inés up.

EDWARD. Why? Because of her poverty?

DUCHESS. By no means.

EDWARD. Then why, mother? Because Don Lorenzo wishes to perform a

sublime action which, if he carries out the prospect, will immortalise

him in tale and history, and, who knows, may even lift him aloft into

the Calendar?

DUCHESS. I see you appreciate the humour of the situation, and that is

no bad sign.

EDWARD. I want to show you how perfectly cool I am. As for Don Lorenzo,

we must regard the affair as a joke, or put him into an asylum.

DUCHESS. Don't say such things, Edward. It offends me to hear you speak

so. There may be some slight exaggeration, perhaps no inconsiderable

precipitation, and a certain air of melodramatic display in Don

Lorenzo's project, but we cannot deny that he is acting like a

gentleman.

EDWARD. Why does he revel in his daughter's misfortune?

DUCHESS. Because he is accomplishing his duty without respect of human

passions.

EDWARD. Then if Don Lorenzo is so honourable, and the lustre of noble

actions is a heritage, Inés will be something more than the angel of

my life—she will bring me a wealth of hereditary virtue.

DUCHESS. She will also bring more than her share of hereditary

dishonour. [_In low voice approaching him._] The girl has no name good

or bad, since nobody knows what her father's is, and that of her

grandmother has been inscribed as a thief's upon the infamous register

of a prison.

EDWARD. Hush!

DUCHESS. If we are to believe Don Lorenzo, that unhappy girl's fate is

to be a humble nurse's grandchild, and her father's accomplice in

living under a false name. It would perhaps be an excess of

aristocratic pride to reject such an honourable alliance, but to such

a decision am I led by what you, with your modern education, will

doubtless qualify as old-fashioned prejudices.

EDWARD. Well, mother, I love Inés.

DUCHESS. You are mad, boy.

EDWARD. That were not strange, since love is said to be a madness.

DUCHESS. You almost make me lose my judgment.

EDWARD. Would you prefer to lose me?

DUCHESS. Enough, Edward. We must leave this house which, in an evil

moment, I entered to-day for the first time.

EDWARD. But say—is not Inés sweet?

DUCHESS. Assuredly—as an angel of God's heaven, when I first beheld her,

and now she looks like the angel of sorrow.

EDWARD. Does not the whole world regard Don Lorenzo as an accomplished

scholar, and have you yourself not said that he is a saint?

DUCHESS. It would be injustice to deny the value of a reputation so

illustrious as his, or the keenness of his sense of honour.

EDWARD. Then there is no objection to him.

DUCHESS. Certainly not.

EDWARD. [_Approaches the duchess and speaks in a low voice._] Can't we

find some means of averting scandal? Who knows anything of this

wretched story, true or false, though to me it seems more likely

false? Only ourselves, and we will hold our tongue. Dr. Tomás is

almost one of the family. Death will shortly seal the lips of that

unhappy woman. And, after all, Don Lorenzo is a father; he will do for

Inés' sake that which you refuse to do for mine. Why, mother dear,

need we go in search of misery and death when felicity is within our

reach?

DUCHESS. Ah, see how contact with crime perverts the noblest minds!

Unfortunate boy, do you not understand that you are proposing a

monstrous thing to me? that you wish me to be an accomplice to a

felony? Good heavens, what has come over you that you should think and

speak such things?

EDWARD. Who on earth speaks of anything monstrous or proposes felony?

Have we all gone mad with Don Lorenzo, or are you martyrising me for

your own entertainment?

DUCHESS. You suggested our averting scandal by silence.

EDWARD. Yes.

DUCHESS. Then——

EDWARD. Listen, mother. This is what I meant to say. If Don Lorenzo's

tale be true, which is what I doubt, the legitimate heirs of this

confounded wealth may be discovered cautiously, in secret, and a way

can be found to restore it to them.

DUCHESS. But on what pretext?

EDWARD. If you had to beg for a fortune, it might be difficult to find

one, but when it comes to giving, don't be afraid. It is easy enough,

and any pretext is equally welcome to those who receive it.

DUCHESS. Inés will still bear a name she has no title to.

EDWARD. She will bear mine, which is worth all others.

DUCHESS. That is true. But Don Lorenzo——

EDWARD. Leave him alone. He has enough to do with his philosophy. We

have ourselves to think of, and I believe that it can be all managed

if you will consent. With a word you can give Inés back life, and give

a new life to me in exchange for that which your unkindness blighted,

and which I first owed to your affection. Restore happiness to this

unhappy family, and bestow their usurped fortune upon the rightful

heirs without noise or vain display. This is no felony, and it is not

a monstrous thing to do.

DUCHESS. You magnetise me, Edward. I scarce know what to say. But an

inward voice warns me that what you suggest is neither right nor

just,—that deception can never be preferable to truth, and despite Don

Lorenzo's ravings, I feel that duty triumphs in him, while in you it

is passion that triumphs, for all your arguments.

EDWARD. How so? Tell me.

DUCHESS. I cannot discuss it with you, Edward.

EDWARD. What you cannot do is love me as you ought.

DUCHESS. Not love you; cruel boy! You have wounded me to the heart,

though I know that you do not believe what you say.

EDWARD. Then yield to me.

DUCHESS. Don't press me, Edward.

EDWARD. You are yielding—I see it. Your face is pale, there are tears in

your eyes, and your lips tremble. [_Caressingly._] Confession of

consent hangs upon them—yes, why not? What is there absolutely opposed

to that high ideal of honour you and Don Lorenzo worship? What wrong

is there in my plan?

DUCHESS. There is wrong, Edward.

EDWARD. So little, an atom, a shadow, a mere scruple. And don't I

deserve you should commit so trivial an error for me? Go among the

people whom you treat with such contempt, and from whom the

aristocrat's pride separates you by an abyss; seek out a mother, and

ask her if, for her son's sake, she would not stifle upon a cry of

love all these refinements of conscience.

DUCHESS. [_Passionately._] I am capable of making any sacrifice a mother

can make.

EDWARD. [_Embracing her._] Thanks, mother, thanks.

DUCHESS. But——

EDWARD. You have promised, you have promised. [_Without heeding her._]

And, after all, it may not even be necessary. What assurance have we

that Don Lorenzo's tale is true? What tangible proofs are there? None

that we know of. The word of a dying woman in delirium? Is that

enough?

DUCHESS. Truly not.

EDWARD. Yet we have not even that much; for Dr. Tomás has not been able

to interrogate Juana. How do we know that she told it to Don Lorenzo,

or if he only dreamed it? Let me assure you, Don Lorenzo's head is no

sound one.

DUCHESS. It is not, indeed.

EDWARD. What an odd and extravagant fellow he is!

DUCHESS. For my part, I really thought he had gone mad.

EDWARD. Depend upon it, he is not far off. All these men of learning end

that way. Both Dr. Tomás and Ángela admit that he doesn't reason like

other men.

SCENE III

_The Duchess, Edward, and Doña Ángela._

DOÑA ÁNGELA. For pity's sake, madam, do not leave us yet. Inés wishes to

see you. She calls upon your name through heart-breaking sobs, for you

are her sole consolation.

DUCHESS. Poor child!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. She will not remain in bed, though we begged her to do so,

and her nervous agitation is such that she fills us with terror. If

strength had not failed her, she would have come to look for you. In

kindness, duchess, do go to my stricken girl, and console her, you who

are so affectionate a mother. 'Tis a most afflicted mother that

implores you.

EDWARD. And you will tell her that there is still hope, that all depends

upon Don Lorenzo—won't you?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What? Is it true? Oh, madam—— [_To duchess, and takes her

hand effusively._]

EDWARD. Yes [_to Doña Ángela_], I will explain it. You must persuade

your husband.

DUCHESS. But——[_Edward does not heed her, and talks aside to Doña

Ángela._] That boy of mine does just what he likes with me. What am I

to say to this good woman now that he has promised my consent? Oh,

what a hare-brained fellow! The girl herself is lovely, like a dream,

and altogether very charming. Poor Inés!—and Don Lorenzo possesses, or

rather did possess, a colossal fortune. Ah! what things are human

might and human vanity!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_To Edward._] I understand, I understand. [_Then comes

over to the duchess._] I am very grateful to you for your great

kindness. Do, pray, carry the good news yourself to my daughter, and

I, in a little while, will induce Lorenzo to consent. Never fear, he

will give in. It is certain, else will he prove himself quite

heartless.

EDWARD. Come, mother.

DUCHESS. What am I to do?

EDWARD. How good of you!

[_Exeunt Duchess and Edward, R._]

SCENE IV

_Doña Ángela, Don Lorenzo, enters door L._

DON LORENZO. My mother dying—and yonder that other morsel of my soul!

What can I do, my God? [_Walks slowly toward door R. and meets Doña

Ángela._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Where are you going, Lorenzo?

DON LORENZO. To see my daughter.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Impossible. She has recovered consciousness now, and your

presence might again upset her, since you it was who caused her

illness.

DON LORENZO. But I wish to see her.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You cannot. With you duty is always imperative, so you will

respect that unhappy girl's grieving solitude [_ironically_], not upon

the command of my will, which must always be second to yours, but upon

that of your own reflective judgment.

DON LORENZO. You are right. [_Pause. Both are in middle of stage._] My

own beloved daughter! What does she say of me?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Nothing.

DON LORENZO. She does not blame me?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. I cannot answer for the murmurings of sorrow in her heart.

DON LORENZO. I to be her executioner! to destroy all her hopes! Can it

be that I have broken her heart?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You know full well what you have done, Lorenzo. So much the

better, if remorse will now help you to repair your cruel work.

DON LORENZO. I am indeed miserable.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You miserable! Inés it is who is miserable, not you, who

doubtless find assured ineffable joy and divine consolation in

contemplating your own moral perfection. [_Ironically._]

DON LORENZO. How ill you judge me, and how little you understand me!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. I judge you ill, and yet humbly admire the fruit of your

sainthood! That I do not understand you, I admit, for superior beings

such as you are not within reach of so mediocre an intelligence as

mine.

DON LORENZO. Ángela, your words pierce my heart like a sharp dagger.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Your heart! impossible.

DON LORENZO. But what would you have me do? Speak, advise, decide—bring

light to a mind that gropes among shadows.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What would I have you do? Whatever you like now. Only save

your child. Place no fresh obstacle to this marriage. Don't continue

to irritate the duchess's pride by brutal and futile revelations.

Don't make it impossible for us to remedy the evil you have done by

any new explosion.

DON LORENZO. Frankly, then, you would have me hold my tongue.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. That is it. Hold your tongue.

DON LORENZO. But that would be infamous.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. I know nothing about it. I feel, I can't argue.

DON LORENZO. My whole soul rises up in revolt against the idea. To

become an accomplice in the most repugnant, because most cowardly, of

crimes! To enjoy usurped wealth and a name I have no right to, and all

that is not ours! God has not willed it so, and what he has not willed

should not be. Inés, you and I, all sunk in the mire! Is this what you

would counsel? [_With increasing excitement._] Then virtue is but a

lie, and you all, whom I have most loved in this world, perceiving

what I regarded as divinity in you, are only miserable egoists,

incapable of sacrifice, a prey to greed and the mere playthings of

passion. Then you are all but clay, and nothing more. And if you are

but clay, resolve yourselves to dust, and let the wind of the tempest

carry all off. [_Violently._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. Beings shaped without conscience or free will are simply

atoms that meet to-day and separate to-morrow. Such is matter—then let

it go.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You are wandering, Lorenzo. I don't understand you. I don't

know what it is you want.

DON LORENZO. To respect truth and justice.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Truth!

DON LORENZO. Yes.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And cry it to the world from the housetops.

DON LORENZO. I will announce it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And leave us in poverty.

DON LORENZO. I will earn your bread and my own by my work.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You earn your bread! Scholar's vanity! Well, be it so, but

listen to me first. If it should be that we really have no right to

our wealth, give it up,—well and good. [_Don Lorenzo bursts into a cry

of delight and advances to her with outstretched arms._] Privations do

not fright me, nor am I the miserable woman and egoist you painted

erewhile.

DON LORENZO. Ángela, my dear wife, forgive me.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Do you want my forgiveness? Do you want me to continue

blessing the hour I became your wife, as I have always blessed it till

to-day?

DON LORENZO. Yes.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Then do your duty as a man of honour, but in silence,

prudently, without ostentation, or noise, or scandal.

DON LORENZO. Why? The duchess would never consent to her son's marriage

with Inés even at that price.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Edward answers for his mother's consent.

DON LORENZO. She will never give in.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. She will. She is a woman and a mother. We have not all

attained such perfection as yours.

DON LORENZO. I do not believe it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Is it that you do not believe it, or that you fear it?

DON LORENZO. But supposing she should consent,—how can I retain a name

that is not mine?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What shabby subtleties to sacrifice my Inés to!

DON LORENZO. A name, Ángela, in social life is——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. A name is but a sound, a passing breath of air, something

vain and evanescent. But a child, Lorenzo, is a creature made of our

own flesh and of the blood in our veins: a creature that, while still

nothing, we shelter warm in our bosom, and receive into our arms upon

its first cry; that gives us its first smile and its first kiss; that

lives by our life, and is at once our sweetest joy and our sharpest

sorrow: a creature we love more than ourselves, but without a taste of

that selfish leaven which degrades all our other loves; the sole

divine affection that exists upon this earth, and if heaven be heaven,

beyond the blue it will also be found in God himself. Choose now

between what you call a name, and what I call a child.

DON LORENZO. Your words madden me.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. If you first lost your senses for Inés' misfortune, it

matters little that I should drive you mad for her good.

DON LORENZO. You are partly right, Ángela. I am a poor fool. My scruples

are, perhaps, exaggerated. My daughter, my dear Inés—she, so good, so

lovely—she would die,—would surely die.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. At last, Lorenzo, my dear husband.

DON LORENZO. But stay—no—my ideas are confused. My brain turns to the

flail of a fiery whirlwind. Yet I still feel convinced that it would

not be enough to renounce my fortune. I am bound to say why I renounce

it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. [_Not listening to her, but talking to himself._] It is

true that without it I could always materially make restitution of

material possessions,—and still without recognising the legitimate

rights of those I have despoiled. 'Twould be to make a traitorous and

cowardly restitution, under shadow of vain and artificial rights,

which I must fabricate for my convenience, and for the benefit of my

family, instead of openly and honourably relinquishing what is not

mine.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What nonsense you talk, Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. [_Not heeding her._] If I retain a name that is not mine, I

prove myself a shabby thief—I am compelled to pronounce a word that

burns on my lips. I rob a name and all its rights, and I deprive my

victims of their best means of defence against a cupidity that may any

day develop in my descendants, and perhaps give rise to a worse

iniquity in the future. Don't you see it? Surely you must see it if

you are not totally blind! I must tell the truth, the whole truth, in

a loud voice, happen what will.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. Would a judge and a tribunal sentence me to despoilment of

my goods alone, or to despoilment of both my goods and my name? Of

everything, everything—is it not so? Then what a judge would decide I

have to do myself—my own judge—or I am a wretched fellow. Such, my

poor wife, is what my conscience ordains me to do. I want no

half-hearted view of honesty, for there is no middle term between

clean honour and complete abasement. All this is quite clear to me.

Nothing so clear as duty.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Very well, if the affair is made public the duchess will

not give her consent.

DON LORENZO. She will not consent. 'Tis what I have already said.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Ah, Lorenzo, Lorenzo, you are everything,—philosopher,

moralist, jurisconsult, and, needless to say, gentleman. All, all,

wretched reflecting machine, except a father.

DON LORENZO. If you want to drive me out of my senses you are

succeeding.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. That would indeed be difficult.

DON LORENZO. Because I am out of them already?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Yes, but you haven't yet got to the bottom of the abyss.

Hear me, Lorenzo, for I, too, understand something of logic—after all,

am I not your wife? It is your intention to tell the truth, the entire

truth?

DON LORENZO. It is so.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Before the tribunal of human justice?

DON LORENZO. We need not trouble ourselves about divine justice, which

at this moment is weighing you and me.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Understand me well, Lorenzo. I want to know if you will

repeat to the judge, to the lawyers and all, no matter whom, whose

business it will be to take possession of your abandoned fortune in

the interests of the rightful owners, the story you told us a little

while ago?

DON LORENZO. Yes.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You will tell them everything?

DON LORENZO. I am bound to do so.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Hear me further. You will have to acknowledge Juana the

nurse as your mother.

DON LORENZO. That is the only way left me to wipe away the stain of an

iniquitous sentence. Here alone were reason sufficient to prove the

crime of the silence you counsel.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And here, I say, is reason sufficient to command silence as

an imperative duty. Can't you see that if Juana be innocent of the

wrong imputed, she is guilty of a much greater,—which is called

illegal retention of personal rights? You know it well. Falsification

of a family is quite as bad as degrading or destroying it. To deprive

legitimate owners of their fortune is far worse than to lift a locket

from the ground. To conceal an illegitimate birth under an honest name

is the same as covering the plague-spot of vice with an ermine mantle.

If Juana be your mother, all this has she done, and has persisted in

the deception for forty years.

DON LORENZO. [_Moves away and grasps his head in both hands._] Silence,

for God Almighty's sake, silence!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. That is just what I am begging of you—silence!

DON LORENZO. She is my mother.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What of that? He who can injure an innocent daughter need

not trouble himself to respect a culpable mother. Is not divine law

above human law? Is not justice first?—Justice, duty, and truth? Must

not the command of the spirit ever triumph over the weaknesses of the

flesh?

DON LORENZO. You speak well—but in spite of it you are raving. [_Moves

away from her._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And why? You seem already to be growing as ordinary and

weak as any poor mother. Does duty not order you to let your daughter

die? Then let her die. Does it not also command you to cast the dying

Juana into a prison-cell? Then hasten to procure her condemnation. You

see, Lorenzo, I have some logic too, in my own way.

DON LORENZO. Infernal logic.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And yours? From what sublime sphere does it descend?

DON LORENZO. [_Moves still further off._] Let me be, let me be. I can

stand no more. My own Inés—and my mother! What have I done to you,

Ángela, that you should torture me so? [_Falls nervously into

arm-chair at table._] My head burns; it is on fire.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Gently._] Lorenzo, Lorenzo.

DON LORENZO. Yes, you are right, and I am a poor fool. How can I know

what I ought to do? Darkness envelops me. What is truth? What is

falsehood?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Aside._] It was very cruel of me, but I have saved my

child. He will not speak. [_Don Lorenzo seated, sinks down in chair,

with his arms upon table, and hides his face in both hands. Doña

Ángela approaches him caressingly and speaks tenderly._] Forgive me,

Lorenzo.

DON LORENZO. Go away—in mercy leave me.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. I wanted to show you the abyss you were falling into. I

wanted to save Inés, and to save you yourself from your own outbreak.

DON LORENZO. Yes, yes, Ángela. I understand, but leave me now.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Do you forgive me?

DON LORENZO. I forgive you—and love you. Poor Ángela, you too are

suffering. But I desire to be alone.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Very well. I am going. But do not fret. We shall find some

way out of the difficulty. I will tell Inés that you want to see

her—you would like to speak to her and comfort her?

DON LORENZO. [_Submissively._] If she wishes it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Then wait here, and I will come for you presently, and

then, beside our child, together, at one in our desire and with a

common will, you'll see that we shall get the better of fatality which

now seems to crush us.

DON LORENZO. We'll conquer it, yes, we'll conquer it. [_Speaks

unconsciously._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Good-bye, and don't bear me rancour.

DON LORENZO. Bear you rancour! I?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Then good-bye.

SCENE V

DON LORENZO. [_Seated at table in profound dejection. Fire burns redly,

room enveloped in deep shadow. Pause._] Now I am alone. How the

shadows play around me! The fire burns dull and red. So much the

better. Darkness gathers. Come to my aid, obscurity! 'Tis now the hour

when the conscience spreads its most luminous rays. I would do what is

right, but then, I know not what is right. My will is strong enough,

but reason is dimmed. Three names dance before my eyes in the black

night that enshrouds me. Ángela, Juana, and Inés! Destiny leads me to

my Calvary, and I ascend my cross of suffering without complaint. But

you, my dear ones, you, Inés, why must you precede me, marking with

your tears the way that is to tear my feet? I alone—but not you! My

God, my God! how low the flame of conscience flickers, and how faint

is my will! Despair, alas! holds me in its grip. I desire good, and

seek it in Thee, O Lord. Come to my aid, answer to my call. Shadows

that encircle me, space in which I most dolorously wander, time that

is mine own eternity of pain, and thou, august silence, that dost hear

me in thy consoling mood, call all of you upon your God whom my voice

may not reach. Tell him that I would my daughter were spared, and that

I implore the chalice of bitterness may pass her by, that I myself may

drain it with my lips to the very dregs. Let all fall upon me, and let

her live in all her loveliness and goodness and purity.—Not on her, my

God, not on her! [_Drops his head on table in bitter weeping._]

SCENE VI

_Don Lorenzo and Juana, who stands in door R._

DON LORENZO. A flickering shadow has passed before my eyes. Has it all

been a dream? No, Juana is yonder, and the proof, the proof. [_Opens

desk and takes out paper._] Here is the proof. Unhappily it is no

dream. It is terrible and implacable reality. I have read it a hundred

times, and can never weary of reading it: 'I have loved you like a

son, although you are no child of ours.' 'Although you are no child of

ours!'

JUANA. [_Aside, watching him._] He is reading—reading that letter

written by one he believed to be his mother. I it is who am his

mother—not another. [_Advances slowly._] How sad he looks! and there

are tears in his eyes. In his eyes, do I say? Perhaps it is my own

eyes, looking at him, that are wet. His eyes or mine! What matter?

There are tears somewhere. [_Comes nearer._] He is crying. Why?

Because I am his mother? But what of that, if nobody else knows my

secret? I am so near death! Yes, death! I shall soon die. Cold and

eternal night has already penetrated to the depths of my being. It is

all dark within. [_Staggers and leans against the table. Don Lorenzo

turns to her._]

DON LORENZO. Juana!

JUANA. Still that name.

DON LORENZO. Mother!

JUANA. It offends you that I am such—I see it.

DON LORENZO. Do you think so ill of me?

JUANA. Well, if it does not offend you, you are ashamed of me as your

mother?

DON LORENZO. I ashamed of you! To-morrow the world will know that I am

your son.

JUANA. To-morrow! What do you mean? [_With terror._] My hearing is dull,

and I cannot rightly have understood what you said.

DON LORENZO. I made a mistake. Not to-morrow. You must leave Spain

first, and then, when you are in some safe place, since man's justice

can often be very cruel, I will proclaim the truth aloud. I will give

up a name that is not mine, as well as an appropriated fortune. That

is what I have decided to do.

JUANA. Christ above!

DON LORENZO. And then along with Ángela and my poor child I will join

you.

JUANA. You, poor and dishonoured, with only a stained and contemptible

name! And why? Wherefore? What compels you? Speak, my son. My wits

forsake me. What forces you to it?

DON LORENZO. Conscience, mother, and your misdoing.

JUANA. You intend to tell the truth?

DON LORENZO. [_Angrily._] Why did you ever tell it to me? If I had known

nothing about it I should not now be obliged to break my daughter's

heart.

JUANA. Why? And you can ask me that? You don't understand? Oh,

ungrateful son! [_Hides her face in her hands and sobs bitterly._]

DON LORENZO. Mother!

JUANA. Because I was dying, because I am dying—and I wanted you to know

all that I had sacrificed for your sake before I went. And because I

wished to hear you call me mother at least once. For that, and for no

other reason. Because the heart within me rose to my throat and nearly

choked me, till at last I could no longer command myself, and had to

call you son.

DON LORENZO. I understand, mother, and do not blame you.

JUANA. But you will not do as you have just threatened? Say you will

not. It would be infamous to your family and most cruel to me.

DON LORENZO. Cruel, yes, but not infamous. With this cruelty shall I

wipe out all infamy.

JUANA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. Forgive me.

JUANA. [_Tragically._] You accuse me of having committed an infamy?

DON LORENZO. I have not said it.

JUANA. [_In stifled voice._] But it was for your sake—for your sake, my

son. [_Don Lorenzo remains silent and gloomy, not looking toward his

mother._] My God, I did it for his sake, and this is how he repays me!

Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. Wrong may not prevail. The work of iniquity must fall into

ruins beneath its own weight. My sacrifice will serve to wipe out your

sin.

JUANA. Lorenzo! [_Don Lorenzo draws her to the light and places the

letter in her hand, obliging her to read it._]

DON LORENZO. What does it say there?

JUANA. [_Sits down and reads with difficulty._] 'Forgive me, and may God

inspire you.'

DON LORENZO. Well, mother, I have forgiven her, and prayed to Heaven for

inspiration. Your entreaties are vain.

SCENE VII

_Juana, Don Lorenzo, Doña Ángela enters door R._

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Standing in doorway._] Lorenzo, Inés wants you.

DON LORENZO. My daughter! I am coming. Excuse me, mother. I will return

instantly.

JUANA. [_Detains him and speaks softly._] Now I know that you despise

me; now I know that you hate me.

DON LORENZO. Mother!

JUANA. [_Grasps his arm._] But not for my sake, for hers—for the sake of

that dear child.

DON LORENZO. [_Despairingly._] Not even for her sake.

JUANA. [_Falls into the arm-chair and covers her face with her hands.

Exeunt Don Lorenzo and Doña Ángela._]

SCENE VIII

JUANA. [_Holding the paper in her hand._] Not even for her sake!

[_Sobs._] Sacrifice yourself, Juana, for your son. Renounce his

caresses, tear your breast with your nails on seeing him kiss another

woman and call her mother; drink deeply of the tears of bitterness,

and gather them in your heart until it overflows or bursts. Bear the

brand of shame upon your brow, wear yourself out in poverty and sorrow

in a garret for twenty years, with no other happiness or consolation

than seeing him pass in his carriage from the distance. Oh, heavens, I

am dying! [_Pause. She gets better._] Still,—still worse,—poor Juana!

suffer all I have mentioned, and in exchange procure him wealth,

reputation, celebrity—and at the last moment of your life come to him

and only ask a kiss, only ask him to say once: 'How good you have been

to me! How fondly you have loved me!' What will he say? Nothing of

this. He will glance at you in austere sadness, and tell you that you

have committed an infamy, and that he must wipe out your crime,—that

your work is—a work of iniquity. A work of iniquity! Oh, Lorenzo, my

son! Why are you so cruel? Why do you cast from you in contempt all

that I gave you at the price of my own happiness? See what tears you

cost me! [_Changes her voice and crosses R. with a desperate

gesture._] And my sacrifice has been in vain. I have forfeited my own

happiness and lost his too. Mad woman, egoist! Why did I tell him the

truth? [_Pause._] But it must not be, it must not be. No, the work of

iniquity will not fall into ruins yet a while. Poor visionary! I will

deny everything. [_In a dead voice._] You will be happy and rich and

powerful whether you like it or no. He put the sole proof into my

hand. [_Takes up the paper._] Very well, then. Between his mother and

his daughter he will be saved. Strange coincidence! She, calling for

him, obliges him to go away, and I stay behind. Ah, let us exhaust

what little strength remains. So, a little nearer still, through the

darkness—just so dark a night was it when my mistress came to my

bedside and murmuring asked: 'Would you have your child rich and

happy?' And first I doubted, and then I consented—and now—and now I

still say 'yes.' [_Reaches table. Pause._] Is Lorenzo coming back?

[_Listens._] Yes, I think he is coming. He will ask me for the letter

as he did before. Here, to the fire with it. [_Tries to walk, but

cannot._] I hear his voice. Strength fails me. I have no time. He will

come. No, I will not give it up. Once more it is in my hands. Ah, now

I know, now I know. I will slip a clean sheet into the envelope so

that he may notice nothing. [_Does this._] Lorenzo calls it a work of

iniquity. My poor boy, he is in some things as innocent as a child.

Thus—thus, I leave it where it was—and this other goes to the flames.

[_Throws paper into the fire and stoops to watch it burn._] Now it is

in flames. See how luminously they quiver upon my mistress's portrait.

[_Looks at portrait upon the wall._] And now, see, it is in ashes—that

which was the only proof. The only one? No: another still remains—it

is I—and soon that also will be ashes. [_Pause._] Now I will go to my

room. [_Moves._] My God, how weak I have grown! [_Moves again with an

effort._] But I have saved him. Felicity, fortune are his—I cannot

see,—I cannot see. The light is dim. Is it the light or my eyes that

are dim? [_Approaches table, takes up candle and walks again._] Light,

light! where is my room? Shadows! All is darkness. Alas, alas, I

cannot, I cannot [_Lets candle fall. Room is only lit by the red

reflection of the fire. She falls between fireplace and table._]

SCENE IX

_Juana, Duchess, Don Lorenzo, Doña Ángela, and Inés. The latter enters

R. Don Lorenzo tries to get away from his daughter, who stands at door

in white; behind her, half hidden by curtains, the Duchess and Doña

Ángela._

DON LORENZO. [_Coming down the stage._] No more, no more. It is the last

test,—the last, yes. But, oh, how my will fainted.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_To Inés._] Follow him. Do not leave him alone. He will

give in.

INÉS. Why do you fly from me, father? [_Advances a little, behind her

the duchess and Doña Ángela. This scene must be strongly marked and

fantastic. Don Lorenzo, in the middle of the stage, evinces in his

attitude, manner, and expression that he is undergoing a desperate

inward struggle. Inés, delicate-looking and charming, approaches him

slowly, and Doña Ángela and duchess, in black, follow, encouraging

her. Juana dying; the study is quite dark save for the glimmer of the

firelight which shows out Inés sharply._]

DON LORENZO. Here lies my real temptation. Oh, how lovely she is! What

an aureola of divine beauty encircles her head—the sole ray of light

in this heavy darkness.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Aside to Inés._] Do you see? He cannot resist you.

Implore him, implore him, my child.

INÉS. [_Advancing._] Kiss me, father.

DON LORENZO. [_Retreating._] Alas for me if those dear arms should clasp

themselves like a halter round my neck!

JUANA. [_Aside._] A halter round the neck! He is right.

INÉS. For the love of God, father, for the love of me, for all the tears

shed by those eyes you used to kiss so fondly when I was a child.

[_Lifts her hands to her eyes, and then offers them to Don Lorenzo to

kiss._] See how the drops still flow from my eyelids. My fingers are

wet with them. Kiss them, and let your lips taste of their bitterness.

DON LORENZO. Yes—I will kiss them—I will kiss them—but, alas! if one of

mine should fall upon them.

JUANA. [_Aside._] Fall, fall, so he said. I also am falling into the

bottomless abyss. But first, first I must embrace my son.

INÉS. Father! [_Don Lorenzo retreats. Doña Ángela, Inés and the duchess

follow him._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

JUANA. 'Twas Lorenzo they called. There—there—I see something.

DON LORENZO. No, no—a thousand times, no. Would you degrade me?

INÉS. And you, father—who would believe it?—would kill me. If not, why

do you seek to place an obstacle between me and the love of my life?

DON LORENZO. No, my Inés, no—the duchess—it is the duchess.

INÉS. It is not true. The duchess consents.

DON LORENZO. At the cost of my honour.

DUCHESS. Not so, Inés. In exchange for silence.

INÉS. Don't you hear her, father?

DON LORENZO. [_Moving away and repulsing her._] I only hear voices

begging my conscience of me. I only see shadows pursuing me through

the shadows—phantasms of space, engendered by temptation. Leave me,

leave me—in God's name. If you are strong enough to wring my heart, at

least you are not strong enough to bend my will.

JUANA. His voice! Lorenzo, Lorenzo! [_Comes over to embrace him._]

DON LORENZO. Mother! [_Embraces her._]

INÉS. [_Taking refuge behind Doña Ángela._] Whose voice is that? Who is

that woman? What shade is that which has come out of the darkness and

encircles my father with its arms? I'm afraid.

DON LORENZO. Juana! my mother!

INÉS. His mother! Why does he call her mother?

DON LORENZO. Because she's my mother, and because I should call her so.

JUANA. I? his mother? Good gracious, what an idea! How I wish it were

so!

DUCHESS. Do you hear—do you hear what she says?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. She denies it.

DON LORENZO. [_Violently._] You are my mother.

JUANA. Ah, my poor Lorenzo. [_Laughs with an effort, embraces him, and

whispers._] Child of my heart!

DON LORENZO. On your life, repeat aloud what you have just whispered to

me.

JUANA. I whispered! Well, what did I say? To be his mother! Could I wish

for a greater blessing?

DON LORENZO. [_Furiously._] Ah, you deny it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. [_With increasing fury._] Do you deny that you are my

mother?

JUANA. Why not?

DON LORENZO. [_Despairingly._] You denied me at the hour of my birth,

and again you deny me at the hour of your death.

JUANA. [_Clasping him closely, so that in the darkness it is not

possible to discern if they are embracing, or if Don Lorenzo has

caught her in his rage._] Child of my love! [_Whispers in a dying

voice._]

DON LORENZO. [_Deliriously._] That's so, that's so.

JUANA. I am dying.

DON LORENZO. No, mother.

DUCHESS. Heavens! Is the man going to kill her? Help! [_Runs to door

R._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Edward—doctor!

DON LORENZO. Mother, mother!

JUANA. No,—God help me!—no, not that.

SCENE X

_Don Lorenzo, Juana, Inés, Doña Ángela, Duchess, Dr. Tomás, and Edward.

Latter two enter R. with lights, all help to separate Juana and Don

Lorenzo._

DR. TOMÁS. Come, come.

DON LORENZO. My mother—forgive me, forgive me. You don't wish me to call

you mother—my mother.

JUANA. Farewell.

DON LORENZO. Juana! [_Juana makes a terrible effort, and rises as if

wounded in the heart by the name of Juana; falls back._]

DR. TOMÁS. Dead!

DON LORENZO. No, it cannot be. [_Embraces her._] I killed her by calling

her mother,—and the last cry she heard from my lips was Juana. Ah, my

God, my God! Why hast thou punished her so hardly, and why hast thou

forsaken me?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

ACT III

SCENE—_Same as previous Acts_

SCENE I

_Dr. Tomás. Afterwards servant._

DR. TOMÁS. Everything is quiet. The girl's sobbing can no longer be

heard, and Don Lorenzo's fury is calmed. 'Tis but the gentle precursor

of a fresh tempest. [_Pause._] There are moments when I doubt and

vacillate. He,—he,—my good friend, poor Lorenzo—the very idea gives me

no rest. Well, well, we shall soon know the truth now,—meanwhile,

courage. I have sacred obligations to fulfil towards this afflicted

family. Nobody could more earnestly desire to help them than I.

SERVANT. A gentleman, accompanied by two—really sir, I don't know what

to call them—but their dress,—well, the gentleman has given me his

card for you, and they are all waiting outside.

DR. TOMÁS. [_Looking at card._] Ah, Doctor Bermúdez. Show him in.

SERVANT. And the other two?

DR. TOMÁS. Let them wait. [_Exit servant._] As the hour approaches my

doubts and my anxiety increase. Poor Doña Ángela! what a blow for her!

And in what a state of nervous agitation is her unhappy daughter! How

lucid her glance, and how quick her intelligence! Nobody has explained

the matter to her, and yet I believe she knows everything. She guesses

what she does not precisely know, and suspects what she does not

guess. Oh, no; the situation cannot be prolonged. However sad reality

may be, we have to face it.

SCENE II

_Dr. Tomás, Dr. Bermúdez. Afterwards two keepers, attired like

gentlemen, but evincing that they are not such. Dr. Tomás advances

with outstretched hand._

DR. TOMÁS. Doctor.

BERMÚDEZ. Dr. Tomás.

DR. TOMÁS. Punctual as ever.

BERMÚDEZ. No, I am a little early. I want to hide these fellows

somewhere.

DR. TOMÁS. Yes, yes, I understand.

BERMÚDEZ. I have made them dress so as to avert suspicion in Don

Lorenzo. This is a case for such general precautions.

DR. TOMÁS. Quite so, quite so. We must proceed with great caution. It

was an access of fury, a veritable access of fury, as I told you. He

has only had one, the other night. Perhaps I am mistaken.

BERMÚDEZ. I sincerely hope so—and you, too, I am sure.

DR. TOMÁS. Ah, my friend, I scarce know what I am doing. But we trust in

your science, your experience, and profound penetration to relieve us

of our present doubt.

BERMÚDEZ. You flatter me. You also are a doctor——

DR. TOMÁS. Don't count on me, Bermúdez. I am good for nothing. I declare

myself incompetent. It is a question of my best friend, of a brother

almost. Besides, he has always struck me—you know my school. There is

not a divisional line between reason and madness.

BERMÚDEZ. Quite true. All men of learning are more or less insane.

DR. TOMÁS. Precisely. Excitement of the brain beyond certain limits——

BERMÚDEZ. That's it. What we have to do is to see what can be done with

Don Lorenzo. Now these two fellows——

DR. TOMÁS. Oh, it will be easy enough to invent a tale. We'll call them

witnesses—say they've come with the notary—anything, in fact. Poor

Lorenzo is not in a condition to take note of details.

BERMÚDEZ. Where will they wait?

DR. TOMÁS. [_Pointing to door R._] Inside that door.

BERMÚDEZ. [_Going up the stage._] Here, Braulio! {_Enter two keepers,

rather heavy and rough in appearance._]

DR. TOMÁS. Go into that closet. You will be called if

necessary,—meanwhile, remain quiet. [_Keepers salute and enter closet

R._] Since Juana's death Don Lorenzo has not used this room. [_To

Bermúdez._] With the door shut—— [_Shuts it._]

BERMÚDEZ. [_Looking at his watch._] I will be with you in a moment. I'll

be back again before the notary arrives. I'm only off somewhere in the

neighbourhood.

DR. TOMÁS. A visit?

BERMÚDEZ. Yes; a very strange case of insanity. [_Enter Doña Ángela C.,

who stands looking at Bermúdez._] She's——? [_To Dr. Tomás, glancing at

Doña Ángela._]

DR. TOMÁS. Yes—his wife. Don't say anything to her.

BERMÚDEZ. [_Aside to Dr. Tomás._] I'll be back shortly. Your servant,

madam. [_Salutes Doña Ángela, and exit C._]

SCENE III

_Doña Ángela and Dr. Tomás. Doña Ángela follows Bermúdez with her eyes,

then glances towards the closet where keepers are concealed._

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Who was that going away? And who were the two men that

accompanied him?

DR. TOMÁS. Don't be alarmed, dear madam. It will be all right. These are

only ordinary precautions, for, who knows? Don Lorenzo might have

another access of fury like that of the night before last, and for

your sakes—for his own——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Oh, doctor, don't hint such a thing.

DR. TOMÁS. Don't you remember with what frenzy he grasped poor Juana's

dying body? Now that nobody is listening, in all confidence let me say

that I firmly believe he was the determining cause——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Tomás, Tomás!

DR. TOMÁS. Well, at any rate he hastened her death. You heard how

bitterly he accused himself in his delirium. Don't let us forge

illusions. It was a real access of——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Sobbing._] Lorenzo, my husband!

DR. TOMÁS. The crisis may return, for to-day——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Yes, I know what his intention is. Ah, doctor, how

unfortunate we are! How unfortunate my poor Lorenzo is!

DR. TOMÁS. What is he doing now?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. He is quite calm. He writes, and walks about. He wants to

be continually with Inés and me, because solitude terrifies him. A

moment ago he stared at me mournfully, but with such tenderness, and

kissed me, murmuring, 'poor Ángela.'

DR. TOMÁS. You must not contradict him.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. No, doctor. We agree with him in everything.

DR. TOMÁS. And he still persists in the same idea?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Yes. From time to time he asks what o'clock it is, gets

impatient with the notary's delay, and then mutters in an undertone:

'Though all the world should oppose me, I must do it.'

DR. TOMÁS. What a fellow! What character!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Oh, doctor, for the love of God, don't deceive me. Tell me,

do you really believe Lorenzo to be—to be,—no, I can't—I can't bring

myself to pronounce the horrible word.

DR. TOMÁS. I don't yet know what to believe. We shall soon see, my dear

friend, we shall see. It was precisely to be relieved once and for all

of intolerable anxiety that I asked Dr. Bermúdez to call. He is the

first authority upon all such cases.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. But it is impossible, it is surely impossible.

DR. TOMÁS. It would rejoice me to learn so, and we need not lose hope.

But impossible, madam! Ah, human reason is so slight a thing.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Oh, my dear husband! No, I cannot bear—it cannot be.

DR. TOMÁS. Come, come, Doña Ángela. Have sense and courage, if only for

your daughter's sake, for poor Inés. And who knows yet? We have to see

if Don Lorenzo has any explanation to offer—any proof——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What proof can he have? Even the dying Juana cried out to

him, 'No, no, you are not my son,' while he, frenzied and delirious,

grasped her in his arms and strove to force an impossible confession

from the half dead body, calling her 'mother' in the strident voice of

dementia. No, you can't console me, friend. It is useless. I foresee

that our misfortune is inevitable.

DR. TOMÁS. I almost fear so.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And then his way of receiving the duchess, he who is always

the pink of courtesy, a finished gentleman——

DR. TOMÁS. You are right. On that occasion I understood how it was with

him. But who can be resigned when fate strikes so suddenly?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Adoring a child as he adores Inés, is there anybody who

could act as he proposes to act to-day?

DR. TOMÁS. Nobody, madam, nobody in his right mind.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Have you told Dr. Bermúdez?

DR. TOMÁS. Not everything. That would be dangerous. But quite enough to

enable him to pronounce an opinion.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And what is it?

DR. TOMÁS. Am I to speak fully?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Yes, yes, doctor. Conceal nothing. I know there is no

remedy.

DR. TOMÁS. With skillful treatment, separated from everybody, especially

from those whose presence could only serve to exasperate his nervous

sensibility by very reason of his affection for them——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Tomás!

DR. TOMÁS. In some good asylum here in Spain or abroad——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What! What is it you say? Separate him from us! Take him

away! He—he—never. I am his wife. I will never consent to it.

DR. TOMÁS. The sight of Inés will aggravate his delirium.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Her absence would be his death.

DR. TOMÁS. He smothered that poor woman to death.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. There you are wrong, Tomás. With her father Inés runs no

risk. She is his daughter.

DR. TOMÁS. He believed Juana to be his mother.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. It must not be, Tomás, it must not be. Why can't you find a

way of relieving my anguish instead of torturing me so?

DR. TOMÁS. Doña Ángela!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. It is true, my friend, 'twould indeed be no easy matter to

find consolation for such a sorrow as mine.

DR. TOMÁS. There is no human sorrow inconsolable, however great it may

be.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Oh, but mine is.

DR. TOMÁS. Yours still less than many others. Come, let us discuss it

dispassionately.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. How can I, with fever running fire in my veins?

DR. TOMÁS. Hear me out. If what Don Lorenzo asserts be true, if there

were irrefragable proofs——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Then my poor husband would not be out of his mind. We it

would be who are blind and foolish. Oh, what a blessing that would be!

DR. TOMÁS. Not so great, for in that case you would have to face

poverty, dishonour—death even.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Hush, Tomás.

DR. TOMÁS. I say death advisedly, for Inés would most certainly die of

it. On the other hand, if Lorenzo's calamity be proved——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Don't continue. I can't bear to think of it.

DR. TOMÁS. But think of Inés, and in thinking of her you will see that,

terrible as the wound is—we must acknowledge the fact, sad as it is—it

is by no means a mortal wound. For youth, what alone is mortal is to

destroy the future—not simply precipitate the past into nothingness.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. For mercy's sake, Tomás!

DR. TOMÁS. The happiness of Inés' lifetime depends upon her father's

calamity—don't forget it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Let God's will be done, but do not seek to awaken ideas

rather fitted to frighten than to comfort me.

SCENE IV

_Ángela, Dr. Tomás, Don Lorenzo R._

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] But where have I left the key? Oh, my head! and

the notary will be here presently. I left the letter in the desk. I

remember quite well. Two days ago, when my mother——

DR. TOMÁS. [_Without seeing Don Lorenzo._] Poor Doña Ángela! The proof

[ordeal] will be a terrible one.

DON LORENZO. What? What are they saying? The proof! yes; they are

speaking of the proof. [_Looks eagerly about the table for key of

desk._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Yes, it will be a terrible one—very terrible to walk

between two precipices. Lorenzo on the one side, Inés on the other.

You are right indeed.

DON LORENZO. [_Aloud, angrily._] I have lost it.

DR. TOMÁS. [_Aside, turning round._] I should think you have,

unfortunate man.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. Ah, they're there. [_Recognises them with a suspicious

glance._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Gently._] What are you looking for? We will help you.

DON LORENZO. You! no. Wherefore? It is my work.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. But at least tell us what you have lost.

DON LORENZO. Everything—even the love of mine own. Say if there can be

more for me to lose.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. No, Lorenzo, do not believe it.

DON LORENZO. At last! The key. Heaven be praised! [_Aside,

distrustfully._] It was there—it was in the lock. [_Opens desk and

takes out the paper Juana placed there._] Ah, here it is. I breathe

again freely. [_Reads._] 'For Lorenzo.' This is the paper.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Approaching._] Have you found what you were looking for?

DON LORENZO. Yes. [_Dr. Tomás also approaches._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What paper is it?

_Don Lorenzo makes a movement to take paper out of envelope, but seeing

Dr. Tomás and Doña Ángela come nearer, he puts it back in desk, locks

it, and pockets the key._]

DON LORENZO. A very important one. [_Looks from one to the other angrily

and suspiciously._] But why do you want to know?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Don't be offended, Lorenzo. Forgive me if I have committed an

indiscretion.

DON LORENZO. I forgive! It is I who want your forgiveness. Through me,

through my fault, are you about to be plunged into misery.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Do not say so. We could never be miserable, you being happy.

DON LORENZO. And I, could I be happy, fortune having deserted you and my

beloved child?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. She, too, will be happy.

DON LORENZO. Impossible, for you know what I am thinking of.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You have told me. Don't you remember?

DON LORENZO. [_To Dr. Tomás._] And you?

DR. TOMÁS. I also know.

DON LORENZO. You approve?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Sweetly._] Whatever you do will be well done.

DON LORENZO. [_To Dr. Tomás_] What have you to say?

DR. TOMÁS. The same.

DON LORENZO. [_Thoughtfully._] 'The same.' What conformity of opinion! Do

you know that I have sent for a notary?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. We know it.

DON LORENZO. [_Looking at both._] You know it. And do you likewise know

that I am about to have a legal act drawn up containing my formal

declaration and renunciation?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Yes, Lorenzo.

DON LORENZO. So that the judge may then ordain as the law directs? Is it

not so?

DR. TOMÁS. It is natural.

DON LORENZO. [_To Doña Ángela._] What do you say to it?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_In weeping voice._] If this wealth we now enjoy is not

legally yours—you do well.

DR. TOMÁS. If the name you bear is not yours, you must certainly give it

up.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. In any case your will is law.

DON LORENZO. Yes, but a tyrannical law, an impious law—eh?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Still, a law that I respect above all others.

DON LORENZO. [_Nervous, unquiet, almost irritable._] And you don't resist

it? You don't struggle against it?

DR. TOMÁS. Your conduct is that of a man of honour. Strictly speaking,

there is nothing else for you to do.

DON LORENZO. What unheard-of submission! What extraordinary docility! What

a sudden change! You are deceiving me. I tell you, you are lying to me.

[_Violently._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. For pity's sake, Lorenzo.

DR. TOMÁS. [_Aside._] Ah, there is no hope. Like a black wave dementia has

spread over his mind.

DON LORENZO. [_More calmly._] Well, well, better so. [_Pause. Approaches

Doña Ángela affectionately._] Where is Inés?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. My poor child!

DON LORENZO. You don't defend her against me? [_Then gently._]

Nevertheless, it is your duty.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Alas, Lorenzo, what strength has your wretched wife to use

against you? Your will grows iron in strife and calamity; mine bends to

the very dust.

DON LORENZO. You are right. My will is irresistible when duty orders me.

[_To Dr. Tomás._] What do you think of all this?

DR. TOMÁS. That it should be so.

DON LORENZO. So it is. [_Pause._] Poor Ángela! And do you know what we are

going to do once the act is signed and the proof given up?

DR. TOMÁS. You have a proof?

DON LORENZO. You didn't know. [_Aside, wondering._] (And they were talking

about it when I entered!) Yes, I have it, irrefutable, past doubt, clear

as daylight, although it is black as night and treason.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Keep calm, Lorenzo.

DR. TOMÁS. Then what is it?

DON LORENZO. A letter of my mother's—of the woman who called herself my

mother.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Aside._] Good Heavens! Can it be true?

DON LORENZO. Her signature, her handwriting—it is here—in my power.

DR. TOMÁS. [_Aside._] Ah, if it were so.

DON LORENZO. Then when the proof is delivered up, you, my poor Inés, and I

will at once leave this house—this house which already has ceased to be

ours, and which this very day the law will take into possession until it

is handed over to the heirs of Avendaña. [_With increasing animation._]

And in a little while we shall wander forth without resources, without a

name, bearing a dying child in our arms—for have you not assured us that

Inés will die? [_to Dr. Tomás_]—fronting a despairing solitude——no,

'twas not well said—I blasphemed. We will bear away with us an unstained

honour and a tranquil conscience, and our heads will be held high, while

God is with us. What matter if the world forsake us, thus accompanied?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Embracing him._] Before, I said with my lips only: 'Your

will is law, Lorenzo.' Now I say it with my heart.

DR. TOMÁS. [_Aside._] If the proof exists, this man is a saint. But, alas!

if it does not exist, the unfortunate fellow is nothing but a lunatic.

[_Enter servant._]

SERVANT. The Duchess of Almonte, and his Grace the Duke.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Show them in. [_To Dr. Tomás._] Have you informed them?

DR. TOMÁS. [_To Doña Ángela._] I told them last night. The duchess

promised to come. You see, she has kept her word.

DON LORENZO. I cannot see them. I must be alone, unless you are with

me—only you. Good-bye, Ángela.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Good-bye, Lorenzo.

DON LORENZO. [_Looking at his watch._] How slowly time passes! [_Goes to

door R. Dr. Tomás follows him._] Have you given notice to the witnesses?

[_At door._]

DR. TOMÁS. I have two inside waiting, and another will be here presently.

DON LORENZO. Who are they?

DR. TOMÁS. You don't know them. They are friends of mine.

DON LORENZO. And why not mine too?

DR. TOMÁS. I always considered my friends as yours.

DON LORENZO. [_Looks at him for a moment._] So they are. [_Aside._] Ah,

this complaisance! I would have preferred to see them resist—struggle

against me!

SCENE V

_Doña Ángela, the Duchess, Edward, and Dr. Tomás._

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Duchess!

DUCHESS. Madam! [_Salutes affectionately._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You are always so good to us.

DUCHESS. It is my duty to offer the consolations of sincere friendship

in your cruel trouble. God has willed that the same misfortune should

strike us all though in different ways. [_Lowers her voice and points

to Edward on uttering the last word._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. But what then do you call the misfortune that has struck

me? I know not.

EDWARD. Well, madam, the moment for naming it has arrived. It is called

poverty, and shame, and the death of Inés, or——

DOÑA ÁNGELA _and_ DUCHESS, [_At same time._] Edward!

EDWARD. Forgive me, mother. We should each and all speak out the truth

to-day. You have already said: 'I will compromise with Don Lorenzo's

calamity for the sake of the love I bear you and that which you bear

me; but I will never compromise with his public dishonour,—never, not

even for the price of your life.' My life, mother, was it not so 'twas

said?

DUCHESS. [_With energy, but sadly._] Yes.

EDWARD. [_Going toward Doña Ángela._] Then, madam, let us probe the

misfortune that has struck you. Whether is it called dishonour or

madness? This is the problem we have to solve. Should Don Lorenzo be

correct, should he be in his sound senses, should there be proof

forthcoming of his assertion, it is for us to respect his cruel

virtue. But if, as I (by a thousand signs that almost constitute

evidence) believe, an eternal cloud has dimmed his intellect, and the

light of his reason is for ever quenched,—then defend yourself, Doña

Ángela. It is your most sacred duty. Defend the name you bear, your

social position, even Don Lorenzo's honour, against his own raving;

defend,—why should I keep it back?—Inés' life and her life's felicity.

Do not, madam, leave such almighty interests and so dear an object at

the mercy of a madman.

DUCHESS. Edward!

EDWARD. The word is a harsh one, but the time has come to pronounce it.

Once for all, let us learn the fact whether this battle for reputation

and existence into which Don Lorenzo has cast us is what it seems or

what I fear:—whether, finally, the heroic sacrifice of this implacable

scholar is insanity or sanctity.

DUCHESS. Enough, Edward. [_Doña Ángela sits down on sofa, weeping

bitterly. Duchess goes over to her._]

DR. TOMÁS. [_To Edward._] The happiness of this family affects me as

closely as my own. What you propose to do has already been considered,

and both the law and science will be called in to decide.

DUCHESS. I hope to Heaven the darkness will be illuminated for you. [_To

Doña Ángela._] Come, come, madam: courage, resignation! Where is Inés?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Do you wish to see her?

DUCHESS. Yes.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Come, then. [_To Dr. Tomás._] And you too. I would like you

to see her. For the past three days fever alone has lent her strength.

My daughter, my dear child is very ill.

DR. TOMÁS. Poor girl!

[_Exeunt Doña Ángela, Duchess, and Dr. Tomás._]

SCENE VI

EDWARD. They persist in doubting. What blindness! They can't understand

that the unfortunate gentleman, from force of seeking, not the

righting of wrongs, like the Errant Knight, but the reason of all the

varied rights invented by the accumulated wisdom of centuries, has

ended by losing the only one that Providence saw fit to bestow upon

him—namely, natural reason. Oh, but this must not be. I cannot allow

them to sacrifice my dear one's life to the extravagances of a poor

madman.

SCENE VII

_Edward, Inés, comes out by closet R., where the keepers are

concealed, agitated, and as if fleeing._

INÉS. What are those men? Who are they?

EDWARD. [_Rushing towards her._] Inés, my beloved! How pale you are!

Your divine glance is hemmed round by deep purple shadow.

INÉS. But answer me. Who are they? What are they waiting for? Send them

away. [_Approaches the door cautiously and peeps in; Edward endeavours

to lead her down the stage._] There is something sinister about them.

My father—where is my father? I was looking for him between the

drawing-room and yonder closet, and I saw them—I can't bear the sight

of them, and yet I cannot take my eyes from off them.

EDWARD. But what is the matter with you, dearest? Why do your eyes seem

to shun me? Is it from me that you are running away? Inés, have you

wearied of my love?

INÉS. [_Coming down the stage._] Wearied of your love? You must know

that it is my life. But oh, Edward, to what a frightful ordeal fate

has subjected us! You do not understand it. For me supreme bliss lies

in your love, and the hope I place in your love is a still greater

bliss—a far, far greater. The one is our present, the other contains

all our future. And yet, Edward, dearest, that same hope has now

become a crime for your Inés, yes, a crime. Can a cruelty more

exquisite be conceived? That which destiny denies no other living

being it denies me. Yesterday I was but a child. My thoughts floated

upon laughter in a sphere of white transparency, like a vapoury mist

in moonlight. To-day they are as heavy as lead, as burning as lava.

Could you but hear their horrible whispers in the silence of night.

And these thoughts are not mine. It is not my will that gives them

birth. They come I know not whence. I cast them from me, and still

they return. They vex me with chiding complaints: 'your poor father,'

one moment, and then assail me with tempting voices, murmuring: 'Inés,

Inés, who knows?—you may yet be happy—love may yet smile upon

you—hope, hope, poor little thing.' Can you think of anything more

horrible—surely it must be my bad angel—than to hear within oneself

the voice of Satan whispering of hope to one bidden to say farewell to

it?

EDWARD. You are not yourself, my dear Inés.

INÉS. [_Approaching Edward._] I am filled with remorse.

EDWARD. For what?

INÉS. I don't know. I have done nothing wrong. My father! My poor

father!

EDWARD. You angel of my life, my heart's desire, be calm, be calm. I beg

of you to spare yourself.

INÉS. Whisper, Edward. I could almost wish I were dead.

SCENE VIII

_Don Lorenzo, Inés, and Edward. Don Lorenzo enters C.,

and stands listening to Inés._

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] Dead, she said?

EDWARD. You dead! No, Inés, don't say such a thing.

INÉS. Why not? If I do not die of sorrow—should fortune ever again smile

upon me, then must I die of remorse.

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] Of remorse! She! Should fortune ever again smile

upon her! What worse fate floats in the air and hangs threateningly

above my head? Remorse!—I have again caught another passing word. I

traverse rooms and galleries, and wander from one place to another,

pricked by insufferable anguish. I hear talk that I do not understand,

and meet glances still further from my comprehension. I see tears

here, smiles there, and nobody opposes me,—all either fly from me or

watch me. [_Aloud._] What is this? What is this?

INÉS. [_Rushing to his arms._] Oh, father!

DON LORENZO. Inés, how white you are? Whence this dolorous constriction

of your lips? Why do you essay a smile only to end in sobbing? How

lovely she is in her sorrow! And it is all my fault.

INÉS. No, father.

DON LORENZO. I am cruel. Oh, if you do not say it, you think it.

EDWARD. Inés is too sweet-natured to harbour rebellious thoughts. But we

who see her suffer cannot help thinking and saying it for her.

DON LORENZO. It is but natural you should do so.

EDWARD. [_Passionately._] Then if I am right, you are wrong.

DON LORENZO. I am not in the wrong for that. There is something more

pallid than the white brow of a lovesick maid; there are tears sadder

far than the crystal drops of her beautiful eyes, something still

crueller than the curving smiles of her lips, and something yet more

tragic than the death of our beloved.

EDWARD. [_With violence and contempt._] What is this worse pallor, these

sadder tears, and still mournfuller tragedies?

DON LORENZO. [_Seizing his arm._] Madman! The pallor of crime, the tears

of remorse, the consciousness of one's own infamy.

EDWARD. And this infamy, this remorse, this crime would lie in

furthering your daughter's happiness?

DON LORENZO. [_Despairingly._] It should not be—but so it is

nevertheless. [_Pause._] And this makes my torment. This is the idea

that will drive me mad.

INÉS. No, no, father. You must not say that. Do what you think best

without thought of me. What does it matter whether I live or die?

DON LORENZO. Inés!

INÉS. Only, do not be uncertain in it—above all, do not let others see

your uncertainty. Let your speech be clear and persuasive, as it is

now, and do not let worry blind you. Be calm, father. I implore you by

all that is sacred.

DON LORENZO. What do you mean? I do not understand.

INÉS. Do I myself know rightly what I mean? Adieu, adieu. I cannot bear

to grieve you.

EDWARD. [_To Don Lorenzo._] Alas, if 'twere possible for you to take

counsel with your heart, and silence the prompting of thought.

INÉS. [_To Edward._] Do not vex him. Come with me—if you thwart him

maybe 'twill force his hate.

DON LORENZO. Poor child!—she also is struggling—but she will conquer.

She is not my daughter for nothing.

[_Utters this proudly. Inés and Edward go up the stage; passing the

door of the closet, Inés sees the keepers, and makes a movement of

horror._]

INÉS. What sinister vision is it that frights my gaze? Those men? Oh,

father, do not enter there.

EDWARD. Come, Inés, come.

INÉS. [_To her father._] No, no. I beseech you, father.

DON LORENZO. [_Going towards her._] Inés!

INÉS. Those men—there—look! [_Points to closet. Don Lorenzo stands and

follows her eyes. At that moment the keepers, hearing her cry, lift

the curtain and show themselves._]

EDWARD. [_Leading Inés away._] At last!

SCENE IX

_Don Lorenzo, Braulio and Benito._ [_Pause._]

DON LORENZO. Who can they be? Enter, pray. [_The keepers advance

timidly, and speak abruptly._]

BRAULIO. Dr. Tomás——

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] Ah, I understand.

BENITO. Told us to wait there——

DON LORENZO. Excuse me, I did not know——

BRAULIO. Not at all, sir.

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] How odd they look, in sooth. Pray, be seated.

BENITO. Thanks, sir.

BRAULIO. We are well enough standing.

DON LORENZO. I cannot permit it——

BRAULIO. Don't trouble yourself, sir.

BENITO. If the gentleman orders it, it is better to take a seat. [_Both

sit down on sofa. Don Lorenzo remains standing._]

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] Their looks seem to bode no good, or is it,

perhaps, that my eyes only reflect the flashes that dart across my

mind? [_Inspects them again attentively. Aloud._] It was Miss Avendaña

who saw you when she passed, and mentioned it to me.

BRAULIO. Yes, that beautiful young lady.

BENITO. Who looked so sorrowful.

BRAULIO. Like the picture of the Dolorosa. [_The keepers speak shortly,

and after these remarks fall into sudden silence, remaining stiff and

immovable, looking vaguely before them._]

DON LORENZO. You frightened her, and she almost ran away at the sight of

you. But you must not be astonished. The poor girl is very ill—indeed,

she is scarce other than a child yet.

BRAULIO. [_Smiling sillily._] It always happens to us in every house.

DON LORENZO. [_Aside, wondering._] In every house!

BENITO. [_Looking for the first time at Don Lorenzo, and again looking

steadily in front of him._] Can she be that poor gentleman's

daughter,—eh?

DON LORENZO. What poor gentleman?

BENITO. [_Without looking at him._] The gentleman who is—— [_Touches his

forehead, still not looking at Don Lorenzo, who, unobserved by the

keepers, makes a gesture of surprise._]

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] Ah—no—what an idea! [_Aloud, with an effort of

self-control._] Just so. She is the daughter of—— [_Observes them with

increasing anxiety._]

BENITO. Well, she is very beautiful, though so sad.

BRAULIO. 'Tis reason enough she has to be sad.

DON LORENZO. You know——?

BRAULIO. Everything. [_Looks a moment at Don Lorenzo and then away._]

DON LORENZO. Dr. Tomás told you?

BENITO. Not to us.

BRAULIO. He told the doctor.

BENITO. Why should he talk to us? We, in doing our duty——

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] All my body is bathed in a cold sweat, like the

sweat of death. I am raving—This can't possibly be true. [_Repeats

mechanically._] In doing your duty——

BRAULIO. We are here on the look-out in case he should become

obstreperous.

DON LORENZO. In case he should become obstreperous?—who?

BRAULIO. Why, the gentleman.

DON LORENZO. [_Falls back staring at him in terror; passes his hand over

his forehead as if to brush away an idea; retreats still further,

staggers, and leans against the table. Then speaks low and abruptly in

a dead voice._] So you know everything.

BRAULIO. Nearly everything.

BENITO. As we have been waiting here for some time, we have heard the

servants talk.

DON LORENZO. They said——?

BRAULIO. They didn't leave us in the dark, you may be sure. It appears

Don Lorenzo had an attack the night before last. You know all about it

better than we do.

DON LORENZO. [_In a heavy sombre tone._] Yes.

BENITO. They say he strangled a poor old woman. [_Don Lorenzo recoils in

horror, and covers his face with his hands._]

BRAULIO. There's a fellow for you! A good beginning—that's clear enough.

It's always the same thing. The family——

DON LORENZO. The family! [_Removes his hands from his face, walks a few

steps as if shaken by an electric shock, and stares at them with keen

anxiety, speaking in the same dead voice._]

BRAULIO. Yes, the family—'tis natural enough.—Don't they say he wanted

to give all his fortune away? ever so many millions. The devil of a

lunatic altogether. Nothing else for it but what has been decided—to

pack him off. We take him away and the poor ladies are left in peace.

DON LORENZO. I!—they?—Ángela?—Inés—no, no—not possible. [_Recoils again

R._]

BRAULIO. [_Staring after him. Aside._] What's the matter with the

gentleman? [_To Benito._] Look at him, look. [_Both keepers draw

together and bend forward in direction R. looking curiously at Don

Lorenzo. This group should be made important._]

DON LORENZO. Air, light! No, not light—darkness! I do not want to see. I

do not want to think. [_Falls into arm-chair and lets his head drop

into his palms._]

BENITO. I say, I believe that's——

BRAULIO. This is a fine fix.

BENITO. Who would think it!

BRAULIO. Let us go back to our hiding-place.

BENITO. Sh! Say nothing about it. [_They rise and walk cautiously to the

closet, closely watching Don Lorenzo._]

BRAULIO. That's settled. Not a word. We were told to stay in here. Then

let us stay, and we'd have done better not to budge.

BENITO. Somebody is crying and sobbing. [_They reach the door, stand and

look at Don Lorenzo, who has not changed his attitude. Servant enters

C., crosses and goes out R._] Leave him alone, leave him alone. Now

that he is calm. [_They enter closet and shut door._]

SCENE X

_Don Lorenzo. Dr. Tomás and servant enter R._

DON LORENZO. My God, remove this chalice from my lips—I can endure no

more—no more. Oh, strength fails me. [_Sobs despairingly._] Thou who

madest me believe in them. Thou who madest me love them!—and now

they—oh, traitors! No, no. Lord who hast given me life, relieve me of

its burden soon. See, Lord, how close upon me is the temptation to

thrust from me with my own hands this putrid garb of flesh. To die!

How I yearn for death! Dost thou not see it? See me kneel to implore

it of thee—on my knees. Thou art kind, thou art compassionate. Death,

only death. Send me death, the pallid messenger of thy love. [_Falls

kneeling beside the arm-chair and drops his head upon folded arms._]

DR. TOMÁS. [_In low voice to servant._] Have they both come?

SERVANT. [_In same tone to Dr. Tomás._] Yes, sir; both the notary and

Dr. Bermúdez. [_Dr. Tomás and servant stand in middle of stage

observing Don Lorenzo, who is kneeling and sobbing._]

DR. TOMÁS. Poor fellow! [_Steps towards Don Lorenzo, changes his mind

and goes up C._] Why should I? Let us make an end of it.

[_Exeunt Dr. Tomás and servant._]

SCENE XI

_Don Lorenzo. Afterwards Dr. Tomás and Dr. Bermúdez._

DON LORENZO. Now am I calmer. The hurt is mortal. I feel it—here at the

heart's core. Thanks, Almighty consoler. [_Dr. Tomás and Dr. Bermúdez

enter C. and stand watching him._]

DR. TOMÁS. You see him there—beside the arm-chair.

BERMÚDEZ. Unfortunate man!

DON LORENZO. [_Rising. Aside._] Ah, miserable being—still,

still—cherishing impossible hopes. Impossible! And suppose they

honestly believe that I——? Oh, but if they loved me, surely they would

not believe it. [_Despairingly. Pause._] Did I not hear Inés—the child

I so greatly love—speak of remorse? Why should she speak of remorse?

[_Aloud with increasing agitation._] All of them—wretches!—They would

almost rejoice at my death. No, then I will not die, no, not until I

have fulfilled my duty as an honourable man, not before I have brought

the question of my madness to an end.

DR. TOMÁS. [_Placing a hand upon his arm._] Lorenzo.

DON LORENZO. [_Turning, recognises him, and retreats angrily._] He!

DR. TOMÁS. Let me introduce one of my best friends, Dr. Bermúdez.

[_Pause. Don Lorenzo looks at both strangely._]

BERMÚDEZ. [_In low voice to Dr. Tomás._] You can see the effort he is

making to control himself. There can be no doubt that he is vaguely

conscious of his condition.

DON LORENZO. One of your best friends—one of your best friends——

BERMÚDEZ. [_Aside to Dr. Tomás._] An idea is escaping him, and he is

struggling to retain it.

DON LORENZO. [_Ironically._] Then if he is one of your best friends,

your loyalty will be a guarantee of his.

BERMÚDEZ. [_Aside to Dr. Tomás._] At last he has found the word, but

note the unnatural tones of his voice. [_Aloud._] I come, Dr. Tomás

assures me, to witness a most noble deed.

DON LORENZO. And an act of unworthy treason as well.

DR. TOMÁS. Lorenzo!

BERMÚDEZ. [_Aside to Dr. Tomás._] Let him say what he likes.

DON LORENZO. And of an exemplary chastisement.

BERMÚDEZ. [_Aside to Dr. Tomás._] It is very serious, my friend, very

serious.

DON LORENZO. [_To Dr. Tomás._] Call everybody, everybody, my own and

strangers alike. Let them come here, and let them await my orders here

while I am doing my duty elsewhere. What are you waiting for?

BERMÚDEZ. [_Aside to Dr. Tomás._] You must not contradict him. Call

them. [_Dr. Tomás rings a bell. Enter servant, to whom he speaks in

low voice, and then goes out R._]

DON LORENZO. 'Tis the last test. They almost inspire me with pity, the

traitors! Oh, I am well sustained by the certainty of triumph. Be

still, my heart. There they are, there they are! I can't see them—I

who loved them so fondly. I cannot, and still my eyes turn to them,

seeking them, seeking them ever.

SCENE XII

_Don Lorenzo, Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez. Doña Ángela.

Inés, the Duchess and Edward, R._

DON LORENZO. Inés! It is not possible. She! No, no, it cannot be, my

child! [_Goes towards her with outstretched arms. Inés runs to him._]

INÉS. Father! [_Bermúdez hastens to interpose, and separates them

roughly._]

BERMÚDEZ. Come, come, Don Lorenzo, you might hurt your daughter very

seriously.

DON LORENZO. [_Seizing his arm and shaking him violently._] You

scoundrel! Who are you to tear my child away from me?

DR. TOMÁS. Lorenzo!

EDWARD. Don Lorenzo!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Oh, heavens! [_The ladies group together instinctively.

Inés in her mother's arms, the Duchess near_ _them. Dr. Tomás and

Edward rush to free Bermúdez of Don Lorenzo's grasp._]

DON LORENZO. [_Aside, controlling himself._] So! the imbeciles believe

it is another access of madness. Madness! Ha, ha, ha! [_Laughs in a

suppressed way. Everybody watches him._]

BERMÚDEZ. [_Aside to Dr. Tomás._] It is quite evident.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Aside._] Oh, my poor husband!

INÉS. [_Aside._] My father!

DON LORENZO. [_Aside._] Now they will see how my madness is going to

end. Before I leave this house with what a hearty pleasure will I kick

that doctor out. Fresh vigour already animates me. What! Since when

has it become reason sufficient to declare a man mad because he is

resolved to perform his duty? Ah, that's not very likely. Humanity is

neither so blind nor so base, though it is bad enough. Softly now.

Treason has begun its work; then let the punishment begin too.

[_Aloud._] The hour has come for me to accomplish a sacred obligation,

however sharp a sorrow it may be. It were a useless trouble to insist

upon your presence at the necessary legal formalities. It would only

bore you. The representative of law awaits me in yonder room. I, in

obeying a higher law, am about to renounce a fortune that is not mine,

as well as a name that neither I nor my family can any longer bear

with a clear conscience. Afterwards I will return here, and with my

wife and—and—my daughter, will leave this house, which in the past has

only sheltered love and felicity, and to-day offers me nothing but

treason and wickedness. Let no one seek to prevent me, for none of you

can resist my will. Gentlemen [_to Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez_], do me the

favour to go before—I beg you. [_All slowly enter closet R. On the

threshold Don Lorenzo looks back once at Inés._]

SCENE XIII

_Doña Ángela, Inés, Duchess, and Edward._

_The three women in the middle of the stage, Edward

listening at the closet door._

INÉS. Oh, pity, Heaven, and save him.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Embracing her._] You are right. Let us only think of him,

pray for him alone.

DUCHESS. It is a sacred duty for you to place poor Don Lorenzo's welfare

before your own happiness; but in any case, it is no less a sacred

obligation to conform to a higher will than ours. [_Pause._]

INÉS. [_To Edward._] What are they saying? Tell us, Edward, what they

are saying.

EDWARD. He is talking; his words are cold and severe, but not in the

least uncertain or troubled. [_Edward returns to the door._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What anguish! What anxiety! Death were preferable to this

torture.

INÉS. What can it matter what my father says since he is already judged

beforehand?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Don't say such a thing, child.

INÉS. I say it because I feel it to be true, and I see it in the faces

of those who are now his judges.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. But what—what is it you see?

INÉS. In those persons the monomania of specialists.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. In Tomás?

INÉS. Yes—his scientific opinions—whatever they may be—his own special

follies——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. But in me, Inés?

INÉS. [_Embracing her._] Your love of me.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Hush, child, hush!

INÉS. They are all against my father, every one. Poor father!

DUCHESS. You are raving, Inés.

INÉS. Yes, I am raving, and so are you, and so are all of us—all

excepting him, excepting him—my heart tells me so. You yourself,

madam, what is it you desire but Edward's happiness; and Edward wants

my love, and I his. My father, with his virtue and his honour, is our

mutual obstacle, while in us something obscure twists itself about us

till conscience is enveloped in shadows. Oh, my father, my dearest

father!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. For pity's sake, Inés! What ideas!

INÉS. What is he saying—tell me what he is saying! I hear his voice.

EDWARD. [_Approaching._] He is speaking of conclusive evidence.

INÉS. Would to God there were. [_To Edward._] And now?

EDWARD. They are demanding to see the evidence in order to draw up the

act and present it to the judge.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And he?

EDWARD. He is smiling triumphantly. He is pale, fearfully pale, but

composed and dignified. Here they are coming. [_Edward comes down the

stage and says aside._] That man terrifies me.

INÉS. [_Aside._] God grant it may be true—though my love should perish.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_To the Duchess._] Can it be true?

DUCHESS. [_To Doña Ángela._] Can it be true?

EDWARD. [_Aside, seeing Don Lorenzo enter._] Ah, is it I who am mad?

LAST SCENE

_Doña Ángela, Inés, the Duchess, Edward, Don Lorenzo,

Bermúdez, and Dr. Tomás._

_The position of the persons is as follows. The three women form a group

at sofa; Edward behind the sofa looking at Don Lorenzo in terror,

dominated by him. Don Lorenzo advances to the middle of the stage,

with a proud, calm bearing. Behind him come Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez,

who remain standing near door C._

DON LORENZO. [_Approaches table, and triumphantly places one hand on

desk._] Here is the proof. Here lies the truth! [_Pause. Opens desk

and takes out envelope with blank sheet. Comes down stage. On one side

Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez. Edward approaches him on the other._] Woe to

them who think to sacrifice me to their own interests and passions!

Bitter will be their deception and most cruel their punishment! Would

to God my forgiveness could mitigate it for them. [_Deeply moved._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Coming nearer._] Lorenzo!

INÉS. Father——

DON LORENZO. Here is the proof, Tomás; here is the proof, Ángela, here,

my child, is the proof. Listen. [_Pause. Don Lorenzo opens envelope.

All gather round him._] This is—what is this? [_Holds paper away from

his eyes, over which he rubs his hand._] What shade is this that dims

my eyes? Can it be that there are tears in them which impede clear

vision? No,—I cried before—but now I am not weeping. [_Looks at paper

again with horrible anxiety, opens it altogether, and seeks for

writing on all sides._] Where are the words that woman wrote? I have

read them a thousand times—and now I can't——[_To Dr. Tomás, holding

out paper to him._] What does it say?—read, read—quickly—only tell me

what it says.

DR. TOMÁS. Nothing, my poor friend.

DON LORENZO. Nothing! [_Again looks at paper._] You are deceiving me.

Dr. Bermúdez, that fellow is deceiving me. He is one of the scoundrels

who have plotted this wretched treason. Read it you—read it.

BERMÚDEZ. There is nothing written on the paper.

DON LORENZO. Nothing written on it! You say there is nothing written

upon it! It is not true—no, it is not true. Inés, my daughter, my best

beloved, come and save your father.—What does it say?

INÉS. Oh, father, I see nothing.

DON LORENZO. Nothing!—she also!—But is this not the proof?

DR. TOMÁS. Yes, my unhappy friend—the proof—but a far too cruel one.

DON LORENZO. [_Striking his forehead._] Ah, I understand. [_Looks at Dr.

Tomás and Doña Ángela._] I heard them once before talking of a proof.

You! [_to Dr. Tomás_] and you! [_To Doña Ángela._] You have taken it

away. God in Heaven! [_Recoils from them in horror. The rest move away

from him, and he stands alone in the middle of the stage. Pause._] Be

it so,—be it so!—I am defeated—most miserably defeated! How they

rejoice in their triumph! See how they gaze at me in their

hypocritical distress! And they feign to weep, too. They are all

feigning. [_Pause._] Alas! my heart—alas! for my life's illusion—alas!

for love, and oh, alas! alas! my child—phantoms that whirl about and

fly from me—for ever fly away!—I who believed in all things good—in

the blue above, in the purity of my daughter's brow—what is there now

left me to believe in? You see for yourselves. I make no resistance. I

yield myself up. Yours the victory. Why have you brought those men

here when I do not seek to oppose your will? I will go wherever you

bid me. Adieu. Don't touch me. [_To Dr._ _Tomás, who approaches and

takes his hand._] When human flesh comes in contact with mine, it

seems to me that vipers crawl along my skin. Alone—alone will I ascend

my Calvary bearing my cross of sorrows without an infamous Cyrenean to

assist me. Farewell, loyal friend [_still addresses Dr. Tomás_], who

have saved the fortune of this disconsolate family from the hands of a

madman. Farewell, Ángela, my tender-hearted wife. Twenty years ago,

mad with love of you, I gave you my first kiss. To-day, no less a

madman, I send you the last. [_Kisses his hand to her with cry and

expression of desperate grief._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. Don't come near me. I might strangle you in my arms.

[_Ángela recoils._] Farewell, Inés, my only child. Be happy—if you

can. To you I say nothing. I could not speak to you unkindly. [_Walks

a few steps feebly, then stops. Repulses roughly those who rush to his

assistance._] Let me be. I require no one. My brow is damp with sweat,

and thirst is upon my dry lips, and a fiery heat seems to swell my

eyelids. [_Stops again._] Listen to me, Inés, my child.—If you still

retain any love for me,—if by chance your heart is touched with pity

for your father,—if you feel regret for what you have done against me

along with the rest of them—come once to my arms. Let me carry away

into the hell of suffering that awaits me one tear of your eyes upon

my cheek, one kiss of your dear lips upon mine.

INÉS. Father! [_All endeavour to restrain her, but she breaks from them

and runs to Don Lorenzo, who catches her in his arms and holds her

closely clasped to his breast._]

DON LORENZO. My child! [_The rest advance to them, but make no effort to

separate them._]

INÉS. No—they must not take you away—I love you dearly,—every one lies

but you.

DON LORENZO. You would not have those men carry me off?

INÉS. No, no; I will defend you—and you defend me.

DON LORENZO. Yes! I will defend you—Let them drag you from my arms if

they can. [_Makes a movement to carry her away._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. My child, my child! Help! [_Edward, Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez

struggle to separate father and daughter._]

DON LORENZO. I will not let her go—for ever in my arms!

INÉS. Yes, yes, father. Defend me.

BERMÚDEZ. It is imperative.

EDWARD. Don Lorenzo!

DR. TOMÁS. Lorenzo!

DUCHESS. Merciful god, he will kill her as he killed Juana!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Inés! [_These exclamations are simultaneous: the struggle

is swift. Keepers enter. The men hold Don Lorenzo, and the women

restrain Inés, keeping her by force from her father._]

EDWARD. At last!

INÉS. Father! [_Holds her arms out to Don Lorenzo._]

DON LORENZO. I was not able, child.—I could do no more.—Here upon my

cheek I feel your kisses and your tears.—She at least loved me—she was

innocent—I see it now. God above, thou hast accepted my martyrdom in

that night of agony and temptation in exchange for her happiness. I do

not regret it. Make her happy—very happy! and let the cup of

bitterness be mine alone—only mine!

INÉS. Adieu, father—I will save you yet.

DON LORENZO. What can you do, child—when God himself has not seen fit to

save me? [_Remains near closet between keepers, guarded by Edward, Dr.

Tomás and Bermúdez. Inés, held back by the other women, stands with

arms strained towards him._]

CURTAIN

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Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty

at the Edinburgh University Press

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s Note

Small irregularities of punctuation in the stage directions have been

corrected, with no further notice. This includes the placement of

punctuation and any inconsistencies in diacritical marks.

The abbreviation of "Don" as "D." in the speaker's name is sometimes

not used, and has not been added where that is the case.

Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and

are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the

original.

61.31 do not say that[.] Added.

88.23 and he staggers back[:/.] Replaced.

89.17 He holds Teodora more tightly clasped[:/.] Replaced.

122.23 be sure and not delay[,/.] Replaced.

158.12 INÉS. Father[!] Added. Most

likely.

165.10 And who were the two men that accompanied Replaced.

him[./?]