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
146
