The Great Galeoto; Folly or Saintliness; Two Plays Done from the Verse of José Echegaray into English Prose by Hannah Lynch/The Great Galeoto/Act III
SCENE I
Pepito listening at the door on the right, then comes back into the middle of the stage.
SCENE II
Pepito and Doña Mercedes.
Mercedes. Where's Severo?
Pepito. He has not left my uncle for a moment. I had no idea he was so attached to him. If what I fear should happen
Mercedes. How is your uncle?
Pepito. He suffers greatly, but says nothing. Sometimes he calls out 'Teodora' in a low harsh voice, and sometimes 'Ernest'; and then he tugs violently at the sheets, and lies quiet again as a statue, staring vacantly into space. Now his brow is bathed in the cold sweat of death, and then fever seizes him. He sits up in bed, listens attentively, and shouts that he and she are waiting for him. He tries to jump out of bed to rush at them, and all my father's entreaties and commands barely suffice to restrain him or soothe him. There's no quieting him. Anger races hot through his veins, and thought is a flame. It is shocking, mother, to see the bitter way his lips contract, and how his fingers close in a vice, with head all wild, and pupils dilated as though they drank in with yearning and despair every shadow that floats around the chamber.
Mercedes. How does your father bear it?
Pepito. He groans and breathes of vengeance. He, too, mutters the names of Teodora and Ernest. I hope to God he will not meet either, for if he should, small chance there is of restraining his fury.
Mercedes. Your father is a good man.
Pepito. Yes, but with a temper
Mercedes. It is not easily aroused, however. But when he has cause
Pepito. With all due respect, he's then a very tiger.
Mercedes. Only when provoked.
Pepito. I don't know about other occasions, but this time he certainly has provocation enough. And Teodora?
Mercedes. She is upstairs. She wanted to come down—and cried—like a Magdalen.
Pepito. Already! Repentant or erring?
Mercedes. Don't speak so. Unhappy girl, she is but a child.
Pepito. Who, innocent and candid, sweet and pure and meek, kills Don Julian. So that, if I am to accept your word, and regard her as a child, and such is her work on the edge of infancy, we may pray God in his mercy to guard us from her when she shall have put on years.
Mercedes. She is hardly to be blamed. The infamy lies with your fine friend—he of the dramas, the poet and dreamer. He it is who is the culprit.
Pepito. I don't deny it.
Mercedes. Where is he?
Pepito. Where is he? At this moment racing about the streets and public places, flying from his conscience, and unable to get away from it.
Mercedes. He has a conscience?
Pepito. So it would seem.
Mercedes. Oh, what a tragedy!
Pepito. A misfortune!
Mercedes. Such a deception!
Pepito. A cruel one.
Mercedes. What shocking treason!
Pepito. Unparalleled.
Mercedes. Poor Julian!
Pepito. Melancholy fate! [Enter servant.]
SCENE III
Doña Mercedes, Pepito, and servant.
Servant. Don Ernest.
Mercedes. He dares
Pepito. This is too much.
Servant. I thought
Pepito. You had no business to think anything.
Servant. He is only passing. There is a cab waiting, so
Pepito. What are we to do?
Mercedes. Let him come in. [Exit servant.]
Pepito. I'll give him his dismissal.
Mercedes. Do it cleverly.
SCENE IV
Doña Mercedes, Pepito, and Ernest. Doña Mercedes seated in the arm-chair, Pepito standing, and Ernest behind, whom neither salute nor look at.
Ernest. [Aside.] Hostile silence, anger, and contempt. Through no fault of my own, I now appear to them a prodigy of evil and insolence, and they all despise me.
Pepito. Listen to me, Ernest. [Turns round to him and speaks in a hard voice.]
Ernest. Well.
Pepito. I have to tell you
Ernest. To go away, perhaps.
Pepito. [Changing his tone.] Good heavens! What a notion! I only—wanted to ask you—if it is true [hunts for something to say] that you afterwards—the viscount, you know?
Ernest. [Gloomily looking away.] Yes.
Pepito. How did it happen?
Ernest. I ran downstairs—half mad—I found them—we went upstairs again—locked the door. Two men—two witnesses—two swords—and afterwards—I hardly know what happened. Swords clashed—there was a cry—a thrust—blood spouted—an assassin stood—and a man lay stretched on the ground.
Pepito. The devil! Sharp work. Did you hear, mother?
Mercedes. More blood shed.
Pepito. Nebreda deserved it.
Ernest. [Approaching her.] Mercedes, for pity's sake—one word—Don Julian? How is he? If you could know what my anguish is—my sorrow—what do they say?
Mercedes. That the wound, since his removal, is mortal, and it would be worse for him if you went near the bed of suffering and death. Leave this house.
Ernest. I must see him.
Mercedes. Go, instantly.
Ernest. I will not.
Pepito. What insolence!
Ernest. It is befitting. [To Pepito.] Pardon me, madam [turning respectfully to Mercedes]; you see I am achieving the general opinion of me.
Mercedes. For pity's sake, Ernest
Ernest. Listen, Mercedes. When a man such as I am is abused, and for no reason on earth treated as a blackguard, and finds himself snared, with crime thrust upon him, 'tis indeed a perilous case,—for others rather than for himself. I, in this fierce struggle with miserable fate, have lost honour, friendship and love, and have now nothing more to lose but the shabby shreds of an insipid and dreary existence. I have come here solely to know if there is any hope—only for that—and then—but you cannot deny me so slight a consolation? [Pleading.] One word!
Mercedes. Very well. They say—that he is better.
Ernest. True? You are not deceiving me? You are sure—quite sure? Oh! you are merciful, you are kind. It is true, quite true! May God spare him! Not his death. Let him live and be happy once more; let him forgive me and embrace me once again! Only let me see him. [Falls into the arm-chair beside the table sobbing, and covers his face with his hands. Pause.]
Mercedes. If your father should hear—if he should come out. Courage, Ernest, be sensible. [Doña Mercedes and Pepito endeavour to screen Ernest.]
Pepito. These nervous creatures are terrible. They sob and kill in the same breath.
Ernest. If you see me crying, while sobs shake my throat in an hysterical convulsion, and I seem as weak as a child, or a woman, believe me, it is not for myself, but for him—for her—for their lost happiness, for this indelible blot upon their name,—for the affront I am the cause of, in return for all their love and kindness. It is not my fault, but my utter misfortune. That is why I weep. My God, if I could wipe out this wretched past with tears, I would gladly weep away my blood to the last drop.
Mercedes. Silence, I implore!
Pepito. There, we will discuss tears and sorrows another time.
Ernest. If everybody else is discussing them to-day, why should we too not speak of them? The whole town is astir and on tiptoe with excitement. It has swallowed up, devoured and blighted three reputations, three names, three persons, and floated them on the froth of laughter and a wave of degrading chatter down the straits of human misery, into the social abysm of shame, where for ever lie engulfed the conscience, and fame, and future of the unfortunates.
Mercedes. Not so loud, Ernest
Ernest. Why? since the others are not murmurs, but voices, that thunder through the air? The tragic event is known all over the town, and each one has his own way of telling it. Wonderful! everything is known except the truth. 'Tis fatality. [Doña Mercedes and Pepito exhibit keen interest in hearing the reports.] Some say that Don Julian discovered Teodora in my rooms, and that I attacked him in blind fury and killed him on the spot. Others—and these would seem to be my friends, since they raise me from the rank of vulgar assassin to the noble level of duellist—aver that we fought loyally like gentlemen. And there are others, again, who have the tale more accurately, and recount how Don Julian took my place in the arranged meeting with Nebreda—that I arrived late on the scene—either from design or fear, or because I was in the armsbut, no; it would burn my lips to give this version—the thought of it sets my brain on fire. Seek the basest, the vilest, that which most blackens—the filth of the mind, the mire of the soul, the dross of degraded consciences; cast it to the wind as it whistles along the streets upon bespattering tongues, and you will have the tale, and may see what reputation remains for an innocent woman and two honest men when the town takes to jabbering about them.
Mercedes. It is sad, I admit; but perhaps public opinion is not altogether to blame.
Pepito. Teodora did go to your rooms—she was there
Ernest. To prevent the duel with Nebreda.
Pepito. Then why did she hide herself?
Ernest. Because we feared her presence would be misconstrued.
Pepito. The explanation is easy and simple. The difficult thing, Ernest, is to get us to believe it, for there is another still more easy and simple.
Ernest. Which dishonours more, and that's the beauty of it.
Pepito. Well, at least, admit that Teodora was giddy, if not really culpable.
Ernest. Guilt is prudent and cautious. On the other hand, how imprudent is innocence!
Pepito. Look here, if your rule holds good for everybody, the worst of us is an angel or a saint.
Ernest. You are right. What does it matter? What is the weight or value of such calumny? The worst of it is that thought is degraded by mean contact with a mean idea. From force of dwelling upon a crime, the conscience becomes familiar with it. It shows itself terrible and repellent—but it shows itself—at night, in dark solitude! Yes—[aside] but what! why are they listening to me so strangely, almost in suspense? [Aloud] I am myself; my name is an honourable one. If I killed Nebreda solely because of a lie, what would I not do to myself if guilt threatened to give the truth to calumny?
Pepito. [Aside to Mercedes.] He denied it! Why, it is as clear as daylight.
Mercedes. [Aside to Pepito.] He's wandering.
Pepito. 'Tis only his confession he's making.
Mercedes. [Aloud.] That will do, Ernest. Go, now.
Ernest. Impossible, madam. I should go mad if I had to spend to-night away from this sick-room—out of my mind.
Mercedes. But if Severo came and found you?
Ernest. What do I care? He is a loyal gentleman. Better still, let him come. We fly from fear, and only the guilty are afraid. Nothing will make me run away, or acknowledge fear.
Pepito. [Listening.] Somebody is coming.
Mercedes. Is it he?
Pepito. [Going down the stage.] No, 'tis Teodora.
Ernest. Teodora! Teodora! I want to see her.
Mercedes. [Sternly.] Ernest!
Ernest. Yes, I must ask her to forgive me.
Mercedes. You don't remember
Ernest. I remember everything and understand. We two together! Ah, no. Enough. You need not fear. For her would I shed my blood, lay down my life, sacrifice my future, honour—all! But see her? never. 'Tis no longer possible. The mist of blood has risen between us. [Goes out on the left.]
SCENE V.
Doña Mercedes and Pepito.
Mercedes. Leave me alone with her. Go inside to your father. I want to see into her heart, and shall be able to probe its depths with my tongue.
Pepito. Then I will leave you together.
Mercedes. Good-bye.
Pepito. Good-bye. [Goes out on the right.]
Mercedes. Now to put my plan into work.
SCENE VI
Teodora and Doña Mercedes. Teodora enters timidly, and stands near Don Julian's door on the right, listening anxiously, and muffling her sobs with her handkerchief.
Mercedes. Teodora
Teodora. It is you. [Advances to her.]
Mercedes. Courage! what good does crying do?
Teodora. How is he? how is he? the truth!
Mercedes. Much better.
Teodora. Will he recover?
Mercedes. I think so.
Teodora. My God! My life for his.
Mercedes. [Draws her affectionately forward.] And then—I have faith in your good sense. I can measure your remorse by your tears and anxiety.
Teodora. Yes [Doña Mercedes sits down with a satisfied, air], I did wrong, I know, in going to see him [Doña Mercedes looks disappointed the confession is no worse], but last night you told me about the outrage and the duel. I was grateful to you for doing so, although I did not then suspect the harm you did me, nor could I now explain it to you. Oh, what a night! [Crosses her hands and glances upward.] I have cried and raved, thinking of Julian's plight, of the scandal, of the violent quarrel and the bloodshed. Everything passed before my eyes—and then—poor Ernest dying, perhaps, for my sake! But why do you look at me so strangely? there can be no harm in it, surely! Or are you unconvinced, and do you think as the rest do?
Mercedes. [drily.] I think your fear for that fellow's life altogether superfluous.
Teodora. Why? with so skilled an antagonist! You have seen it—Julian
Mercedes. Julian has been avenged. The man who killed him no longer lives, so that you have been wasting your fears and your tears. [With deliberate hardness.]
Teodora. [Eagerly.] It was Ernest
Mercedes. Yes, Ernest.
Teodora. He met the viscount?
Mercedes. Face to face.
Teodora. [Unable to restrain herself.] How noble and brave!
Mercedes. Teodora!
Teodora. What do you mean? Tell me.
Mercedes. [Sternly.] I can read your thought.
Teodora. My thought!
Mercedes. Yes.
Teodora. Which?
Mercedes. You know very well.
Teodora. Have I no right to be glad because Julian is avenged? Is that an impulse I could be expected to repress?
Mercedes. That was not your feeling.
Teodora. You know so much more about it than I do!
Mercedes. [Pointedly.] Believe me, admiration is not far from love.
Teodora. What do I admire?
Mercedes. This youth's courage.
Teodora. His nobility.
Mercedes. Quite so, but that's the beginning.
Teodora. What folly!
Mercedes. It is folly—but on your side.
Teodora. You persist! Ever this accursed idea!—while it is with immense, with infinite pity that I am filled.
Mercedes. For whom?
Teodora. For whom else but Julian?
Mercedes. Have you never learnt, Teodora, that in a woman's heart pity and forgetfulness may mean one and the same thing?
Teodora. I beseech you—Mercedes—silence!
Mercedes. I wish to let light in upon the state of your mind,—to turn upon it the lamp of truth, lit by my experience.
Teodora. I hear you, but while I listen, it seems no longer a sister, a friend, a mother that speaks to me, so hateful are your words. Your lips seem to speak at inspiration of the devil's prompting. Why should you strive to convince me that little by little I am ceasing to love my husband, and that more and more I am imbued with an impure tenderness, with a feeling that burns and stains? I who love Julian as dearly as ever, who would give the last drop of blood in my body for a single breath of life for him—for him, from whom I am now separated—[points to his room]—why, I should like to go in there this moment, if your husband did not bar my way, and press Julian once more in my arms. I would so inundate him with my tears, and so close him round with the passion of my love, that its warmth would melt his doubts, and his soul would respond to the fervour of mine. But it is not because I adore my husband that I am bound to abhor the faithful and generous friend who so nobly risked his life for me. And if I don't hate him, is that a reason to conclude that I love him? The world can think such things. I hear such strange stories, and such sad events have happened, and calumny has so embittered me, that I find myself wondering if public opinion can be true,—in doubt of myself. Can it be that I really am the victim of a hideous passion, unconsciously influenced by it? and in some sad and weak moment shall I yield to the senses, and be subjugated by this tyrannous fire?
Mercedes. You are speaking the truth?
Teodora. Can you doubt it?
Mercedes. You really do not love him?
Teodora. Mercedes, what words have I that will convince you? At another time, such a question would drive the blood of anger to my brow, and to-day, you see, I am discussing with you whether I am honest or not. Yes, am I really so? To the depth of the soul? No, for endurance of this humiliation proves me worthy of it. [Hides her face in her hands and flings herself down in the arm-chair.]
Mercedes. Do not cry so, Teodora. I believe in you. Enough. No more tears. Let me but add one more word, and there's an end to the matter. Ernest is not what you believe him to be. He is not worthy of your trust.
Teodora. He is good, Mercedes.
Mercedes. No.
Teodora. He is fond of Julian.
Mercedes. He would betray him.
Teodora. Again! My God!
Mercedes. I no longer accuse you of responding to his passion, but I only assert—I would warn you that he loves you.
Teodora. [Rising in anger.] Loves me!
Mercedes. It is known to everybody. In this very room, a moment ago, before Pepito and me—you understand?
Teodora. No, explain at once—what?
Mercedes. He openly confessed it. He made a violent declaration, swore that he was ready to sacrifice life, honour, soul and conscience for you. And when you came, he wanted to see you. He only yielded to the force of my entreaties and went away. I tremble lest he should meet Severo and their encounter lead to an explosion. And you—what have you to say now?
Teodora. [Who has listened to Mercedes intently, held in an indefinable gloomy terror.] Heavens above! Can it be true? and I who felt—who professed so sincere an affection for him!
Mercedes. There, you are on the point of crying again.
Teodora. The heart has no tears for the manifold deceptions of this miserable life. A lad so pure and finely natured,—and to see him now so debased and spotted! And you say that he actually uttered those words here—he!—Ernest. Oh, oh, Mercedes! send him away from this house.
Mercedes. Ah, that is what I wanted. Your energy consoles me. [With evidence of honest satisfaction.] Pardon me—now I fully believe you. [Embraces her.]
Teodora. And before? No? [The actress must strongly accentuate this line.]
Mercedes. Hush! He is coming back.
Teodora. [Impetuously.] I will not see him. Tell him so. Julian expects me. [Goes to the right.]
Mercedes. [Detaining her.] Impossible! You must know it. He will not heed my orders, and now that I understand so fully how you feel for him, I should be glad to have him suffer at your hands the contempt he has already endured at mine.
Teodora. Then leave me. [Enter Ernest.]
Ernest. Teodora!
Mercedes. [Aside to Teodora.] It is late, do your duty quickly. [Aloud to Ernest.] The command you heard a little while ago from me, you will receive again from Teodora's lips, and she is the mistress of this house.
Teodora. [In a low voice to Mercedes.] Don't go away.
Mercedes. [To Teodora.] Are you afraid?
Teodora. I afraid! I am afraid of nothing. [Makes a sign for her to go. Exit Doña Mercedes on the right.]
SCENE VII
Teodora and Ernest.
Ernest. The command was—that I should go away. [Pause. Both remain silent without looking at each other.] And you? Are you going to repeat it? [Teodora nods, but still does not look at him.] Have no fear, Teodora. I will respect and obey your order. [Submissively.] The others could not get me to obey them, little as they may like to hear it [harshly], but nothing you could say, even though you wound me—From you I will endure anything! [Sadly.]
Teodora. I wound you! No, Ernest, you cannot believe that [Still does not look at him, is half vexed and afraid.]
Ernest. I do not believe it. [Pause.]
Teodora. Adieu. I wish you all happiness.
Ernest. Adieu, Teodora. [Remains waiting for a moment to see if she will turn and offer him her hand. Then walks down the stage, turns back again, and approaches her. Teodora shows that she feels his movement, and is distressed, but continues to keep her face averted.] If with my death at this very instant I could blot out all the misery that lies to my account, not through any fault of mine, but through an implacable fate, I should not now be standing here alive. You may believe it on the word of an honourable man. No shadow of the past would remain,—neither sighs nor pain to remember, nor that sorrowful pallor of your face [Teodora starts and glances at him in terror], nor the grieved fear of those eyes, nor sobs that tear the throat, nor tears that line the cheek. [Teodora sobs.]
Teodora. [Aside, moving further away.] Mercedes was right, and I, blind and thoughtless that I was
Ernest. Bid me good-bye—once—for kindness's sake.
Teodora. Good-bye! Yes; and I forgive you all the injury you have done us.
Ernest. I, Teodora!
Teodora. Yes, you.
Ernest. What a look! What a tone!
Teodora. No more, Ernest, I beseech you.
Ernest. What have I done to deserve?
Teodora. It is all over between us. Regard me as one who no longer exists for you.
Ernest. Is this contempt?
Teodora. Go.
Ernest. Go? in this way?
Teodora. My husband is dying in there—and here I feel as if I too were dying. [Staggers back and clutches the arm-chair to keep from falling.]
Ernest. Teodora. [Rushes forward to support her.]
Teodora. [Angrily drawing herself away.] Don't touch me. [Pause.] Ah, I breathe again more freely. [Tries to walk, staggers again weakly, and a second time Ernest offers to assist her. She repulses him.]
Ernest. Why not, Teodora?
Teodora. Your touch would soil me.
Ernest. I soil you!
Teodora. Exactly.
Ernest. I! [Pause.] What does she mean, Almighty God! She also! Oh, it is not possible! Oh, death is preferable to this—It cannot be true—I am raving—Say it is not true, Teodora—only one word—for justice—one word of pardon, of pity, of consolation, madam. I am resigned to go away, never to see you again, although 'twere to break, and mutilate, and destroy my life. But it will, at least, be bearable if I may carry into solitude your forgiveness, your affection, your esteem—only your pity, then. So that I still may think you believe me loyal and upright—that I could not, that I have not degraded you, much less be capable of insulting you. I care nothing about the world, and despise its affronts. Its passions inspire me with the profoundest disdain. Whether its mood be harsh or cruel, however it may talk of me and of what has happened, it will never think so ill of me as I do of it. But you, the purest dream of man's imagining—you for whom I would gladly give,—not only my life, but my right to heaven, ay, a thousand times—eagerly, joyously,—You, to suspect me of treason, of hypocrisy! Oh, this, Teodora—I cannot bear! [Deeply moved, speaks despairingly.]
Teodora. [With increasing nervousness.] You have not understood me, Ernest. We must part.
Ernest. But not like this!
Teodora. Quickly, for mercy's sake. Julian suffers. [Points to the sick-room.]
Ernest. I know it.
Teodora. Then we should not forget it.
Ernest. No; but I also suffer.
Teodora. You, Ernest! why?
Ernest. Through your contempt.
Teodora. I feel none.
Ernest. You have expressed it.
Teodora. It was a lie.
Ernest. No; not entirely. So that our sufferings are not equal. In this implacable strife he suffers as those on earth suffer, I as those in hell.
Teodora. Spare me, Ernest—my head is on fire.
Ernest. And my heart aches.
Teodora. That will do, Ernest. I entreat you to pity me.
Ernest. That was all I asked of you.
Teodora. Mercy.
Ernest. Yes, mercy. But why should you claim it? What is it you fear? of what are you thinking? [Approaches her.]
Teodora. Forgive me if I have offended you.
Ernest. Offended me, no! The truth, that is what I crave,—and I implore it on my knees. See, Teodora, my eyes are wet. [Bends his knee before her and takes her hand. Don Julian's door opens, and Don Severo stands staring at them.]
D. Severo. [Aside.] Miserable pair!
Teodora. Don Severo!
SCENE VIII
Teodora, Ernest, and Don Severo. Ernest stands apart on the right. Don Severo places himself between him and Teodora.
D. Severo. [In a low voice of concentrated anger, so that Don Julian may not hear.] I can find no word or epithet adequate to the passion of contempt I would express, so I must be content to call you a blackguard. Leave this house at once.
Ernest. [Also in a low voice.] My respect for Teodora, for this house, and for the sick man lying in yonder room, sir, compels me to put my retort—in silence.
D. Severo. [Ironically, under the impression that Ernest is going.] It's the best thing you can do—obey and hold your tongue.
Ernest. You have not understood me. I do not intend to obey.
Severo. You remain?
Ernest. Until Teodora commands me to go. I was on the point of going away for ever a moment ago, but the Almighty or the devil deterred me. Now you come and order me out, and as if your insult were an infernal message, it roots my heels to the floor in revolt.
Severo. We'll see that. There are servants to kick you out, and sticks if necessary.
Ernest. Try it. [Approaches Don Severo with a threatening air. Teodora rushes between them.]
Teodora. Ernest! [Turns commandingly to Don Severo.] You seem to forget that this is my house as long as my husband lives and is its owner. Only one of us two has the right to command here. [Softens to Ernest.] Not for him but for my sake, because I am unhappy
Ernest. [Unable to contain his joy at hearing himself defended by Teodora.] You wish it, Teodora?
Teodora. I beg it. [Ernest bows and turns away.]
Severo. Your audacity confounds and shocks me as much—no, far more, than his. [Strides menacingly towards her. Ernest turns swiftly round, then makes a strong effort to control himself and moves away again.] You dare to raise your head, wretched woman, and before me too! Shame on you! [Ernest repeats previous movements and gestures, but this time more accentuated.] You, so fearful and cowardly, where have you found courage to display this energy in his defence? How eloquent is passion! [Ernest stands, looking back.] But you forget that, before pitching him out, I had the authority to forbid the door of this house to you, who have stained its threshold with Julian's blood. Why have you returned? [Seizes her brutally and drags her roughly toward himself.]
Ernest. No, I can't stand this—I cannot! [He thrusts himself between Severo and Teodora.] Off, you scoundrel.
Severo. Again!
Ernest. Again.
Severo. You have dared to return?
Ernest. You insolently affront Teodora. I still live. What do you expect me to do, if not return and chastise you, and brand you as a coward?
Severo. Me?
Ernest. Precisely.
Teodora. No!
Ernest. He has brought it on himself. I have seen him lift his hand in anger to you—you, you! So now [Seizes Don Severo violently.]
Severo. You impudent puppy!
Ernest. True, but I'll not release you. You loved and respected your mother, I presume. For that reason you must respect Teodora, and humbly bow before a sorrow so immense as hers. This woman, sir, is purer, more honest than the mother of such a man as you.
Severo. This to me?
Ernest. Yes, and I have not yet done.
Severo. Your life
Ernest. Oh, my life, as much as you like—but afterwards. [Teodora endeavours to part them, but he pushes her gently away, without releasing Don Severo.] You believe in a God—in a Maker—in hope. Well, then, as you bend your knee before the altar of that God above, so will I compel you to kneel to Teodora,—and that instantly, sir. Down—in the dust.
Teodora. For mercy's sake
Ernest. To the ground! [Forces Don Severo to kneel.]
Teodora. Enough, Ernest.
Severo. A thousand thunders.
Ernest. At her feet!
Severo. You!
Ernest. Yes, I.
Severo. For her?
Ernest. For her.
Teodora. That will do. Hush! [She points in terror to Don Julian's door. Ernest releases Don Severo, who rises and moves backward. Teodora retreats and forms with Ernest a group in the background.]
SCENE IX
Teodora, Ernest, Don Severo. Afterwards Don Julian and Doña Mercedes.
D. Julian. [Inside.] Let me go.
Mercedes. [Inside.] No. You must not.
D. Julian. It is they. Don't you hear them?
Teodora. [To Ernest.] Go.
Severo. [To Ernest.] Avenged!
Ernest. I don't deny it. [Enter Don Julian, pale and dying, leaning on Doña Mercedes' arm. Don Severo stations himself on the right, Ernest and Teodora remain in the background.]
D. Julian. Together! Where are they going? Who detains them here? Away with you, traitors. [Wants to rush at them, but strength fails him, and he staggers back.]
Severo. [Hurrying to his assistance.] No, no.
D. Julian. Severo, they deceived me—they lied to me—the miserable pair! [While he speaks Don Severo and Doña Mercedes lead him to the arm-chair.] There, look at them—both—she and Ernest! Why are they together?
Teodora and Ernest. [Separating.] No.
D. Julian. Why don't they come to me? Teodora!
Teodora. [Stretches out her arms but does not advance.] Julian!
D. Julian. Here in my arms. [Teodora runs forward and flings herself into Don Julian's arms, who clasps her feverishly. Pause.] You see—you see—[to Don Severo] I know well enough they are deceiving me. I hold her thus in my arms. I crush and subdue her—I might kill her—so! and 'tis only what she deserves. But I look at her—I look at her—and then I cannot!
Teodora. Julian
D. Julian. [Pointing to Ernest.] And that fellow?
Ernest. Sir!
D. Julian. I loved him! Silence, and come hither. [Ernest approaches.] You see, I am still her owner. [He holds Teodora more tightly clasped.]
Teodora. Yes,—I am yours.
D. Julian. Drop pretence. Don't lie.
Mercedes. [Striving to soothe him.] For pity's sake
D. Severo. Julian!
D. Julian. [To both.] Peace. [To Teodora.] I see through you. I know well that you love him. [Teodora and Ernest try to protest, but he will not let them.] All Madrid knows it too—all Madrid.
Ernest. No, father.
Teodora. No.
D. Julian. They deny it—they deny it! Why, it is as clear as noonday. Why, I feel it in every fibre,—by the beat of fevered pulse, by the consuming flame of inward illumination!
Ernest. It is the fever of your blood and the delirium of bodily weakness that feed the delusion. Listen to me, sir
D. Julian. To hear how well you can lie?
Ernest. [Pointing to Teodora.] She is innocent.
D. Julian. But I do not believe you.
Ernest. Sir, by my father's memory
D. Julian. Don't insult his name and memory.
Ernest. By my mother's last kiss
D. Julian. That kiss has long since been wiped from your brow.
Ernest. What then do you want, father? I will swear by anything you wish. Oh, my father!
D. Julian. No oaths, or protests, or deceitful words.
Ernest. Then what? Only tell me.
Teodora. Yes, what, Julian?
D. Julian. Deeds.
Ernest. What does he wish, Teodora? What does he ask of us?
Teodora. I don't know. Oh, what are we to do, Ernest?
D. Julian. [Watching them in feverish distrust.] Ah, you would even deceive me to my face! You are plotting together, wretched traitors! I see it.
Ernest. It is fever that misleads you—not the testimony of your eyes.
D. Julian. Fever, yes. And since fever is fire, it has burnt away the bandage with which before you two had blinded me, and at last I see you for what you are. And now!—but why these glances at one another? Why, traitors? Why do your eyes gleam so? Tell me, Ernest. There are no tears in them to make them shine. Come nearer—nearer to me. [Draws Ernest to him, bends his head, and then succeeds in thrusting him upon his knees. Thus Teodora is on one side of Don Julian and Ernest at his feet. Don Julian passes his hand across the young man's eyes.] You see—no tears—they are quite dry.
Ernest. Forgive me, forgive me!
D. Julian. You ask my forgiveness? Then you acknowledge your sin?
Ernest. No.
D. Julian. Yes.
Ernest. I say it is not so.
D. Julian. Then here before me, look at her.
D. Severo. Julian!
Mercedes. Sir!
D. Julian. [To Teodora and Ernest.] Perhaps you are afraid? So it is not like a brother that you cherish her? If so, prove it. Let me see what sort of light shines in your eyes as they meet—whether, to my close inspection, the rays dart passion's flame, or mild affection. Come here, Teodora. Both—so—still nearer. [Drags Teodora until she stumbles, so that both faces are compelled towards each other.]
Teodora. [Frees herself with a violent effort.] Oh, no.
Ernest. [Also strives to free himself, but is held in Don Julian's grasp.] I cannot.
D. Julian. You love one another—you can't deny it, for I've seen it. [To Ernest.] Your life!
Ernest. Yes.
D. Julian. Your blood!
Ernest. All.
D. Julian. [Forcing him to his knees.] Stay still.
Teodora. Julian!
D. Julian. Ah, you defend him, you defend him.
Teodora. Not for his sake.
D. Severo. In God's name
D. Julian. [To Severo.] Silence. [Still holds Ernest down.] Bad friend, bad son!
Ernest. My father.
D. Julian. Disloyal! Traitor!
Ernest. No, father.
D. Julian. Here is my shameful seal upon your cheek—To-day with my hand—soon with steel—so! [With a supreme effort strikes Ernest. Ernest jumps up with a terrible cry, and turns away, covering his face.]
Ernest. Oh!
D. Severo. [Stretches out his hand to Ernest.] Justice.
Teodora. My God! [Hides her face in both hands, and drops on a chair.]
Mercedes. [Turning to Ernest to exculpate Don Julian.] It was only delirium.
[These four exclamations very hurried. A moment of stupor. Don Julian stands still staring at Ernest, and Doña Mercedes and Don Severo endeavour to calm him.]
D. Julian. It was not delirium, it was chastisement, Heaven be praised. What did you think, ungrateful boy?
Mercedes. That will do.
D. Severo. Come, Julian.
D. Julian. Yes, I am going. [Is led away with difficulty between Don Severo and Doña Mercedes, and stops to look back at Teodora and Ernest.]
Mercedes. Quickly, Severo.
D. Julian. Look at them, the traitors! It was only justice—was it not? Say so—at least I believe it.
D. Severo. For God's sake, Julian—well, at any rate, for mine
D. Julian. Yes, for yours, Severo, only for yours. You alone have loved me truly. [Embraces him.]
D. Severo. Yes, yes, it is so.
D. Julian. [Stops at the door and looks back again.] She is crying for him—and does not follow me. Not even a look. She does not see that I am dying—yes, dying.
D. Severo. Julian, Julian!
D. Julian. [On the threshold.] Wait, wait. Dishonour for dishonour. Good-bye, Ernest. [Exeunt Don Julian, Don Severo, and Mercedes.]
SCENE X
Teodora and Ernest. Ernest drops into a chair near the table. Teodora remains standing on the right. Pause.
Ernest. [Aside.] What is the use of loyalty?
Teodora. And what is the use of innocence?
Ernest. Conscience grows dark.
Teodora. Pity, my God! Pity!
Ernest. Pitiless destiny.
Teodora. Oh, most miserable fate!
Ernest. Poor child!
Teodora. Poor Ernest! [Both remain apart until now.]
D. Severo. [In anguish from within.] My brother.
Mercedes. Help!
Pepito. Quickly. [Ernest and Teodora move together.]
Teodora. They are crying.
Ernest. He is dying.
Teodora. Come at once.
Ernest. Where?
Teodora. To him.
Ernest. We cannot. [Detains her.]
Teodora. Why not? I want him to live.
Ernest. And I!—but I cannot. [Points to Don Julian's room.]
Teodora. Then I will. [Rushes to the door.]
LAST SCENE
Teodora, Ernest, Don Severo and Pepito. Ernest stands on the right in the middle of the stage, Teodora near the door of Don Julian's room. Pepito and, behind him, Don Severo, bar the way.
Pepito. Where are you going?
Teodora. [In desperation.] I must see him.
Pepito. It is impossible.
D. Severo. She cannot pass. This woman must not remain in my house—turn her out at once. [To Pepito.] No compassion—this very moment
Ernest. What!
Teodora. My mind is wandering.
D. Severo. Though your mother should stand in front of that woman, Pepito, you have my orders. Obey them. Never mind her prayers or supplications. If she should cry—then let her cry. [With concentrated fury.] Away with her, away—else I might kill her.
Teodora. Julian orders
D. Severo. Yes, Julian.
Ernest. Her husband! It cannot be.
Teodora. I must see him.
D. Severo. Very well. Look at him, once more—and then—depart.
Pepito. [Interfering.] Father
D. Severo. [Pushing him away.] Stop, sir.
Teodora. It can't be true.
Pepito. This is too horrible.
Teodora. It is a lie.
D. Severo. Come, Teodora—come and see. [Seizes her arm and leads her to the door.]
Teodora. Oh! My husband! Julian—dead. [Staggers shudderingly back, and falls half senseless.]
Ernest. [Covering his face.] My father! [Pause. Don Severo watclus them rancorously.]
D. Severo. [To his son.] Turn her out.
Ernest. [Placing himself before Teodora.] What cruelty!
Pepito. [Doubting.] Sir
Severo. [To Pepito.] Such are my orders. Do you doubt my word?
Ernest. Pity.
D. Severo. [Pointing to the death-chamber.] Yes, such pity as she showed him.
Ernest. Fire races through my veins. I will leave Spain, sir.
D. Severo. It makes no difference.
Ernest. She will die.
D. Severo. Life is short.
Ernest. For the last time
D. Severo. No more. [To his son.] Ring.
Ernest. But I tell you she is innocent. I swear it.
Pepito. [Interceding.] Father
D. Severo. [With a contemptuous gesture.] That fellow lies.
Ernest. You impel me with the current. Then I will not struggle against it. I go with it. I cannot yet know what may be her opinion [pointing to Teodora] of others, and of your outrages. Her lips are silent, mute her thoughts. But what I think of it all—yes, I will tell you.
D. Severo. It is useless. It won't prevent me from [Approaches Teodora.]
Pepito. [Restraining him.] Father
Ernest. Stay. [Pause.] Let nobody touch this woman. She is mine. The world has so desired it, and its decision I accept. It has driven her to my arms. Come, Teodora. [He raises her, and sustains her.] You cast her forth from here. We obey you.
D. Severo. At last, you blackguard!
Ernest. Yes; now you are right. I will confess now. Do you want passion? Then passion and delirium. Do you want love? Then love—boundless love. Do you want more? Then more and more. Nothing daunts me. Yours the invention, I give it shelter. So you may tell the tale. It echoes through all this heroic town. But should any one ask you who was the infamous intermediary in this infamy, you will reply 'ourselves, without being aware of it, and with us the stupid chatter of busybodies.' Come, Teodora; my mother's spirit kisses your pure brow. Adieu, all. She belongs to me, and let heaven choose its day to judge between you and me. [Gathers Teodora into his embrace, with a glance of defiance around.]
Curtain
Finis