The Great Galeoto; Folly or Saintliness; Two Plays Done from the Verse of José Echegaray into English Prose by Hannah Lynch/Folly or Saintliness/Act I
Scene—Don Lorenzo's study, octagon form. Fire lighting, over mantel-piece a large mirror in black frame L. Below, a door. Door and window R. Principal entrance in background. Book-shelves well filled R and L. Writing-desk and arm-chair L, sofa R. Scattered about in orderly confusion books and objects of art. Mounting severe and rich. A winter afternoon.
SCENE I
Don Lorenzo. [Seated at table reading attentively.] 'Mercy, my niece,' replied Don Quixote, 'is that which God this moment has shown me, despite my sins. Already my mind is clear and free, unclogged of the obscurities of ignorance, which my unhappy and incessant readings of those detestable books of chivalry cast upon me like a heavy shadow. Already have I sounded the depth of their delusions and absurdities, and I now regret nothing but that this awakening should have come so late that I have no longer time to seek compensation in reading those other books which are the light of the soul. I feel myself on the point of death, dear niece. I should like to depart in such a way that my life would not appear so evil as to obtain for me the reputation of madness; that, though it is true I have been mad, my death should not confirm its truth.' [Stops reading, and remains a while in thought.] Folly! To struggle without truce or rest in this fierce battle of life 'for justice as Cervantes' immortal hero struggled in the world of his imagining! Folly! To love with an infinite love, and with the divine beauty of our desire ever beyond our reach, as was the Dulcinea he so passionately loved! Folly! To walk with the soul ever fronting the ideal, along the rough and prosaic path of human realities, which is like running after one of heaven's stars through crags and rocky places. Folly! Yes, so the doctors tell us; but of so inoffensive a form, and, upon the face of it, so little likely to prove contagious, that, to make an end of it, we do not need another Quixote. [Pause. Rises and walks to the middle of the stage, where he stands thinking.]
SCENE II
Don Lorenzo, Doña Ángela, and Dr. Tomás. The latter two stand at door on R., half-hidden by the curtains, and watch Don Lorenzo, whose back is toward them.
Doña Ángela. Look at him! as usual, reading and thinking.
Dr. Tomás. Madam, your husband is a sage, but wisdom may be overdone. For, if the tenser be the cord, the more piercing its notes, so the much easier is it to break. And when it breaks, to the divine note succeeds eternal silence. While the brain works in sublime spasms, madness is on the watch—don't forget it. [Pause.]
Don Lorenzo. Strange book! Book of inspiration! How many problems Cervantes, unknowing perhaps, has propounded therein! The hero was mad, yes, mad [pause], he who only gave ear to the voice of duty upon the march of life; he who ceaselessly subjugated his passions, silenced his affections, and knew no other rule than justice, no other law than truth—and to truth and justice conformed each action: who, with a sacrilegious ambition, strove to attain the perfection of God above. What a singular being he would appear in any human society! A new Quixote among so many Sanchos! Having to condemn the greed of this one, the vanity of that, the good fortune of this other, the uncontrolled appetites of another, and the frailties of all; in his own family, like the Knight Errant's housekeeper and niece; in his own friends not differing from the priest, the barber, and Samson Carrasco. And strong men and maidens, dukes and inn-keepers, Moors and Christians with one voice declaring him mad, until he himself should end by taking himself as such, or dying, feign to think so, that at least he might be left to die in peace.
Dr. Tomás. [Approaches Lorenzo, and places an arm on his shoulder. Doña Ángela also comes near.] Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. [Turning round.] Tomás!—Ángela!—you were here?
Dr. Tomás. Yes; we were listening to part of your philosophical monologue. What has provoked these sublime self-revealings of my good friend?
Don Lorenzo. I have been reading Don Quixote, and it has gone to my head, and there got mixed with the other tags of modern philosophy which are floating about, as my hard-hearted doctor would say, in the cells of grey substance.
Dr. Tomás. So would anybody else say who wished to talk the language of reason.
Doña Ángela. How dreadful! Are you two going to begin one of your interminable discussions on positivism, idealism, and all the other isms of the dictionary, which are so many abysses for common sense?
Dr. Tomás. Don't be afraid, madam. I have something more interesting to say to Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. Tomás.] And I have also something more urgent to ask you.
Doña Ángela. I should think so indeed. Our child's health is surely more interesting and urgent than the follies and delusions with which your head is crammed.
Don Lorenzo. [Anxiously.] How is my beloved girl to-day?
Doña Ángela. Yes, how do you find Inés? [Pause.]
Don Lorenzo. Do tell us. Don't keep us in suspense. [Pause. Dr. Tomás shakes his head ominously].
Doña Ángela. For heaven's sake, doctor, tell me if there be any danger.
Don Lorenzo. What are you saying, Ángela? Don't pronounce the word.
Dr. Tomás. Softly, softly. You go too far. I don't, however, say that it is nothing serious.
Don Lorenzo. What do you mean?
Doña Ángela. Oh, what do you mean?
Don Lorenzo. What is the matter with her? Has the illness a name?
Doña Ángela. What are the remedies?—for I suppose it is curable. Oh, Dr. Tomás, you must indeed cure my child.
Dr. Tomás. What is her malady? One of those that causes the greatest misfortune to mankind. What is its name? The poets call it love—we doctors give it another name. How is it cured? This very day, with the aid of the priest; and so excellent a specific is this, that after a month's appliance neither of the wedded pair retain a vestige of remembrance of the fatal sickness.
Doña Ángela. What nonsense you do talk, Dr. Tomás! You had almost emptied my veins of their blood.
Dr. Tomás. Well, to be serious. Given the condition of the young lady, her nervous temperament, her extreme susceptibility, and her romantic passion, the malady must be regarded as grave. And if you don't very speedily seek a remedy in the sweet security of marriage, my friend, I am grieved to say it, but duty compels me to inform you, that you need not count upon Inés. [Gravely.]
Don Lorenzo. Tomás!
Doña Ángela. You really believe
Dr. Tomás. I believe that Inés has inherited her father's excitable and fantastical imagination. To-day the fever of love runs like a fiery wave in her veins. If you don't marry her to Edward,—and that very soon—and she should be given to understand that her hopes are not destined to be realised, though I cannot predict in what way, I unhappily know that the delirium of fantasy, and the violence of her affection will eventually kill her.
Don Lorenzo. Good God!
Doña Ángela. My poor child!
Dr. Tomás. You have my opinion, and I have given it in plain language as the urgency of the case demands, as well as my friendship for you, and our joint affection for the innocent child.
Doña Ángela. [To Don Lorenzo in a resolute tone.] You have heard? We must marry Inés to Edward.
Don Lorenzo. I would like it well indeed, Ángela. Edward is a good fellow, very intelligent, and passionately attached to our girl, but
Doña Ángela. But what? Are we not also noble, and why should Edward's mother, the Duchess of Almonte, oppose the union? And what matter if she does, since it is he, and not she, that is to be married?
Don Lorenzo. Ángela, think well upon it. Ought we to encourage a son in revolt against his mother?
Doña Ángela. You think well upon it. Lorenzo, ought we to sacrifice our child to that woman's vanity?
Don Lorenzo. It is easy enough to lament vanity and misfortune. The important thing is to find a remedy against evil.
Doña Ángela. Why not speak to the duchess? They say she is a kind woman, apart from her aristocratic pretensions, and that she idolises Edward. Let us go to her, and beseech and implore her.
Don Lorenzo. I beseech! I implore! Humiliate myself! It is certainly not my place to entreat for her son's hand. She it is who should come to my house and beg for that of my daughter. Social convention, the respect of woman, and my own honour ordain it so.
Doña Ángela. Here you see the philosopher, the sage, the perfect man overflowing with vanity and pride. [Goes over to Dr. Tomás who is standing at table reading.]
Don Lorenzo. You are unjust, Ángela. It is not pride, but common dignity—yes, dignity. It is not honourable to us to go a-begging on Inés' behalf the ducal coronet another family chooses to withhold from her—she who wears herself a far fairer crown. I repeat, it would not be to our credit to go from door to door, still less to emblazoned doors, with hands held out for the alms of a name, when Inés bears my name, as good, as untarnished and honourable as any other, however great it may be.
Dr. Tomás. Lorenzo is right—you, too, madam, are right.
Doña Ángela. Never mind, you need not go. Preserve intact your dignity of sage and philosopher. I who am only a poor mother will go. It will not hurt me to go from door to door a-begging, not coronets, nor coats of arms, but the life and happiness of my child.
Don Lorenzo. Nor will it me, Ángela. You it is who are right. Let the world say what it will. Let the duchess think what she will, I will go. [To Dr. Tomás.] It is my duty, is it not? Your judgment is upright and austere, and you can pronounce dispassionately. Give me your frank opinion.
Doña Ángela. Ah, what a man! Now don't stay to discuss whether or no you ought to go. These things, my lord philosopher and husband, are decided by the heart, and not by the head. It is something to be thankful for that you have not gone back to your books to seek solution of the problem. It is a wonder you are not hunting among the German metaphysicians, or the Greek classics, or in that unintelligible tangle of mathematics, to see if any author by chance has treated of the future marriage of Miss Inés de Avendaña with Edward de Almeida, Duke of Almonte, proving the insuperable difficulties by a plus b, and for the sake of a plus b you would meanwhile let my poor child die.
Don Lorenzo. Don't turn me into ridicule, Ángela. You know I adore Inés.
SCENE III
Don Lorenzo, Ángela, Dr. Tomás, and Inés. Inés enters by door on R. as Don Lorenzo utters these words, and stands still on hearing her own name.
Don Lorenzo. For her life! For her happiness! Why, to dry one tear of her eyes would I give all those my own could shed. For one bright hour for my Inés would I gladly turn all the remaining hours of my life into martyrdom. [Inés, without being seen by the rest, holds out her arms to her father lovingly, and kisses her hand to him.] There, say no more upon the subject. This very day will I go and see the duchess. I will implore, supplicate, humiliate myself if necessary, and she must yield. She won't? [Joyous movement of Inés. Doña Ángela effusively takes her husband's hand.] Well, if I have not got titles, I have at least a name, which, though I may not be able to make it illustrious by work and study
Dr. Tomás. It is illustrious, my dear fellow.
Don Lorenzo. Illustrious, no—but respectable, yes. Besides, I have some millions that I have inherited, and which I will make over to the duchess and to Edward, that they may be enabled thereby to renovate a coronet somewhat the worse for wear. So you may be sure of it. Inés will be happy, and her happiness will be ours.
Doña Ángela. And yours—also ours, who live in you—you, my husband, who are, when science does not blunt your sense, the best, the kindest, and most loving of men.
Inés. Oh, heavens! [Gives signs of faintness, and leans against door.]
Doña Ángela. [Rushes over to her.] Inés, my child.
Don Lorenzo. Inés, Inés! What's the matter?
Dr. Tomás. [Approaching.] Come, girl, what nonsense is this?
Inés. [Sits down on sofa R., the rest stand around her.] Nothing. It's nothing—it is only—I feel I would like to laugh, and tears instantly rise to my eyes—and then I want to cry, and I feel so glad, so happy that I cannot. It is because I am fond, very fond of you, father. [Embraces him affectionately.] How kind you are, and how good God has made you! I am happy, very happy. [Throws herself sobbingly into her mother's arms.]
Doña Ángela. That's it, my girl, weep. It will do you good. See how kind your father is. You must love him dearly.
Inés. With all my heart. When are you going? To-day? Is it not so?
Dr. Tomás. [Laughing at her fond assurances.] Ah, selfish girl! We are very fond of papa when he does something to please us? But if he did not go to the duchess's, should we be quite so fond of him—quite!—as now?
Inés. Just the same.
Dr. Tomás. [Doubtingly.] Quite the same?
Inés. [Maliciously.] It is possible I should be so sad that I might not think of saying it.
Dr. Tomás. I thought so.
Inés. Before, I felt something weigh upon my breast, and choke me. Now, without any effort—thus—spontaneously—as delicious tears of happiness flow—endearing words break from me. Before, I was only able to say: 'unhappy I, father!' Now, I don't think of myself, I think of him, and my heart rises to my lips upon a cry of love—'how dear you are to me!' [Again embraces her father.]
Don Lorenzo. Inés, my daughter!
Inés. And you also, mother, you also. [Embraces Doña Ángela. Don Lorenzo and Dr. Tomás move away from sofa, where Doña Ángela and Inés remain seated, and come to the middle of the stage.]
Dr. Tomás. Poor philosopher! Neither of those two has read a single page of all your books, and both know more than you do. You think yourself strong, and in their hands you are as soft as wax. You think yourself a sage, and in their arms you are an innocent, not to say a fool. You think yourself just and uncorruptible, and upon the will of those two women you could be led into any injustice or weakness.
Don Lorenzo. No, Tomás. When I am sustained by principle my will is iron.
Dr. Tomás. I don't say 'we shall see,' because they are both angels—but, alas! if they were other! Permit me to parody the great poet, and exclaim with him: 'Temptation, thy name is woman!'
Don Lorenzo. [Energetically.] 'Words, words, words,' he said before that, doubtless, in prescience of the parody.
Dr. Tomás. There you are, up on the rostrum already.
Inés. Don't tease papa.
Don Lorenzo. The doctor's sallies don't annoy me, child.
Dr. Tomás. This is where we stand—that for affection, for friendship, for love, for what you call the mysterious attraction of one soul for another, we can and should arrive at
Don Lorenzo. Even sacrifice—yes. But never do wrong.
Dr. Tomás. A pretty maxim for a book on morality.
Don Lorenzo. A still better one for the conscience.
Dr. Tomás. And are there no cases in which, to prevent greater misfortunes, one may compromise with this Cato's conscience, for just a little, a very little fault, hardly as big as a grain of sand?
Don Lorenzo. Once accepted, your grain would quickly weigh as heavily as a mountain of granite.
Dr. Tomás. Now, you are up the mountains. The rostrum does not suffice.
Inés. That will do, Dr. Tomás. You mustn't say such things to papa.
Dr. Tomás. Let us sum up the matter. It is war to the knife against all evil under any form or disguise whatsoever. Not so?
Don Lorenzo. So it is.
Dr. Tomás. Then let us instantly apply your theory. But truly I had forgotten it, and it is quite a romance. Lend me your attention. Listen, ladies. [Doña Ángela and Inés approach.]
Don Lorenzo. What is it?
Dr. Tomás. To-day a woman begged me to take you in her name
Don Lorenzo. What?
Dr. Tomás. A kiss.
Doña Ángela. To him?
Don Lorenzo. To me?
Dr. Tomás. Yes. [To Doña Ángela.] But don't be alarmed, dear madam. It is the kiss of an aged dame, and it comes drenched in tears. 'Tis but the last and dolorous contraction of dying lips,—the final adieu of a being who, in a few brief hours, will have breathed her last.
Don Lorenzo. I cannot imagine
Dr. Tomás. She—this poor woman—sent for me this morning. I mounted to the garret where she lies dying. She named herself, otherwise I should never have recognised her. She swore she was innocent, and all the same begged me to intercede with you for her pardon.
Don Lorenzo. You are talking a language not one word of which do I understand.
Dr. Tomás. Do you remember your mother's death?
Don Lorenzo. What a question! I never knew my father. He died when I was an infant. But my mother! Ah, poor mother! [With emotion.]
Dr. Tomás. Do you remember how, suddenly feeling herself in the throes of death, she wanted to speak to you and could not; and then in a kind of convulsion seized the locket she always wore round her neck and put it into your hands, fixing you with the supreme anguish of her gaze already dimmed with the eternal shadow?
Don Lorenzo. Yes, I remember. Continue.
Dr. Tomás. Finally, you remember that upon your mother's death you lost consciousness, when the locket disappeared. You have not forgotten who was accused of the robbery?
Don Lorenzo. She! It is she? my poor nurse, Juana!
Dr. Tomás. Yes, it is indeed that same Juana who is dying a few yards off in a miserable garret—Juana who implores your pardon in the sad kiss she sends you.
Don Lorenzo. Juana, my second mother, who for twenty-five years was a real mother to me. But why do you speak of pardon? What compromise can there be here with wrong? Forgiveness is no compromise, nor does the poor old creature need my forgiveness. She capable—impossible!
Dr. Tomás. Not so impossible. When the maid who had care of your mother's jewels notified the loss of the magnificent locket in diamonds to the police, and the first investigation was made, Juana denied having it, and yet it was subsequently discovered that she had taken it from you when you fainted. Two days afterwards she was surprised concealing it behind a porcelain vase. She was arrested, you remember, condemned, and suffered imprisonment for the robbery, and only through your influence and strong recommendation, recovered, if not her lost honour, at least her liberty.
Don Lorenzo. [Firing.] All the same, I persist in saying that Juana accused, Juana on the bench of infamy, Juana in shameful seclusion, was innocent, and that human justice erred.
Dr. Tomás. Appearances
Don Lorenzo. Not infrequently deceive.
Dr. Tomás. Then how do you explain it?
Don Lorenzo. There must be an explanation. There is some mystery which we do not understand.
Dr. Tomás. [To Doña Ángela] Now he is off on the hunt of mysteries—in a search for a supernatural explanation of an act that to my mind finds a very natural and simple explanation in human frailty.
Don Lorenzo. But I know that my poor nurse was incapable of an action so base. I would have defended her if the illness that prostrated me after my mother's death had not prevented me. And as soon as I obtained her freedom, the poor woman disappeared, which fact caused me many a bitter tear. God knows how unweariedly I sought her everywhere. God knows how I longed for her return to me—and she!—how cruel of her! Why did she not come back? No, Juana, my good friend, you must not die until I have clasped you once more in my arms, until I have given you back your farewell kiss. [With increasing agitation touches a bell and servant in livery appears.] Say—a carriage—at once—instantly—I am going to bring her back here—this very moment. Do you not feel that it is my duty, Ángela—and you, too, Inés?
Doña Ángela. In any case it is a work of charity.
Don Lorenzo. It is a just reparation. [Exit by door L.]
Dr. Tomás. He is the best of men, and the most credulous. He will believe, as an article of faith, anything that the poor old creature may tell him. He will even help her to invent some extravagant tale. Ah, madam, we ought to make an examination of this library like that great and witty one the priest and barber made of the ingenious hidalgo's library.
Doña Ángela. Oh, if I only could. [Enter Don Lorenzo in out-door dress on L.]
Don Lorenzo. Well, I'm off. You will come too, to help me to bring her back. [To Dr. Tomás.]
Dr. Tomás. I am yours to command.
Don Lorenzo. Do you think it safe to move her?
Dr. Tomás. The unfortunate woman is sinking rapidly. She is just as likely to die in her garret as on the cushions of your carriage, or crossing the threshold of this, to her, enchanted palace. It is, however, quite possible that joy may revive her, and lend her another few hours of existence.
Don Lorenzo. Then come along. Good-bye, Ángela; good-bye, Inés.
Inés. Good-bye. [Caressingly.] And afterwards you will go to see the duchess, won't you?
Don Lorenzo. Yes, child, afterwards. You can wait, but not so that poor woman. She comes first, Inés.
Doña Ángela. [Apart to Dr. Tomás.] Can you assure me that my daughter runs no risks if we marry her?
Dr. Tomás. Only those of marriage, madam, which are none of the slightest.
[Exeunt Doña Ángela and Dr. Tomás by door C. talking together. Behind them, Don Lorenzo takes leave of Inés at the door.]
SCENE IV
Inés claps her hand joyously like a child as she returns to the middle of the stage.
Inés. He will speak this very day to the duchess. He has promised, and he may be relied upon, for he never breaks his word. That is settled, then. He will see her, and my father speaks so well! Why, is he not a man of vast learning? He is certain to convince her. If such a man as he were not able to persuade the duchess that Edward and I ought to be married, of what avail his having studied so much? Why possess so many books in French, in Italian, in German, and even in Greek? Such futile learning! But no, he will twist her round his finger. Besides, they all say that she is a saint. How could she be anything else, being Edward's mother? A saint, do they say? But if, being such, she refused to allow Edward to marry me, what sort of sanctity would her's be? and of what its use? What nonsense! of course we shall be married—why, we must, and it is I who say it. [Pause.] It seems impossible—like a dream. Good gracious, if it should prove a dream, then let me never awake. But it is no dream. This is my father's study. Those are his books. [Approaches the bookcase.] Newton, Kant, Hegel, Humboldt, Shakespeare, Lagrange, Plato, St. Thomas—It is very certain that if it were a dream I should not remember all those names, for what do I know of such illustrious gentlemen? [Looks over balcony.] I can be sure that it is no dream, for there is rain falling, falling. What a delightful thing rain is! The air seems converted into little bars of crystal. And in yonder mirror I can see myself. [Goes over to looking-glass with coquettish play.] It is certainly myself whom I know so well. I, with my oval face, which Edward finds so perfect. Fancy his taste! with my hazel eyes, which Edward finds so lovely. Was there ever such another as he for telling pretty lies? But truly at this moment, what with delight and the heat of the fire, my eyes do shine with an extraordinary brightness. I should like to be pretty—prettier than ever—for his sake, for his dear sake. But why does he not come? It is very late. Now that I want so much to see him, he won't come. You see he won't come—men are so selfish and horrid.
SCENE V
Inés and Edward.
Inés. [Going toward him.] Edward, Edward!
Edward. My darling.
Inés. How late you are!
Edward. [Submissively.] I always come at two o'clock.
Inés. It is now three.
Edward. Is it possible? [Looks at his watch.] No, my beloved, it is only a quarter to two.
Inés. [Authoritatively.] It is three o'clock.
Edward. [Shows her his watch] A quarter to two. Are you convinced? [Points to the clock on mantelpiece.] And look there—it is the same hour.
Inés. [Offended.] Well, I suppose you are right. What an accomplished lover to haggle over minutes! It is always too early to come, too late to stay with his Inés, and he subjects the beats of his heart to the measurements of his time-piece.
Edward. [Beseechingly.] Inés.
Inés. Go away, go away. It is not yet two—it still wants fifteen minutes to the hour. Go and take a turn about the streets, and look at the people, and come back at two sharp.
Edward. Inés!
Inés. That is your hour for coming. A nice thing indeed if you were to come earlier. What would the Astronomical Observatory think of that?
Edward. Do forgive me—I was wrong.
Inés. No, the error was mine. Desire hastens onward the hours for me, and you, to punish me, come and hold up a watch before my eyes. [Makes a quick movement and seems to hold something to his face.] What a poetic lover!
Edward. I confess my fault. I repent and humbly beg your pardon.
Inés. Ah, you admit it. That is better.
Edward. You see I was so happy and delighted to come that I quite lost knowledge of what I was saying, and even now I scarcely know what it is I am saying.
Inés. It was also wrong of me to scold you so, Edward. But I was so gay, so wild with eagerness in my desire to see you, that the moments seemed centuries to me.
Edward. Ah, I have to tell you, my own
Inés. [Pays no heed to him.] I have such great news for you.
Edward. [Also does not heed her.] At last we are within reach of bliss.
Inés. I should think so—for life.
Edward. How improbable it looks!
Inés. My father has promised this day—this very day—you understand?—But you are not listening.
Edward. [Still not heeding her.] My mother
Inés. Your mother! What?
Edward. She is coming here in half an hour to propose our marriage.
Inés. The duchess!
Edward. [With comic gravity.] Her grace, the Duchess of Almonte, will have the honour to beg this white hand [takes her hand] of Mr. and Mrs. Avendaña for her son Edward, although that same Edward has long since possessed himself of it, and holds it warm against his heart, and I have small faith in his being persuaded to relinquish it, even should it be refused him.
Inés. She! really—she is coming! Ah, every one was right to call that woman a saint.
Edward. That woman is my mother. She loves me with all her heart, and this morning I besought her with tears in my eyes, and she, with answering tears, flung her arms round me and yielded to my prayer. She attaches first importance to the glorious deeds of her ancestors, and worships honour fanatically, and would far sooner see me dead than my name linked with one that bore the slightest stain. But she fully appreciates the worth of Don Lorenzo, his scientific renown—which is another kind of glory—and his
Inés. That will do. We have enough of the tale—the conclusion is that she comes here to-day, that we are to be married, and that we are going to be immeasurably happy—is it not so? That is the chief thing—at least it is so for me—I cannot answer for you.
Edward. Ungrateful girl! Do you doubt me?
Inés. I do not doubt you. But how lucky it is for me that your mother has consented!if not! You love me dearly, I know—but youa mother has a claim upon your obedience. If she said 'No,' like a good son, Edward—not so?—you would have spared her pain, and despite your soul's deep sorrow, you would have left your poor Inés, who so tenderly loves you. Don't listen, bad boy! Let nobody hear the whisper—but, indeed, I do love you so much that without you—see how foolish I am!—I should have died of grief.
Edward. Dearest!
Inés. So you see how grateful I ought to be to your mother, since it is not to you but to her that I owe my happiness.
Edward. You cruel girl! Don't you know what I should have done in spite of every obstacle? You feel it.
Inés. Yes. You would have obeyed and given me up.
Edward. Never,—for nothing, for nobody.
Inés. Will you swear it?
Edward. I swear it by all that is holy.
Inés. There, I am content.
Edward. And I most blissful.
SCENE VI
Inés, Edward, Juana, Don Lorenzo, and Dr. Tomás. Juana appears in door C. supported by Don Lorenzo and Dr. Tomás, stands for breath and then slowly advances; is poorly and darkly clad.
Edward. [Turning round.] What a sombre group! Why does this black cloud come to dim the azure of our heaven?
Inés. It is Juana, my father's nurse. Oh, it is quite a story. I will tell it to you afterwards.
Don Lorenzo. Easy, Juana, easy
Juana. Who is that young lady?
Don Lorenzo. Inés, my daughter. Come hither, Inés. [Inés approaches, followed by Edward.]
Juana. How very lovely! She looks like an angel. To find such a creature at one's side in the hour of eternal darkness would seem a presage of heaven.
Don Lorenzo. Another step.
Dr. Tomás. One more effort—the last. [They help her to the sofa, where she sits down. The rest stand round her.]
Juana. I should like to kiss her. [Points to Inés, who comes nearer. Juana takes her hand and draws her to her.] No, your hand is warm and my breath is ice. I may not kiss you! It would be to give you the kiss of death. [Pushes her gently away and lets her hand fall.] Not with the lips, but in thought do I kiss you.
Dr. Tomás. [To Edward and Inés.] Come away. The poor woman wants to be alone with him. [To Juana.] Till later, and courage. Your pains are over.
Juana. Yes, those of this world.
Inés. Poor woman! [Stands and looks at her.]
Edward. Come, my darling. [Exeunt Dr Tomás, Inés, and Edward, R.]
SCENE VII
Don Lorenzo and Juana.
Juana. [After a pause.] Have they already gone?
Don Lorenzo. Yes, dear Juana. We are alone.
Juana. At last. At last has come the hour so long desired. All things come—and all things pass! Listen to me, Lorenzo. Life is slipping from me so quickly, so quickly, and I have still so many things to say to you. The first is—I am innocent. I did not think—I did not want—I did[Tears interrupt her.]
Don Lorenzo. I know it, Juana—I know it.
Juana. You do not know. Everything is against me—everything.
Don Lorenzo. I beg you not to worry yourself in this way. Forget all, and rest.
Juana. Forget, yes. I shall soon enough forget. Rest! I have so much time before me for resting that to-day I desire to live—although I suffer, although I weep. I would carry with me into the grave even the tears and sobs along with the kisses—that its silence and solitude might be filled with some remembrance of life. [Pause.] That is why I want to tell you something. But how can I without preparing you? Now, so that doubt may not come first before revelation, and before doubt suspicion, and before suspicion presentiment, and before presentiment that nameless something, the shadow cast upon the soul by that which comes from afar? You do not understand me, and I do not know how to explain myself, though it is now twenty years since I first harboured the one idea. Judge if I ought to be able to explain it well.
Don Lorenzo. Tell me anything you like, only do not get excited over it.
Juana. Yes, I will tell you all. How could I die without doing so? In the first place, if only to prove to you that I am not a miserable—thief. [Hides her face.]
Don Lorenzo. Hush, hush! Do not pronounce the word.
Juana. And then—the sole consolation left me is to open my heart to you. Forgive me, Lorenzo. The dying are so selfish. For you it will be a horrible shock—while for me it will be a supreme benediction.
Don Lorenzo. If it were so for you, my dear Juana, how could it be a horrible shock for me?
Juana. How! But so it will be—so it will be, my son. My son! Give me leave to name you such. You are not angry with me?—truly?
Don Lorenzo. I beseech you, Juana!
Juana. Well, then, my son will I call you, and you too must call me mother. Call me mother, once. Let it please heaven or hell, mother you must name me.
Don Lorenzo. Mother!
Juana. Not so—not in that way. Cruel boy! [Leans to embrace him. Jerks herself back and falls on sofa.]
Don Lorenzo. Poor woman! She is delirious.
SCENE VIII
Juana, Don Lorenzo, and Inés. Inés rushes in C. in high spirits and approaches her father. She is excited and can hardly speak.
Inés. Father, father—the duchess—is coming. She is coming here—can't you guess?
Don Lorenzo. The duchess!
Inés. Yes—to speak to you about—Edward has persuaded
Don Lorenzo. What good news, my dearest girl! At last God wills
Inés. You are pleased?
Don Lorenzo. [Caresses her.] And you?
Inés. Yes, if you are also. Come, come quickly.
Juana. [Seizes Don Lorenzo's arm.] No, I cannot let you go. Don't leave me.
Don Lorenzo. [To Inés.] I will be with you presently.
Inés. Don't delay—oh, be sure and not delay, If you offend her
Don Lorenzo. You need not fear. Let Ángela receive her in the drawing-room with all ceremony. I will carry Juana up to her room, and join you in a moment. [Exit Inés C.]
SCENE IX
Don Lorenzo. [Tries to lift Juana and she resists.] Come, Juana, come and rest. Afterwards we will talk as much as you like.
Juana. Afterwards, no. Suppose I should die before!
Don Lorenzo. [Impatiently.] Nonsense; you mustn't think of such a thing.
Juana. It is twenty years since I have seen you, and now they won't leave us together an instant. It is very cruel of them.
Don Lorenzo. [Again tries to raise her.] Afterwards, my good Juana.
Juana. And you too want to leave me—you too! Ah, I can compel you to stay with me.
Don Lorenzo. Juana!
Juana. Listen—one word, and then you are free, if you still wish to leave me. It was I, I myself, who stole the locket.
Don Lorenzo. You!
Juana. Yes.
Don Lorenzo. What for?
Juana. So that you might not see it.
Don Lorenzo. Why?
Juana. Because there was a paper in it containing something your mother had written that I did not want you to see.
Don Lorenzo. What was it?
Juana. I know the words by heart. They were: 'Lorenzo, my son, in the casket which lies at the head of my bed there is hidden a paper under a sealed envelope. When I am dead, open it, and read what I wrote during a night of sharp remorse. Forgive me, and may God inspire you.'
Don Lorenzo. [In surprise.] 'Forgive me, and may God inspire you.' She wrote that?
Juana. Yes.
Don Lorenzo. You also made strange mention of remorse. [With increasing curiosity.]
Juana. Remorse was the word. Now go away if you like.
Don Lorenzo. [Thinking.] No. [Pause.] And that paper?
Juana. It was no secret for me that your mother had written it. Where it was hidden was what I did not know. That there was something hidden in the locket a vigilance so alert as mine had easily discovered, and what the paper contained misgiving helped me to divine. That was why I took the locket. It was mine by right. It had cost me twenty years of tears and anguish, than which none more bitter or intolerable have ever been shed.
Don Lorenzo. Forgiveness, remorse, a secret—and my mother! I cannot imagine what you would say. Confused shades gather and drift before my mind, and pain strikes my heart in lightning flashes. You are raving, and you make me rave too.
Juana. No, no.
Don Lorenzo. But that secret paper in the casket
Juana. It was mine, and you did not see it because it was not right you should see it. Since your mother was dead, what could it matter to her? Have I not said it,—there is nothing more selfish than death?
Don Lorenzo. That paper
Juana. I have it.
Don Lorenzo. Here?
Juana. Here. [Lifts her hand to her bosom.] Look, it is but a sheet of paper, and yet it weighs so heavily upon my heart.
Don Lorenzo. I must see it.
SCENE X
Juana, Don Lorenzo, Dr. Tomás behind.
Dr. Tomás. Lorenzo, Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. [Impatiently.] What do you want?
Dr. Tomás. The duchess has come.
Don Lorenzo. An appropriate hour.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside.] What a tone! [Aloud.] Come and receive her.
Don Lorenzo. Yes, I'll go.
Juana. Don't leave me, for Christ's sake. By all that is most sacred to you I implore you to stay. [Aside.] If he only knew.
Dr. Tomás. Are you coming?
Don Lorenzo. Yes,—yes; but don't worry me. I've told you before, I'll go.
Juana. Do not leave me. I will tell you everything, everything. I will give you that paper—which your mother wrote twenty years ago—her letter—her signature—you will see. But only don't leave me yet.
Dr. Tomás. [Angrily.] Come, Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. I said I would go—but afterwards. I know when I ought to go. Now leave us. [To Juana.] Give me the paper.
Juana. As soon as that man goes away.
Don Lorenzo. [Violently.] Will you go!
Dr. Tomás. But the duchess
Don Lorenzo. Let her wait. Has she never kept others waiting in her ante-chambers? Well, then, mine are at least as good as hers.
Dr. Tomás. Are you out of your senses?
Don Lorenzo. I am in them well enough, but not in yours, where I should be ill at ease. Leave me at once.
Dr. Tomás. What can be the matter, Lorenzo? [Approaches him eagerly.]
Don Lorenzo. Nothing, nothing. I am tired of hearing you. For heaven's sake leave me alone.
Dr. Tomás. Very well, very well. But what the deuce has come over the man?
SCENE XI
Don Lorenzo and Juana.
Don Lorenzo. Now we are alone.
Juana. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. What is it? Do you distrust me? Then I will go away. Promise to give me that paper. My child's happiness awaits me yonder, and nevertheless a hand of iron, the hand of implacable fate retains me here by your side. Consider, Juana, if I am resolved to probe this secret.
Juana. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. The paper! Since it was written by my mother, it is mine.
Juana. Don't be angry with me, Lorenzo, dear one. It is here. [Takes it from her bosom.] This is it.
Don Lorenzo. [Tries to seize it.] Give it me.
Juana. Wait, wait. I will read it myself. I will read it more slowly than you—and thus you will be spared a too sudden knowledge of the truth.
Don Lorenzo. Then read on, and let us see.
Juana. Yes, dear, but do not look at me. Only listen. [Holds the paper so that Don Lorenzo shall not see the contents; reads.] 'Lorenzo, my son, forgive me'
Don Lorenzo. Again!
Juana. [Reading.] 'I feel that the end of life is near for me, and remorse has taken hold of me.' [Pause.]
Don Lorenzo. Continue.
Juana. 'I wish to tell you the truth, and I love you too greatly to do so. Read the secret of your existence in these lines stained by my tears, and do then as you will.'
Don Lorenzo. The secret of my existence! Give it me. [Tries to snatch the paper from her.]
Juana. No.
Don Lorenzo. What nightmare is this, Juana? You seem to have encircled my head with a band of iron that presses intolerably across my temples. Give me that paper.
Juana. No. God help me!
Don Lorenzo. You must. [Seizes the paper, and reads with intense emotion.] 'Your father was rich, very rich. He possessed millions. I was very poor. We had no children' We had no children, she says
SCENE XII
Don Lorenzo, Juana, Doña Ángela. Afterwards Edward.
Doña Ángela. [Enters precipitately.] The duchess!
Don Lorenzo. [Angrily, while Juana tears paper from him, and conceals it.] Again! leave me alone. What do you want?
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo, Lorenzo.
Edward. [Rushes in.] Don Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. You, also—go away, go all of you.
Doña Ángela. Mercy upon us, what is this? What can it mean? What is the matter with you, Lorenzo? do be sensible.
Don Lorenzo. Away, away! I implore, if needs be I am ready to kneel to you, but only leave me. Oh, human selfishness! They think there is nothing else besides their passions and interests. Tomás, Ángela, Edward, the duchess—all of them. Ah, it is the dropping of water on the skull.
Edward. But, sir, my mother is coming
Doña Ángela. Yes, the duchess, tired of waiting, is coming.
Edward. She says she is coming herself to seek the sage in his den.
Don Lorenzo. Then let her come. But leave me, leave me all of you, if you would not drive me wild.
Doña Ángela. [To Edward.] It is impossible for your mother to see him in this state.
Edward. Come, madam, we will go and keep her in the gallery to gain time. Perhaps Inés will be able to soothe him in a little while. [Exeunt Edward and Doña Ángela.]
SCENE XIII
Don Lorenzo and Juana.
Don Lorenzo. The paper! that accursed paper! Where is it? You have it.
Juana. [Showing it.] Yes.
Don Lorenzo. Then give it me. 'We had no children,' she said. [Makes an unsuccessful effort to read.] Where is it? I don't know. The letters swim before me. My eyes are dim. 'We had no children!' I cannot read, I can't. Do me the kindness to read it for me. [Juana takes the paper.] Ah, there, where it says: 'We had no children.'
Juana. [Reads.] 'My husband knew that an incurable disease was rapidly undermining his health. Death went with him, nestled in his heart. Mad with love for me, he wished to secure me all his fortune, and I—it was wrong, I know now, it was wrong, for he had a father living, but I,—oh, forgive me, Lorenzo, you who are so kind and honourable—I accepted.' [Pause.]
Don Lorenzo. Continue, continue.
Juana. 'We looked about for a child. I cannot write any more. Juana knows the secret. She will tell you all. Once more, I implore you to forgive me. Farewell, Lorenzo, and may God counsel you. I loved you like a son, though you were no child of ours.'
Don Lorenzo. I—I—was not—what does it mean? Not her son? I bear a name that is not mine! For forty years have I enjoyed a fortune that belonged to others. I have robbed everything—social position, name and wealth. All, all! Even my mother's caresses, since she was not my mother,—even her kisses, since I was not her son. No, no. This is not possible. I am not so base. Juana, Juana, for the love you bear the God above, tell me the truth. Look, it is not for my own sake—what does it matter what happens to me?—but for my family's sake—for those unfortunate women—for my dear child's sake, my beloved Inés, who will die of it, and you see, I cannot let her die. [Bursts into desperate sods.]
Juana. That is true. But hush! Who need know of it? and then it will not matter.
Don Lorenzo. But if it be true?
Juana. [In a low voice.] It is true.
Don Lorenzo. It seems a lie. That woman who cherished me so tenderly was not my mother?
Juana. No. Your mother loved you still more.
Don Lorenzo. Who was she, then?
Juana. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. What was her name?
Juana. Look at me without anger, and I will tell you.
Don Lorenzo. Where is she?
Juana. In strife with the torments of hell.
Don Lorenzo. Is she also dead?
Juana. She is dying. [Towards the end of this dialogue Juana raises herself, and both stand in nervous agitation, staring wildly. When she utters the last word, she falls back again powerless upon the sofa.]
Don Lorenzo. Juana!
Juana. [Contorted with pain.] Not that name!
Don Lorenzo. Mother!
Juana. Yes, call me so—my son! [Makes a supreme effort to hold him to her.]
SCENE XIV
Don Lorenzo, Juana, and Dr. Tomás.
Dr. Tomás. Here she is—she is coming.
Juana. [Freeing herself.] Leave me—they are coming, and I do not wish them to see me.
Don Lorenzo. No—wait—I scarce know what I would say to you, but I have much to tell you.
Juana. Afterwards—Good-bye now, I can die content. I have called him son. [Exit slowly R. Don Lorenzo follows her, and Dr. Tomás stands watching them.]
Don Lorenzo. No, not yet. [Juana disappears behind curtain. Don Lorenzo would follow, but is detained by Dr. Tomás, and obliged to return to the middle of the stage.]
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.