The same scene.
Isabel, Carmen, Laura, and Luisa surround Gonzalo.
Isabel. Protests are useless, as you cannot go out. Do help me convince him.
Laura. Positively, you must not leave the house.
Carmen. It is folly to think of it.
Gonzalo. But I am perfectly well. The carriage is closed; besides, I am wrapped up majestically.
Isabel. Why should you go out?
Gonzalo. I must stop at the office.
Isabel. Why? Ramón says it is wholly unnecessary.
Carmen. Ramón will keep you fully informed. Isn't he coming to-day? He comes every day.
Gonzalo. Yes, but it is an imposition. He has more than he can attend to already.
Laura. Come, come, don't be disagreeable. You are worse than a spoiled child. I believe he is not himself yet; he looks very badly.
Isabel. Doesn't he? He is weak; he cannot eat.
Laura. And yet you insist upon going out? Take off that coat at once, hand me your hat, and have done with it! What you need is peace and quiet at home in the house. If you give us any more trouble, we shall put you to bed by main force.
Gonzalo. Very well. I surrender.
Laura. The weather to-day is terrible. I ventured out to visit my poor, when, suddenly, a gust came up, and I was in danger of being wafted away.
Isabel. The doctor says that he is in no condition to go out.
Laura. Pneumonia lurks on the street-corners. It is making a specialty this season of prominent people.
Gonzalo. If the best people are all dying… But are you sure that it is the modish disease?
Laura. I advise you not to take it too lightly. Is he really unable to eat?
Isabel. He can swallow nothing—as yet he has strength to resist.
Laura. It seems incredible. Here, take some nourishment at once. What would you prefer?
Gonzalo. But my dear Laura
Laura. We must feed him forcibly. [She rings and a Servant enters] Choose what you wish.
Isabel. No, the doctor has prescribed these pills first. He insists that he cannot swallow them either.
Laura. What is that? Give me those pills.
Gonzalo. But my dear Laura
Laura. Open your mouth. How many does he take?
Isabel. Two.
Laura. Better make it three for good measure. Come, open your mouth. One, two
Gonzalo. I am choking…
Laura. Water! Water!
Luisa. Run quick! A glass of water! He is choking!
Gonzalo. Gracious!… Don't be alarmed; I am better now…
Luisa. Wasn't it awful? I was frightened to death.
Laura. Now the other one.
Gonzalo. No, one is sufficient. Thank you so much.
Laura. You cannot accuse us of neglecting you, whatever happens.
Gonzalo. I appreciate it.
Laura. Remember that you do not deserve such attention. I wish you could have seen us on the first day of the attack!
Luisa. We could not have cried more if you had really been dead.
Laura. And I do not believe we should have felt worse.
Gonzalo. You are extremely considerate.
Laura. I indulged myself in a vow, which I am ashamed to tell, because I am sure you would laugh at me.
Luisa. I made a vow, too.
Isabel. Did you, Luisita? What was your vow?
Luisa. Not to go to the theatre for the rest of the month.
Carmen. But she never said one word to us about it. Her father could not sleep last night because she refused an invitation to go to the opera.
Laura. My vow was somewhat more ambitious. It was to make peace with my sister-in-law, Vicenta, although it is six years since we have spoken to each other. God knows it is the greatest sacrifice I could think of, because the only result of our making up will be that we shall be fighting harder than ever within two or three days.
Gonzalo. But you must not do that upon my account. Your poor sister-in-law did not make any vow.
Laura. Let her talk herself to death, if she wants to; she is a shrew. My poor brother died of her by lingering degrees.
Carmen. [To Isabel] Are you more reassured now?
Isabel. Yes, the doctor feels that the attack was not serious.
Laura. You should take him to a temperate climate to recuperate, such as Malaga or Nice. If you decide upon Nice, I am planning to accompany you. I have never visited Nice, and the gay life of the Casino attracts me. Then there is roulette at Monte Carlo, which I find alluring.
Isabel. But, Laura, you are not serious! You don't really mean it?
Laura. I am utterly serious. I have every intention of trying my luck.
Carmen. [To Isabel] Have you talked with Ramón?
Isabel. No. Why do you ask?
Carmen. He has something to tell you.
Isabel. About…
Carmen. Yes, they are leaving for Paris.
Isabel. Do you believe it is true?
Carmen. It was to be expected after the trouble. You should be greatly relieved. It is the best possible solution. That woman is dangerous.
Isabel. I am not satisfied as yet… I never saw Gonzalo so preoccupied; he was infatuated in sober earnest.
Carmen. I am sceptical myself.
Laura. [To Gonzalo] The story has become common property. You were head over heels in love, like a schoolboy. What with strolls through the Moncloa and out to the Casa de Campo, to say nothing of a fortune squandered in presents… Why, my friends have done nothing but meet you in the shops all winter, jewellers' shops, florists' and confectioners' quite indifferently. Apparently her tastes were expensive. To cap the climax, somebody surprised you buying a tambourine with red tassels on it, and pictures of bull-fighters painted all over it.
Gonzalo. How people do love to gossip! There is nothing unusual in my making purchases of that nature. Correspondents abroad are continually sending me commissions, or I have friends to oblige who live in foreign countries. Generally, they wish something distinctively Spanish, perhaps for a gift, or else as a memento.
Laura. That might explain the tambourine, or even justify a pair of banderillas. But who orders jewels and flowers from Madrid?
Gonzalo. We entertain constantly. The daughter of a business friend is married to-day, to-morrow the wife of another arrives, and expects me to pay her attention.
Laura. In that case, my dear, your friends have been marrying this season en masse, and you have returned every species of favor. A few more winters like this, and you will be ruined irreparably.
Gonzalo. What is this talk? Seriously, I am interested to hear. You meet all sorts of people; you pick up a great deal of gossip.
Laura. For once all the different versions agree. The debacle was tremendous.
Gonzalo. Idle chatter; preposterous. Anything else?
Laura. It seems that the husband, whom you had placed with the company, presumed upon your influence to abuse his subordinates. One of them, tired of his insolence, forgot himself one day, and so the story came out, to the huge delight of the bystanders. At first a duel seemed inevitable. You flew into the appropriate passion, she no doubt did the same, but the husband remained unmoved, as the best he could do was to resign his position, and he would not have done that had it not been for the repeated, urgent insistence of the stockholders, reinforced by your good friend Ramón. Are there any corrections which you desire to make? Or is the story complete as it stands?
Gonzalo. For once it does not depart very widely from the truth.
Laura. But your poor wife…
Gonzalo. Suspects nothing.
Laura. Or you prefer to believe that she does not, in which case one ground of remorse is eliminated. How like a man! The world is cruel. I have never ceased to bless the hour when I declined to marry.
Gonzalo. Was it only a question of an hour?
Carmen. Come over and sit by us, Luisita. The poor child wanders about the room like a lost soul…
Luisa. Your conversation was not proper for me to hear, so I moved over and joined the others, and their conversation was not proper either. How old must a girl be before it is proper for her to listen to what people say?
Laura. When it ceases to interest her, because it is no longer possible to tell her anything new.
Ramón enters.
Ramón. I observe that you are taking good care of the patient.
Gonzalo. Care? It is sequestration. They forbid me to go out, although I should be at the office.
Ramón. Not as yet. I brought you some letters… Pardon, Laura, I did not see you when I came in. Have you received the announcement of the new loan? I sent it immediately, at your request.
Laura. Thank you so much; I was curious to look it over.
Ramón. I had no idea that you would subscribe. [To Isabel] What does the doctor say?
Isabel. He may sit up, but he must not leave the house in this weather.
Ramón. Clearly not.
Carmen. Now that Ramón is here, we may say good-by with a clear conscience; you have company.
Gonzalo. No, remain with Isabel. We shall retire to the study.
Carmen. Isabel is coming with us.
Gonzalo. She is?
Isabel. I must see María Antonia; I am becoming anxious. Yesterday, she sent word that she was ill, and neither she nor Pepe have been heard from to-day. Since Ramón is with you__
Gonzalo. Oh, yes! Go if you like. However, nothing can be the matter, or we should have heard before this.
Laura. We withdraw, as you see, in a solid phalanx. I predict a speedy recovery.
Gonzalo. Yes, instantaneous. Evidently my convalescence is not to proceed by half measures.
Laura. I hope not, only beware of a second attack. It might prove dangerous.
Carmen. Good morning, Gonzalo.
Gonzalo. Adios, Carmen; adios, Luisita.
Isabel. Remember, you must not talk too much about business nor anything that is serious. Whatever you do, do not allow him to smoke. I shall return in a moment.
Isabel, Carmen, Laura and Luisita go out.
Ramón. Do you feel better now?
Gonzalo. I am sick, tired, bored to death. What shall I say? I am nervous.
Ramón. After the collapse. Everybody knows how that girl has enjoyed herself at your expense, putting you off with promises in exchange for substantial realities. A fitting end to Don Juan, who lacked the grace to retire in time! Fortunately, her departure in company with her obliging husband will not long be delayed.
Gonzalo. Very well. You have forced his resignation, you have left nothing undone to magnify the incident to the utmost. I tender my resignation. I shall not concern myself further with the company nor its affairs, under any circumstances whatsoever.
Ramón. So you say.
Gonzalo. Do you expect me to submit to being made publicly ridiculous by an insignificant whippersnapper of a clerk, while you stand by and laugh, and have the bad taste to applaud him?
Ramón. If your young protégé had had the sense to mind his own business, instead of meddling among his betters with his impertinence
Gonzalo. Impertinence? He merely insisted that they should do their duty. He is accustomed to the discipline of a Parisian office, where the employees are trained to obey and to respect their superiors. Here, of course, with our sidewalk democracy, one man is as good as another—we are all gentlemen, hidalgos who work as a favor when some one pats us on the back, or bribes us by a show of familiarity between superior and inferior. That is our conception of business.
Ramón. You say that because it suits your convenience. Nobody is more affable than you are, nor treats people with greater consideration in the true Spanish fashion, nor are you less respected for it. That young cub fancied he had been ordained to initiate us in the ridiculous routine of the French bureaucracy, where a subordinate no sooner finds himself seated behind a desk or at an office-window, than he imagines that he belongs to a special aristocracy, which is superior to the rest of mankind.
Gonzalo. If anybody was dissatisfied, why didn't they come to me? This is a conspiracy; somebody is behind it.
Ramón. I suppose I am? Is that it?
Gonzalo. And you are not the only one. You have been influenced by your wife.
Ramón. By Carmen? What do you mean?
Gonzalo. No, not precisely by her either—by Isabel. They are always together; they could not well be more intimate.
Ramón. You talk like a fool. There never was any conspiracy. Isabel did not influence my wife, although, of course, she knew all about it, nor did my wife influence me. Why should we wish to make you the laughing-stock of the office, not to say of all Madrid?
Gonzalo. You have been admirably successful, however. And you have transformed my house into a dumb hell, which is the worst kind of hell.
Ramón. Hell?
Gonzalo. Yes, and you know it. Isabel never opens her mouth, but her air of martyred resignation is a perpetual accusation, which I do not intend to tolerate. My nerves are on edge; I am determined to have done with it. I prefer to have her talk; let her get angry if she wants to. Such exaggerated resignation is too much like indifference or contempt—it is downright selfishness. Whatever it is, it is a poor indication of love.
Ramón. Either you misjudge Isabel, or you misjudge yourself, when you imagine that she could have accomplished by protest what she failed to accomplish by resignation. When love absents itself and grows cold, how detain it in its flight? By threats, perhaps, by force? By murder and sudden death? When the bird leaves the cage, how recall him as he flies? Either you must shoot him, resolved that he will be yours or belong to nobody, in which case you will surely recover him, but you will recover him dead, or otherwise, if you prefer him as he was, you have no recourse but to wait—to wait until the cage shall seem sweeter in his eyes than the liberty which he has enjoyed.
Gonzalo. I did not know that you were a poet. It is a new side to your genius, unsuspected hitherto.
Ramón. We never learn to know each other fully. I am not a poet, but I understand Isabel's heart better than you do. There was a time when I felt my Carmen's love grow cold, as Isabel does yours. Her spirit was dreamy, ambitious, while our life was prosaic indeed. I am a man so blind to idealities that it seems to me a crime not only to dream, but to sleep, unless the provision for the morrow is assured. My one thought was to work—for the sake of my wife and my children, naturally; but work, which bound me to them most closely, was, as it appeared, that which pushed them farthest away. So I observed at first a certain wistfulness, an impatience in Carmen, then coldness and indifference, then… then… how can I tell? If I had not been so sure of her honor, I might even have believed that her heart was no longer mine. I sought to impose myself, my complaints became violent and loud; I turned to threats, but the most that I could achieve was submission, respect, the outward show of love—love still absented itself and grew cold. So then, I waited; I waited, working on as before, with the same purpose—my wife, my children, and with the same love. I was hers, always hers! Then, one day, as I sat over my books and accounts, I felt two arms steal about my neck, which hugged me tight, and another face pressed close to mine, looming up over the accounts, and two tears fell upon the page and blotted the figures out, and a voice said to me, and a soul quivered in that voice: "Ramón, how good you are! And how I love you!" It was love which had returned again, love at last had understood—who knows after how many wanderings? For the poetry of our lives to-day, which are barren of swords and lances and princesses and troubadours and Moors, consists in simple duty done and the tasks of every day, in prosaic labor, to which poetry and glory are alike denied—few men, indeed, may aspire to these, or rather we all may, because glory, to men who are engaged in noble deeds, is love which comes from everywhere, from afar off, but to those of us who toil in humble spheres, to us… to us… love is our glory, the glory of the poor, of the outcast. It is a glory which lies very near at hand, and for that reason it strikes so quickly to the heart.
Gonzalo. But did you ever doubt that that glory would be yours, that you were assured of Carmen's love and the children's?
Ramón. I feared for them; but I never doubted for myself. So I waited—as Isabel is waiting now. That is why I told you that you knew nothing of her heart, as you know nothing of mine.
Gonzalo. You never spoke like this to me before. How should I know? You are right; we never learn to know each other fully, or if we do, it is too late.
A Servant enters.
Servant. Pardon, sir. [Offering a card] A gentleman to see you. If you cannot receive him, he will wait, or he will come back when you are ready, sir. He must see you.
Gonzalo. [Offering the card to Ramón] "Adolphe Barona." I am not at home.
Servant. He knows that you are at home, sir.
Gonzalo. I cannot see him.
Ramón. It is only a question of time, if he is determined. Better face the situation and learn what he wants—an explanation, no doubt, sufficiently annoying and unpleasant. Shall I receive him?
Gonzalo. No, but you might remain. If you do, the interview will be less embarrassing and more brief. Show him in.
The Servant retires. Adolphe enters immediately.
Adolphe. Gentlemen!… You have quite recovered, I trust?
Gonzalo. Thank you, in part.
Adolphe. Don Ramón…
Ramón. Sir!
Adolphe. Your wife is well, I trust?
Gonzalo. Thank you, very.
Adolphe. [To Ramón] I trust your wife is well?
Ramón. Perfectly.
Adolphe. How is your charming daughter?
Ramón. Perfectly…
Adolphe. [To Gonzalo] No doubt you expected a call. I hesitated whether to write or to come myself, but Josefina advised me to call. Writing is more delicate. When one goes too far, it is easy to take it back if it is only talk, but when it is written down, if you let yourself go, there you are. Don't you think so? You know I have been insulted; you know that I must kill some one.
Ramón. Heavens, man! Kill some one?
Adolphe. Yes, kill some one, and I should have done it before, had I not cooled off and thought it over. I am not the only one who has been insulted. My wife has been insulted, France has been insulted.
Ramón. Gracious! The question is assuming international proportions.
Adolphe. Yes, somebody said, speaking of me, that I was a typical French husband.
Ramón. Of course, you ignored it. Literature is probably responsible for the prevalent opinion of French husbands.
Adolphe. Ah! Suppose I had not cooled off and thought it over?
Gonzalo. Don't you exaggerate? I see nothing in all this except ignorance of our character and our customs upon your part, an excessive formalism, if you will—severity; as for those who insulted you, they merely displayed ill-breeding and ill-temper. Now, when you attempt to magnify the incident
Adolphe. I understand it rather thoroughly; I have talked it over with my wife. If we had been willing to submit to humiliation, of course this never would have happened. We should have had no difficulty whatever.
Ramón. What do you mean?
Adolphe. An influential person has been paying court to my wife. I do not know who he is, I do not care to know…
Ramón. [To Gonzalo] There you are
Adolphe. I cannot continue with dignity in my present position. Nobody comes forward to indemnify me for my loss of time, for the expenses of removing to Madrid, where I had understood that my position was to be permanent. As my wife says, I am ruined. I expected stable employment, now we are obliged—how do you put it?
Ramón. To saddle yourselves.
Adolphe. Exactly. It is a mistake. We came prepared, but we have been defrauded. We find ourselves saddled with an establishment.
Gonzalo. If you have suffered loss, or been inconvenienced in any way
Ramón. I offered him the necessary relief, but he said that his dignity had been offended. Was that what you said?
Adolphe. Yes, but I was excited at the time. I have cooled off and thought it over. Suppose I had not had any dignity, I might have retained my position, I might have been promoted and have made a great deal of money, like other men without brains, who have never done anything, and nobody can explain it either, except their wives; yet they are the ones who gossip and criticise everybody.
Ramón. What is that? What are you talking about?
Adolphe. I know what I am talking about, because I have heard other people talking, although you may not
Ramón. I certainly have not, but you are in a position to inform me. You are not such a coward as to be afraid to mention names.
Adolphe. I am not such a coward as to be intimidated into mentioning them.
Ramón. Eh?
Gonzalo. [To Adolphe] As this is my house, you will kindly address your remarks to me; I am the person you desired to see.
Ramón. No, leave him to me
Gonzalo. Enough of this! Obviously, your chief concern is—what shall I say?—the practical question; at least you convey that impression. As for these expenses you speak of, this indemnization to which you consider yourself entitled, and which I ought to provide—I take it that I am a person who is thoroughly competent to estimate the expenses of your establishment.
Adolphe. You are, as I take it; Josefina always consulted you and your wife. I never know the cost of anything. However, we shall be obliged—how shall I say it?—to hold an auction, to ask for the highest bidder. So I am giving you notice before posting the bills. If you are interested, we are making special prices to our friends.
Ramón. Thank you very much.
Gonzalo. Good! You shall be reimbursed in full in the morning; we understand each other. I am anxious that you should carry away only pleasant memories of Madrid.
Adolphe. Yes, indeed! Poor Josefina is desolated at the thought of quitting Madrid. Should she ever meet disaster, she says we must look for her here. So if to-morrow is convenient
Gonzalo. To-morrow then. Without fail.
Adolphe. I trust that we may often have the pleasure
Gonzalo. Assuredly.
Adolphe. I trust that you appreciate my delicacy in this affair.
Gonzalo. It has been exquisite, my dear Alphonse—pardon, Adolphe.
Adolphe. Yes, Adolphe, if you please. Alphonse is a term applied to certain subjects in Paris…
Gonzalo. Acquit me of any intention.
Adolphe. I hope so. Adios, Don Ramón.
Ramón. Señor!
Adolphe. Don't call me that. Why so formal? I have cooled off and thought it over.
Ramón. I thought it over before I was cold. Does that satisfy you?
Adolphe. Entirely. I retire, as my wife says, I take my leave. Or, as you put it, I swallow it whole. Good luck, gentlemen. [Goes out.
Ramón. If that boy were not his father's son
Gonzalo. What makes you think so?
Ramón. He would never leave this house sound and whole. Who says that he is a fool? Precious angel! Although this was not his idea; it shows the hand of that shameless hussy, his wife.
Gonzalo. She certainly has an appealing touch.
Ramón. Appealing? Very. But there was one thing that he said
Gonzalo. I did not hear him say anything.
Ramón. There was one thing that he said which you did not let him finish. You seemed to anticipate his demands, as if you were afraid that he might talk too much if you did not, but as soon as he was satisfied… I am not without means, however, of verifying his insinuations.
Gonzalo. I heard nothing which could have been intended even remotely for you.
Ramón. He could not have invented it; he must have been told
Gonzalo. Come, come! If we are to continue like this, we shall all of us go mad. This is nothing more than mere vulgar extortion, a case of ridiculous chantage, which it would be even more ridiculous to take seriously. You were right: it is a fitting end to Don Juan, who lacked the grace to retire in time. It was my fault. I admit it, and rest in peace. I fail to see how the matter interests you. What are you thinking about? Is it possible that you can take it seriously? Come, come, man!
Ramón. Let me alone, I tell you! Let me alone!
Gonzalo. Ramón!
Ramón. If it should be true, if it is… But no! No!
Gonzalo. Ramón! Hush! Isabel!… We shall see.
Ramón. Yes, for her sake—let us wait!
Isabel enters.
Isabel. Am I late? Are you feeling better? But what is the matter? Why are you looking like this?
Gonzalo. Nothing is the matter.
Isabel. No, you have been talking business. You have been arguing, and you are both angry.
Gonzalo. I tell you that we have not. How was María Antonia? How about Pepe? Did you find them in?
Isabel. No, they were out.
Gonzalo. Then… But you do not seem pleased. What is the matter?
Isabel. Didn't I tell you that they were both out? It is a sign they are well. I was surprised to find you so excited when I came in; you have been quarrelling.
Gonzalo. How silly! A mere difference of opinion. Ramón will explain.
Ramón. We were discussing the company.
Isabel. Gracious! But are you ill? You look so pale. [To Ramón] I am sure you are not the one who began it.
Gonzalo. It was all my fault. I must sign these papers and send an explanation to the boy's father. They are returning to Paris.
Isabel. Who are?
Gonzalo. Who do you think? Why must you force me to say it? Don't you know? Aren't you glad of it?
Isabel. I?
Gonzalo. Will you never say what you think? [Goes out.
Isabel. I am helpless. He is not satisfied to torment me; he wants to see me suffer.
Ramón. Isabel, will you forgive me if I revert to the past and reopen sores that are forgotten?
Isabel. You?
Ramón. I know that you will not tell me the truth, but no matter. You are the only one who can restore peace to my mind, although it may be with a lie.
Isabel. But what is it? What happened between you and Gonzalo while I was away? That woman's husband was here. But why? What did he say?
Ramón. Who cares? Is he a rogue or a fool? But there was one thing that he said, which either he invented, or which he has heard, gossip, perhaps, for its own sake, which amounts to nothing, but which had never occurred to me before. There are moments when a chance word, like a lightning flash, illuminates the darkest, most hidden corners of our lives. Why did my boy Enrique give up María Antonia? Why was it?
Isabel. That is indeed a sore that is forgotten. Don't you know?
Ramón. Yes, I know what Enrique told me, what was said by our friends. Enrique had had relations with a poor girl, María Antonia was jealous and unwilling to forgive. She believed that the intimacy had not been broken off
Isabel. Then you know as much about it as we do.
Ramón. Only it never occurred to me till now that this explanation might not be the real one, that it was merely a pretext of Carmen's, of yours, of our friends, so as to avoid… I never dreamed until this moment—well, what I have just heard. I am not a man of great ability, my talents cannot have been of much assistance to Gonzalo, yet he has always kept me by him, in the positions of chief importance. Thanks to him, I enjoy a fortune, I am rich, I thought I was happy. But why? Why is it that I have all these things? My God, why is it?
Isabel. You have worked faithfully and hard, you are intelligent. This is unworthy of you. What are you thinking about? What have you heard? When you doubt, you not only doubt Gonzalo's friendship, you doubt
Ramón. I know it—and I cannot, no, I cannot. It would be too horrible. Tell me that I am wrong, that I have no right to think it, that if this thing could be, if it could have been
Isabel. Carmen would not be my most intimate friend. Is that what you mean? I could not have loved her as I do, as a sister. And you see it, you know it. Surely I would have suspected before you, if your suspicions had been justified. If they are true, I must have disguised my feelings out of policy, or under the threats of my husband. Policy and pretense have their limits. I am not a saint; the most that I could have done would have been to have presented an outward appearance of courtesy in public, but genuine, unreserved friendship, friendship such as that which unites me with Carmen, friendship which is of the heart, because I am convinced of her loyalty, as you must be convinced of it… However anxious a jealous woman may be to pretend, she is incapable of pretending to such an extent; in itself that should be enough to convince you. I could not pretend with Josefina. Neither policy nor courtesy availed for one moment, and I refused to receive her in my house. When you imagine that I have pretended to love Carmen all these years… I appreciate the compliment, Ramón, but either you have too sublime an idea of me, or else you know very little about women, when you persuade yourself that however discreet a woman may be, she is capable of admitting another woman to her house, as I admit Carmen, if a suspicion, even, has crossed her mind that now or ever… although Gonzalo's reputation might make any suspicion seem plausible. But we insult Carmen when we deny what there never was any reason to believe. Neither in my heart, nor in hers, nor in yours is there warrant to do so. Nonsense, Ramón, these are evil thoughts. I do not know how I shall punish you, unless having had them, indeed, is riot the worst of all punishments.
Manuel enters.
Manuel. My dear Isabel… Don Ramón!
Isabel. This is an unexpected pleasure. I should have been obliged to send for you had you remained away another day.
Ramón. I was about to leave as you came. Isabel, surely Gonzalo has signed those papers by this time. Good day.—Good day…
Manuel. Good day to you.
Isabel. Is it all over? Not a shadow of an evil thought remains?
Ramón. I told you that you could make me believe whatever you wished, whether the truth or a lie. You are so good, so very good, that you can do what you say no woman can ever do, however saintly she may be! [Goes out.
Isabel. I am exhausted.
Manuel. Was he too much for you? What is the trouble?
Isabel. No, but I have lied so sincerely, so honestly, that it really seems to me as if I had not been lying. To lie like that does not lie upon the conscience; it is absolved by the heart.
Manuel. You lie?
Isabel. Let us talk of something else. I have been impatient to see you, to-day of all others.
Manuel. I have been thinking of you so busily that doubtless I have appeared forgetful.
Isabel. Have you forgotten your promise?
Manuel. Not for an instant. Vigilance has been necessary of late—to the limit.
Isabel. Of late? How so? What do you know?
Manuel. María Antonia and Pepe live in a state of open warfare.
Isabel. They never come to see us, in spite of Gonzalo's illness. I called at their house to-day, but they were out; and the maid, a girl whom I trust, as I placed her with María Antonia, told me the whole story. They quarrel incessantly; there are recriminations at all hours. To continue like this is impossible.
Manuel. It is positively dangerous for María Antonia.
Isabel. What have you heard?
Manuel. I have heard of chance encounters in the Prado Gallery.
Isabel. Between whom? María Antonia and
Manuel. Oh, they are purely casual; quite by chance. As if you were to say to me, casually: Do you know, I am wholly ignorant of the Prado Gallery? And I were to reply: Is it possible? And you: I intend going one of these days. So I go every day until, naturally, as I go every day and you one of these days, we meet casually, and that is the way that they met, casually.
Isabel. I knew it all the time! Did your friend tell you this?
Manuel. Can't you see them?—a dreamer in love with an innocent woman! They view the paintings together, their artistic susceptibilities are aroused… Art has always been a prime conductor of love currents.
Isabel. Flippancy is out of place. Tell me seriously what you know, everything that your friend has confided to you.
Manuel. I can tell you something a great deal more serious. María Antonia has committed an indiscretion. She has been foolish
Isabel. Great heaven!
Manuel. She has written a letter.
Isabel. Which you have read? Did that man trust it to you? The scoundrel! He is no better than the rest—an empty boaster, puffed up with vanity! Is this the ideal for whom my poor child has forgotten her duties as a wife? Tell me what was in that letter.
Manuel. I merely said that it was indiscreet. She dismisses him, she deprives him of all hope. Nevertheless, she entreats, and to entreat is to confess weakness; to confess weakness is to fear vanquishment.
Isabel. Does this fellow hope
Manuel. He permits himself a slight hope.
Isabel. I must see María Antonia at once, in the presence of her father and her husband. They must realize the danger clearly. María Antonia must be saved at any cost. She shall never have cause to hang her head in shame before her husband—she must always be right, always, not only because I love her as I should my own daughter, as I do myself, as I did her mother, but because my pride in my womanhood, amid all the inequalities which we suffer at the hands of men, admits of every inequality and will endure any humiliation save this—that they should ever have the right to say to one of us: Who are you to accuse me? Ah! Never that! Our burdens may be more onerous but we are stronger than you to bear them. You cannot say that we are equal, no, but we can say: We are not equal, it is true. We are better than you are.
María Antonia and Pepe enter.
María Antonia. Isabel! Mother!…
Isabel. María Antonia!
María Antonia. Ah! At last I can cry! At last I can tell you everything—yes, you, only you, my mother! For him I have only scorn and contempt, and I ignore him with silence.
Pepe. It does not matter. Remain silent, or indulge your contempt, as may prove convenient. It is my turn to speak.
Isabel. What have you done? What is it?
María Antonia. Who cares what he says? My only regret is that he is not right when he says it.
Pepe. You hear her, Isabel. Where is her father? I have business with him. [To Manuel] No, don't you go; apparently, you are one of the family. Besides, you are sufficiently intimate with a certain person to render it desirable that you be present. Where is her father?
María Antonia. A proper person for you to consult. I shall talk with Isabel, and with no one else. Never let me see you again! You can tell my father whatever you like.
Pepe. I shall.
Isabel. Yes, leave us. I must consult with María Antonia. Find Gonzalo. Tell him whatever you see fit. I shall say nothing until I have talked with her—for I know that she will not deceive me.
Pepe. Is he in the study?
Isabel. Yes. [Pepe hurries out] Follow him, Manuel. You know the truth—if what you have told me is the truth, and nothing else can be the truth.
Manuel. Whatever María Antonia tells you will be the truth.
Isabel. She will tell the truth to me.
Manuel goes out.
Isabel. Yes, whatever you tell me will be the truth to me. Is Pepe jealous?
María Antonia. You heard what he said.
Isabel. Does he…
María Antonia. It is all as clear to him as day. He is returning me to you; now he is the one who is doing it, so that his honor shall not suffer. Nothing could be simpler. What a noble, sensitive thing this sense of honor is! Thanks to it I have accomplished in one hour what tears and complaints, yes, and a broken heart, could never do. I am home again to forget, to find release. He would never have let me come upon my own account, and you would not have received me—you would all have been against me. But now that it is no longer I, now that it is a question of his honor, nobody opposes it. I was a fool not to realize before how easy it would be to rid myself of him, and to regain my self-respect before my own conscience, to bring relief to my heart!
Isabel. Yes, talk, talk as you do now, and I will listen undisturbed, conscious that you have not failed. Grow indignant, burn with holy rage! Do not be cast down nor depressed—that might mean humiliation, that might mean guilt. But there was none, I know. Look at me, in the face, full in the eyes—now. They are as clear as the heart below; not a tear. It was not your fault?… By the memory of your mother!
María Antonia. No, by her memory. But by her memory, by all the deviltries and all the faithlessness of men, I tell you that if the wish, yes, and the purpose, to be guilty are as guilty as the act itself, no woman ever was more guilty. From the bottom of my soul I swear it! I wish that nothing had held me back—not virtue, nor shame, nor my mother's name, nor example, no, and not your love nor your example, holy as were hers; nothing, nothing! You know what I have suffered; your heart has been torn, your life has been wrecked; and you, too, must have felt sometimes, however saintly you may be, the thirst for vengeance for wrongs, for humiliations undeserved—yet you know that when a woman is born honorable, it is not easy for her to cease to be so.
Gonzalo enters.
Gonzalo. Is what Pepe tells me true? Has your husband told me the truth? If he has, there is no room for you in my house any more than in his. If you dishonor your husband there, you dishonor your father here.
María Antonia. Ah!
Isabel. Gonzalo!
Gonzalo. Do not defend her! Make no excuse! Out of my house! Never let me see you again!
Isabel. No, you shall not see her. Come with me, and do not cry—do not cry, my daughter. Resent this insult if you are not guilty, as you have resented it to me, angrily. For you have told me the truth?…
María Antonia. Yes, mother.
Gonzalo. Out of my house, I tell you! Get out!
Isabel. Not so fast! She is going… later. And she will not go alone.
María Antonia and Isabel pass out, but presently Isabel returns.
Gonzalo. Not alone, do you say?
Isabel. Once more you are unjust, selfish, cruel, because you are—a man! Do you think that María Antonia has done wrong? You do believe it, don't you? And you are outraged. I tell you that even if she has, I understand it, I excuse it, and I shall say to her: You did right, you did perfectly right! Do you hear?
Gonzalo. An easy thing for you to say, since she is not your daughter.
Isabel. Another lie. If she were, all the more reason why I should say to her: You did right, you did perfectly right, my daughter!
Gonzalo. Yes, and doubtless you have said it already; you have excused her in advance, and encouraged her. I suspected it…
Isabel. Why not add that I set her the example? Be as extreme as you like. This is one of those decisive days in which life presents us with the balance of many years. It contains everything—all our words, all our deeds, however insignificant; life forgets nothing. This is a day of reckoning for you, and it was time. It comes to us when we least expect it, almost always in some roundabout way, as a blessing, perhaps, or filling us with alarm. There are men who toil all their lives, apparently without result, until, as they are giving up in despair, a legacy drops from heaven, or it may be the lottery—something which seems to be chance, but it is life which pays. There are others who commit terrible crimes, yet live on prosperously and rich during many years; but one day sorrow comes—the death of a loved child, or it may be a grinding sickness, or disaster unforeseen, when no riches can avail. Life presents its bill. It takes your daughter, the absorbing passion of your life, the paragon of womanly submission in your eyes, of all the virtues which belong to honorable wives; and you are indignant, you are shocked; you yearn to punish your daughter, when it is your daughter who is punishing you, punishing you for her mother—for her mother and for me.
Gonzalo. Punishing me? But why? Why should she?
Isabel. What do men know about women? You understand the lies of the women who deceive you, but you have no conception of the love of a good woman, how deeply and truly she loves you. Reserve is always more instinctive in women than love. Our love is silent through reserve, through reserve our desires are silent, too, and our jealousy is silent oftentimes. Yet you do not, you will not understand that an honest woman cannot struggle without violence to her very being when your love turns away and grows cold. So we submit in silence to the humiliation and the pity of the women who attract you with all the coquetry and calculated coyness of their art, which you would despise in us, because even you can never confound their boudoirs with our homes. You take your passions to them, you fly to them in the easy irresponsibility of a certain sort of life; you squander upon them what you scrape and save with us, and implore of them lavish kisses which you would disdain in your wife, because her duty assures you of them—whenever your desire exacts, we obey—yes, your desire, which often enough is plainly only another desire which you have not been able to satisfy, and which drives you to us with all the appearances of love. This is what men are, and yet you presume to sit in judgment upon us at the suggestion even of a fault, without mercy. I tell you from my heart that I am only sorry that the fault was not real, and that it was not mine, if it might have caused you greater pain had it been so.
Gonzalo. No, Isabel. You are unjust if you have ever thought, however great my offenses against you may have been, that they deserved the punishment of not believing in you, or of doubting your faith for one moment. You cannot know how deeply I love you. I have been cruel and selfish, as you say, I have tortured your heart, but you cannot, you must not doubt my love. It may be that we give no one so much pain in our lives as we do our mother; it may be that there is no love to which we sacrifice less, so sure are we of its possession forever, that forever it will pardon and forgive. With merely living and being happy it seems to us that our mother's love is repaid. But the living faith which inspires us, in appearance makes us seem less devout, all the while in the recesses of our hearts more deeply believing in that holy, never-dying love of which we are assured. What other love in life is equal to this, which is at once and eternally the faith and hope of the heart? Confess that there has never been a moment when you would have exchanged places with any of the other women who have passed through my life; confess that you have always believed that when I have compared you with them all together, the thought of you has been as a halo, as the altar before the image of the saint. Can you imagine how proud I have been to repeat over and over, that among all of them, she alone has been in my heart, she alone has been faithful, she always has been true, she, my wife—as my mother? And do you pretend that María Antonia has acted wisely? No, you do not believe it; you do not think it, because you know that my love is true, and the adoration which I feel, because you were always the one who waited, the one who forgave, always, like a mother, like a saint, like something which is above and superior to all else in the world, like heaven in our lives. No, do not attempt to tell me that María Antonia has acted wisely, do not tell me that you wish it had been you. If I had had for one instant ground to accuse you… I do not know… I do not know… How can I tell, when I cannot even conceive that such a thing could be?
Isabel. Gonzalo! My Gonzalo! You are right—forgiving always, waiting always, for I have learned to wait… And now, at last, I feel that my waiting has not been in vain!
Carmen enters.
Carmen. Isabel! Isabel!…
Isabel. Carmen!
Carmen. Ramón has told me. He came to me in tears, like a child, and asked my forgiveness for having dared even so much as to doubt. Forgiveness from me, imagine it—who can never forgive myself! He told me that you—and I could not wait, I had to see you, to fall on my knees before you, if only you allow. I suffer horribly. I should have confessed, but then the mortification would no longer have been mine alone, it would have attached to you—and you are free from blame.
Isabel. Yes, I am free from blame… I am very happy. Gonzalo, bring your daughter. As you believe in me, there was no fault in her.
Gonzalo. I obey…
Manuel enters.
Manuel. Isabel, Pepe has listened to reason. He is convinced that he is wrong, and he is willing to forgive. He only fears that María Antonia
Isabel. Yes, not as yet…
Carmen. Not as yet? María Antonia and Pepe…?
Isabel. It is not easy to resign oneself, to learn to wait.
María Antonia enters, followed by Pepe.
Isabel. Come, María Antonia. Come, both my children… Embrace your father. You will forgive your husband, too, some day.
María Antonia. No, all is over between us. I shall never forgive him.
Isabel. Oh, yes, you will! And you will be as happy as I am.
María Antonia. As you are? Are you happy?
Isabel. Very. Light and thoughtless love, which breathes only illusion and desire, sheds all its flowers in one brief burst of spring; but the love of a wife, love which is holy and true, love which has learned to wait, has other, later flowers, Autumnal Roses, which are ours. They are not the flowers of love, they are flowers of duty, watered patiently by tears of resignation, and fragrant of the soul, with the touch of eternity, my husband.
Gonzalo. My wife and saint! On my knees I adore you.
Isabel. I am very happy. These are my Autumnal Roses.
Curtain