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 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 front 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. [Delirously.] 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?