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 III
Scene—Same as previous Acts.
SCENE I
Dr. Tomás. Afterwards servant.
Dr. Tomás. Everything is quiet. The girl's sobbing can no longer be heard, and Don Lorenzo's fury is calmed. 'Tis but the gentle precursor of a fresh tempest. [Pause.] There are moments when I doubt and vacillate. He,—he,—my good friend, poor Lorenzo—the very idea gives me no rest. Well, well, we shall soon know the truth now,—meanwhile, courage. I have sacred obligations to fulfil towards this afflicted family. Nobody could more earnestly desire to help them than I.
Servant. A gentleman, accompanied by two—really sir, I don't know what to call them but their dress,—well, the gentleman has given me his card for you, and they are all waiting outside.
Dr. Tomás. [Looking at card.] Ah, Doctor Bermúdez. Show him in.
Servant. And the other two?
Dr. Tomás. Let them wait. [Exit servant.] As the hour approaches my doubts and my anxiety increase. Poor Doña Ángela! what a blow for her! And in what a state of nervous agitation is her unhappy daughter! How lucid her glance, and how quick her intelligence! Nobody has explained the matter to her, and yet I believe she knows everything. She guesses what she does not precisely know, and suspects what she does not guess. Oh, no; the situation cannot be prolonged. However sad reality may be, we have to face it.
SCENE II
Dr. Tomás, Dr. Bermúdez. Afterwards two keepers, attired like gentlemen, but evincing that they are not such. Dr. Tomás advances with outstretched hand.
Dr. Tomás. Doctor.
Bermúdez. Dr. Tomás.
Dr. Tomás. Punctual as ever.
Bermúdez. No, I am a little early. I want to hide these fellows somewhere.
Dr. Tomás. Yes, yes, I understand.
Bermúdez. I have made them dress so as to avert suspicion in Don Lorenzo. This is a case for such general precautions.
Dr. Tomás. Quite so, quite so. We must proceed with great caution. It was an access of fury, a veritable access of fury, as I told you. He has only had one, the other night. Perhaps I am mistaken.
Bermúdez. I sincerely hope so—and you, too, I am sure.
Dr. Tomás. Ah, my friend, I scarce know what I am doing. But we trust in your science, your experience, and profound penetration to relieve us of our present doubt.
Bermúdez. You flatter me. You also are a doctor
Dr. Tomás. Don't count on me, Bermúdez. I am good for nothing. I declare myself incompetent. It is a question of my best friend, of a brother almost. Besides, he has always struck me—you know my school. There is not a divisional line between reason and madness.
Bermúdez. Quite true. All men of learning are more or less insane.
Dr. Tomás. Precisely. Excitement of the brain beyond certain limits
Bermúdez. That's it. What we have to do is to see what can be done with Don Lorenzo. Now these two fellows
Dr. Tomás. Oh, it will be easy enough to invent a tale. We'll call them witnesses—say they've come with the notary—anything, in fact. Poor Lorenzo is not in a condition to take note of details.
Bermúdez. Where will they wait?
Dr. Tomás. [Pointing to door R.] Inside that door.
Bermúdez. [Going up the stage.] Here, Braulio! [Enter two keepers, rather heavy and rough in appearance.]
Dr. Tomás. Go into that closet. You will be called if necessary,—meanwhile, remain quiet. [Keepers salute and enter closet R.] Since Juana's death Don Lorenzo has not used this room. [To Bermúdez.] With the door shut [Shuts it.]
Bermúdez. [Looking at his watch.] I will be with you in a moment. I'll be back again before the notary arrives. I'm only off somewhere in the neighbourhood.
Dr. Tomás. A visit?
Bermúdez. Yes; a very strange case of insanity. [Enter Doña Ángela, who stands looking at Bermúdez.] She's? [To Dr. Tomás, glancing at Doña Ángela.]
Dr. Tomás. Yes—his wife. Don't say anything to her.
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] I'll be back shortly. Your servant, madam. [Salutes Doña Ángela, and exit C.]
SCENE III
Doña Ángela and Dr. Tomás. Doña Ángela follows Bermúdez with her eyes, then glances towards the closet where keepers are concealed.
Doña Ángela. Who was that going away? And who were the two men that accompanied him.
Dr. Tomás. Don't be alarmed, dear madam. It will be all right. These are only ordinary precautions, for, who knows? Don Lorenzo might have another access of fury like that of the night before last, and for your sakes—for his own
Doña Ángela. Oh, doctor, don't hint such a thing.
Dr. Tomás. Don't you remember with what frenzy he grasped poor Juana's dying body? Now that nobody is listening, in all confidence let me say that I firmly believe he was the determining cause
Doña Ángela. Tomás, Tomás!
Dr. Tomás. Well, at any rate he hastened her death. You heard how bitterly he accused himself in his delirium. Don't let us forge illusions. It was a real access of
Doña Ángela. [Sobbing.] Lorenzo, my husband!
Dr. Tomás. The crisis may return, for to-day
Doña Ángela. Yes, I know what his intention is. Ah, doctor, how unfortunate we are! How unfortunate my poor Lorenzo is!
Dr. Tomás. What is he doing now?
Doña Ángela. He is quite calm. He writes, and walks about. He wants to be continually with Inés and me, because solitude terrifies him. A moment ago he stared at me mournfully, but with such tenderness, and kissed me, murmuring, 'poor Ángela.'
Dr. Tomás. You must not contradict him.
Doña Ángela. No, doctor. We agree with him in everything.
Dr. Tomás. And he still persists in the same idea?
Doña Ángela. Yes. From time to time he asks what o'clock it is, gets impatient with the notary's delay, and then mutters in an undertone: 'Though all the world should oppose me, I must do it.'
Dr. Tomás. What a fellow! What character!
Doña Ángela. Oh, doctor, for the love of God, don't deceive me. Tell me, do you really believe Lorenzo to be—to be,—no, I can't—I can't bring myself to pronounce the horrible word.
Dr. Tomás. I don't yet know what to believe. We shall soon see, my dear friend, we shall see. It was precisely to be relieved once and for all of intolerable anxiety that I asked Dr. Bermúdez to call. He is the first authority upon all such cases.
Doña Ángela. But it is impossible, it is surely impossible.
Dr. Tomás. It would rejoice me to learn so, and we need not lose hope. But impossible, madam! Ah, human reason is so slight a thing.
Doña Ángela. Oh, my dear husband! No, I cannot bear—it cannot be.
Dr. Tomás. Come, come, Doña Ángela. Have sense and courage, if only for your daughter's sake, for poor Inés. And who knows yet? We have to see if Don Lorenzo has any explanation to offer—any proof
Doña Ángela. What proof can he have? Even the dying Juana cried out to him, 'No, no, you are not my son,' while he, frenzied and delirious, grasped her in his arms and strove to force an impossible confession from the half dead body, calling her 'mother' in the strident voice of dementia. No, you can't console me, friend. It is useless. I foresee that our misfortune is inevitable.
Dr. Tomás. I almost fear so.
Doña Ángela. And then his way of receiving the duchess, he who is always the pink of courtesy, a finished gentleman
Dr. Tomás. You are right. On that occasion I understood how it was with him. But who can be resigned when fate strikes so suddenly?
Doña Ángela. Adoring a child as he adores Inés, is there anybody who could act as he proposes to act to-day?
Dr. Tomás. Nobody, madam, nobody in his right mind.
Doña Ángela. Have you told Dr. Bermúdez?
Dr. Tomás. Not everything. That would be dangerous. But quite enough to enable him to pronounce an opinion.
Doña Ángela. And what is it?
Dr. Tomás. Am I to speak fully?
Doña Ángela. Yes, yes, doctor. Conceal nothing. I know there is no remedy.
Dr. Tomás. With skilful treatment, separated from everybody, especially from those whose presence could only serve to exasperate his nervous sensibility by very reason of his affection for them
Doña Ángela. Tomás!
Dr. Tomás. In some good asylum here in Spain or abroad
Doña Ángela. What! What is it you say? Separate him from us! Take him away! He—he—never. I am his wife. I will never consent to it.
Dr. Tomás. The sight of Inés will aggravate his delirium.
Doña Ángela. Her absence would be his death.
Dr. Tomás. He smothered that poor woman to death.
Doña Ángela. There you are wrong, Tomás. With her father Inés runs no risk. She is his daughter.
Dr. Tomás. He believed Juana to be his mother.
Doña Ángela. It must not be, Tomás, it must not be. Why can't you find a way of relieving my anguish instead of torturing me so?
Dr. Tomás. Doña Ángela!
Doña Ángela. It is true, my friend, 'twould indeed be no easy matter to find consolation for such a sorrow as mine.
Dr. Tomás. There is no human sorrow inconsolable, however great it may be.
Doña Ángela. Oh, but mine is.
Dr. Tomás. Yours still less than many others. Come, let us discuss it dispassionately.
Doña Ángela. How can I, with fever running fire in my veins?
Dr. Tomás. Hear me out. If what Don Lorenzo asserts be true, if there were irrefragable proofs
Doña Ángela. Then my poor husband would not be out of his mind. We it would be who are blind and foolish. Oh, what a blessing that would be!
Dr. Tomás. Not so great, for in that case you would have to face poverty, dishonour—death even.
Doña Ángela. Hush, Tomás.
Dr. Tomás. I say death advisedly, for Inés would most certainly die of it. On the other hand, if Lorenzo's calamity be proved
Doña Ángela. Don't continue. I can't bear to think of it.
Dr. Tomás. But think of Inés, and in thinking of her you will see that, terrible as the wound is—we must acknowledge the fact, sad as it is—it is by no means a mortal wound. For youth, what alone is mortal is to destroy the future—not simply precipitate the past into nothingness.
Doña Ángela. For mercy's sake, Tomás!
Dr. Tomás. The happiness of Inés' lifetime depends upon her father's calamity—don't forget it.
Doña Ángela. Let God's will be done, but do not seek to awaken ideas rather fitted to frighten than to comfort me.
SCENE IV
Ángela, Dr. Tomás, Don Lorenzo R.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] But where have I left the key? Oh, my head! and the notary will be here presently. I left the letter in the desk. I remember quite well. Two days ago, when my mother
Dr. Tomás. [Without seeing Don Lorenzo.] Poor Doña Ángela! The proof [ordeal] will be a terrible one.
Don Lorenzo. What? What are they saying? The proof! yes; they are speaking of the proof. [Looks eagerly about the table for key of desk.]
Doña Ángela. Yes, it will be a terrible one—very terrible to walk between two precipices. Lorenzo on the one side, Inés on the other. You are right indeed.
Don Lorenzo. [Aloud, angrily.] I have lost it.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside, turning round.] I should think you have, unfortunate man.
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. Ah, they're there. [Recognises them with a suspicious glance.]
Doña Ángela. [Gently.] What are you looking for? We will help you.
Don Lorenzo. You! no. Wherefore? It is my work.
Doña Ángela. But at least tell us what you have lost.
Don Lorenzo. Everything—even the love of mine own. Say if there can be more for me to lose.
Doña Ángela. No, Lorenzo, do not believe it.
Don Lorenzo. At last! The key. Heaven be praised! [Aside, distrustfully.] It was there—it was in the lock. [Opens desk and takes out the paper Juana placed there.] Ah, here it is. I breathe again freely. [Reads.] 'For Lorenzo.' This is the paper.
Doña Ángela. [Approaching.] Have you found what you were looking for?
Don Lorenzo. Yes. [Dr. Tomás also approaches.]
Doña Ángela. What paper is it?
[Don Lorenzo makes a movement to take paper out of envelope, but seeing Dr. Tomás and Doña Ángela come nearer, he puts it back in desk, locks it, and pockets the key.]
Don Lorenzo. A very important one. [Looks from one to the other angrily and suspiciously.] But why do you want to know?
Doña Ángela. Don't be offended, Lorenzo. Forgive me if I have committed an indiscretion.
Don Lorenzo. I forgive! It is I who want your forgiveness. Through me, through my fault, are you about to be plunged into misery.
Doña Ángela. Do not say so. We could never be miserable, you being happy.
Don Lorenzo. And I, could I be happy, fortune having deserted you and my beloved child?
Doña Ángela. She, too, will be happy.
Don Lorenzo. Impossible, for you know what I am thinking of.
Doña Ángela. You have told me. Don't you remember?
Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. Tomás.] And you?
Dr. Tomás. I also know.
Don Lorenzo. You approve?
Doña Ángela. [Sweetly.] Whatever you do will be well done.
Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. Tomás] What have you to say?
Dr. Tomás. The same.
Don Lorenzo. [Thoughtfully.] 'The same.' What conformity of opinion! Do you know that I have sent for a notary?
Doña Ángela. We know it.
Don Lorenzo. [Looking at both.] You know it. And do you likewise know that I am about to have a legal act drawn up containing my formal declaration and renunciation?
Doña Ángela. Yes, Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. So that the judge may then ordain as the law directs? Is it not so?
Dr. Tomás. It is natural.
Don Lorenzo. [To Doña Ángela.] What do you say to it?
Doña Ángela. [In weeping voice.] If this wealth we now enjoy is not legally yours—you do well.
Dr. Tomás. If the name you bear is not yours, you must certainly give it up.
Doña Ángela. In any case your will is law.
Don Lorenzo. Yes, but a tyrannical law, an impious law—eh?
Doña Ángela. Still, a law that I respect above all others.
Don Lorenzo. [Nervous, unquiet, almost irritable.] And you don't resist it? You don't struggle against it?
Dr. Tomás. Your conduct is that of a man of honour. Strictly speaking, there is nothing else for you to do.
Don Lorenzo. What unheard-of submission! What extraordinary docility! What a sudden change! You are deceiving me. I tell you, you are lying to me. [Violently.]
Doña Ángela. For pity's sake, Lorenzo.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside.] Ah, there is no hope. Like a black wave dementia has spread over his mind.
Don Lorenzo. [More calmly.] Well, well, better so. [Pause. Approaches Doña Ángela affectionately.] Where is Inés?
Doña Ángela. My poor child!
Don Lorenzo. You don't defend her against me? [Then gently.] Nevertheless, it is your duty.
Doña Ángela. Alas, Lorenzo, what strength has your wretched wife to use against you? Your will grows iron in strife and calamity; mine bends to the very dust.
Don Lorenzo. You are right. My will is irresistible when duty orders me. [To Dr. Tomás.] What do you think of all this?
Dr. Tomás. That it should be so.
Don Lorenzo. So it is. [Pause.] Poor Ángela! And do you know what we are going to do once the act is signed and the proof given up?
Dr. Tomás. You have a proof?
Don Lorenzo. You didn't know. [Aside, wondering.] (And they were talking about it when I entered!) Yes, I have it, irrefutable, past doubt, clear as daylight, although it is black as night and treason.
Doña Ángela. Keep calm, Lorenzo.
Dr. Tomás. Then what is it?
Don Lorenzo. A letter of my mother's—of the woman who called herself my mother.
Doña Ángela. [Aside.] Good Heavens! Can it be true?
Don Lorenzo. Her signature, her handwriting—it is here—in my power.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside.] Ah, if it were so.
Don Lorenzo. Then when the proof is delivered up, you, my poor Inés, and I will at once leave this house—this house which already has ceased to be ours, and which this very day the law will take into possession until it is handed over to the heirs of Avendaña. [With increasing animation.] And in a little while we shall wander forth without resources, without a name, bearing a dying child in our arms—for have you not assured us that Inés will die? [to Dr. Tomás]—fronting a despairing solitudeno, 'twas not well said—I blasphemed. We will bear away with us an unstained honour and a tranquil conscience, and our heads will be held high, while God is with us. What matter if the world forsake us, thus accompanied?
Doña Ángela. [Embracing him.] Before, I said with my lips only: 'Your will is law, Lorenzo.' Now I say it with my heart.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside.] If the proof exists, this man is a saint. But, alas! if it does not exist, the unfortunate fellow is nothing but a lunatic. [Enter servant.]
Servant. The Duchess of Almonte, and his Grace the Duke.
Doña Ángela. Show them in. [To Dr. Tomás.] Have you informed them?
Dr. Tomás. [To Doña Ángela.] I told them last night. The duchess promised to come. You see, she has kept her word.
Don Lorenzo. I cannot see them. I must be alone, unless you are with me—only you. Good-bye, Ángela.
Doña Ángela. Good-bye, Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. [Looking at his watch.] How slowly time passes! [Goes to door R. Dr. Tomás follows him.] Have you given notice to the witnesses? [At door.]
Dr. Tomás. I have two inside waiting, and another will be here presently.
Don Lorenzo. Who are they?
Dr. Tomás. You don't know them. They are friends of mine.
Don Lorenzo. And why not mine too?
Dr. Tomás. I always considered my friends as yours.
Don Lorenzo. [Looks at him for a moment.] So they are. [Aside.] Ah, this complaisance! I would have preferred to see them resist—struggle against me!
SCENE V
Doña Ángela, the Duchess, Edward, and Dr. Tomás.
Doña Ángela. Duchess!
Duchess. Madam! [Salutes affectionately.]
Doña Ángela. You are always so good to us.
Duchess. It is my duty to offer the consolations of sincere friendship in your cruel trouble. God has willed that the same misfortune should strike us all though in different ways. [Lowers her voice and points to Edward on uttering the last word.]
Doña Ángela. But what then do you call the misfortune that has struck me? I know not.
Edward. Well, madam, the moment for naming it has arrived. It is called poverty, and shame, and the death of Inés, or
Doña Ángela and Duchess, [At same time.] Edward!
Edward. Forgive me, mother. We should each and all speak out the truth to-day. You have already said: 'I will compromise with Don Lorenzo's calamity for the sake of the love I bear you and that which you bear me; but I will never compromise with his public dishonour,—never, not even for the price of your life.' My life, mother, was it not so 'twas said?
Duchess. [With energy, but sadly.] Yes.
Edward. [Going toward Doña Ángela.] Then, madam, let us probe the misfortune that has struck you. Whether is it called dishonour or madness? This is the problem we have to solve. Should Don Lorenzo be correct, should he be in his sound senses, should there be proof forthcoming of his assertion, it is for us to respect his cruel virtue. But if, as I (by a thousand signs that almost constitute evidence) believe, an eternal cloud has dimmed his intellect, and the light of his reason is for ever quenched,—then defend yourself, Doña Ángela. It is your most sacred duty. Defend the name you bear, your social position, even Don Lorenzo's honour, against his own raving; defend,—why should I keep it back?—Inés' life and her life's felicity. Do not, madam, leave such almighty interests and so dear an object at the mercy of a madman.
Duchess. Edward!
Edward. The word is a harsh one, but the time has come to pronounce it. Once for all, let us learn the fact whether this battle for reputation and existence into which Don Lorenzo has cast us is what it seems or what I fear:—whether, finally, the heroic sacrifice of this implacable scholar is insanity or sanctity.
Duchess. Enough, Edward. [Doña Ángela sits down on sofa, weeping bitterly. Duchess goes over to her.]
Dr. Tomás. [To Edward.] The happiness of this family affects me as closely as my own. What you propose to do has already been considered, and both the law and science will be called in to decide.
Duchess. I hope to Heaven the darkness will be illuminated for you. [To Doña Ángela.] Come, come, madam: courage, resignation! Where is Inés?
Doña Ángela. Do you wish to see her?
Duchess. Yes.
Doña Ángela. Come, then. [To Dr. Tomás.] And you too. I would like you to see her. For the past three days fever alone has lent her strength. My daughter, my dear child is very ill.
Dr. Tomás. Poor girl! [Exeunt Doña Ángela, Duchess, and Dr. Tomás.]
SCENE VI
Edward. They persist in doubting. What blindness! They can't understand that the unfortunate gentleman, from force of seeking, not the righting of wrongs, like the Errant Knight, but the reason of all the varied rights invented by the accumulated wisdom of centuries, has ended by losing the only one that Providence saw fit to bestow upon him—namely, natural reason. Oh, but this must not be. I cannot allow them to sacrifice my dear one's life to the extravagances of a poor madman.
SCENE VII
Edward, Inés, comes out by closet R., where the keepers are concealed, agitated, and as if fleeing.
Inés. What are those men? Who are they?
Edward. [Rushing towards her.] Inés, my beloved! How pale you are! Your divine glance is hemmed round by deep purple shadow.
Inés. But answer me. Who are they? What are they waiting for? Send them away. [Approaches the door cautiously and peeps in; Edward endeavours to lead her down the stage.] There is something sinister about them. My father—where is my father? I was looking for him between the drawing-room and yonder closet, and I saw them—I can't bear the sight of them, and yet I cannot take my eyes from off them.
Edward. But what is the matter with you, dearest? Why do your eyes seem to shun me? Is it from me that you are running away? Inés, have you wearied of my love?
Inés. [Coming down the stage.] Wearied of your love? You must know that it is my life. But oh, Edward, to what a frightful ordeal fate has subjected us! You do not understand it. For me supreme bliss lies in your love, and the hope I place in your love is a still greater bliss—a far, far greater. The one is our present, the other contains all our future. And yet, Edward, dearest, that same hope has now become a crime for your Inés, yes, a crime. Can a cruelty more exquisite be conceived? That which destiny denies no other living being it denies me. Yesterday I was but a child. My thoughts floated upon laughter in a sphere of white transparency, like a vapoury mist in moonlight. Today they are as heavy as lead, as burning as lava. Could you but hear their horrible whispers in the silence of night. And these thoughts are not mine. It is not my will that gives them birth. They come I know not whence. I cast them from me, and still they return. They vex me with chiding complaints: 'your poor father,' one moment, and then assail me with tempting voices, murmuring: 'Inés, Inés, who knows?—you may yet be happy—love may yet smile upon you—hope, hope, poor little thing.' Can you think of anything more horrible—surely it must be my bad angel—than to hear within oneself the voice of Satan whispering of hope to one bidden to say farewell to it?
Edward. You are not yourself, my dear Inés.
Inés. [Approaching Edward.] I am filled with remorse.
Edward. For what?
Inés. I don't know. I have done nothing wrong. My father! My poor father!
Edward. You angel of my life, my heart's desire, be calm, be calm. I beg of you to spare yourself.
Inés. Whisper, Edward. I could almost wish I were dead.
SCENE VIII
Don Lorenzo, Inés, and Edward. Don Lorenzo enters C., and stands listening to Inés.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Dead, she said?
Edward. You dead! No, Inés, don't say such a thing.
Inés. Why not? If I do not die of sorrow—should fortune ever again smile upon me, then must I die of remorse.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Of remorse! She! Should fortune ever again smile upon her! What worse fate floats in the air and hangs threateningly above my head? Remorse!—I have again caught another passing word. I traverse rooms and galleries, and wander from one place to another, pricked by insufferable anguish. I hear talk that I do not understand, and meet glances still further from my comprehension. I see tears here, smiles there, and nobody opposes me,—all either fly from me or watch me. [Aloud.] What is this? What is this?
Inés. [Rushing to his arms.] Oh, father!
Don Lorenzo. Inés, how white you are? Whence this dolorous constriction of your lips? Why do you essay a smile only to end in sobbing? How lovely she is in her sorrow! And it is all my fault.
Inés. No, father.
Don Lorenzo. I am cruel. Oh, if you do not say it, you think it.
Edward. Inés is too sweet-natured to harbour rebellious thoughts. But we who see her suffer cannot help thinking and saying it for her.
Don Lorenzo. It is but natural you should do so.
Edward. [Passionately.] Then if I am right, you are wrong.
Don Lorenzo. I am not in the wrong for that. There is something more pallid than the white brow of a lovesick maid; there are tears sadder far than the crystal drops of her beautiful eyes, something still crueller than the curving smiles of her lips, and something yet more tragic than the death of our beloved.
Edward. [With violence and contempt.] What is this worse pallor, these sadder tears, and still mournfuller tragedies?
Don Lorenzo. [Seizing his arm.] Madman! The pallor of crime, the tears of remorse, the consciousness of one's own infamy.
Edward. And this infamy, this remorse, this crime would lie in furthering your daughter's happiness?
Don Lorenzo. [Despairingly.] It should not be—but so it is nevertheless. [Pause.] And this makes my torment. This is the idea that will drive me mad.
Inés. No, no, father. You must not say that. Do what you think best without thought of me. What does it matter whether I live or die?
Don Lorenzo. Inés!
Inés. Only, do not be uncertain in it—above all, do not let others see your uncertainty. Let your speech be clear and persuasive, as it is now, and do not let worry blind you. Be calm, father. I implore you by all that is sacred.
Don Lorenzo. What do you mean? I do not understand.
Inés. Do I myself know rightly what I mean? Adieu, adieu. I cannot bear to grieve you.
Edward. [To Don Lorenzo.] Alas, if 'twere possible for you to take counsel with your heart, and silence the prompting of thought.
Inés. [To Edward.] Do not vex him. Come with me—if you thwart him maybe 'twill force his hate.
Don Lorenzo. Poor child!—she also is struggling—but she will conquer. She is not my daughter for nothing.
[Utters this proudly. Inés and Edward go up the stage; passing the door of the closet, Inés sees the keepers, and makes a movement of horror.]
Inés. What sinister vision is it that frights my gaze? Those men? Oh, father, do not enter there.
Edward. Come, Inés, come.
Inés. [To her father.] No, no. I beseech you, father.
Don Lorenzo. [Going towards her.] Inés!
Inés. Those men—there—look! [Points to closet. Don Lorenzo stands and follows her eyes. At that moment the keepers, hearing her cry, lift the curtain and show themselves.]
Edward. [Leading Inés away.] At last!
SCENE IX
Don Lorenzo, Braulio and Benito. [Pause.]
Don Lorenzo. Who can they be? Enter, pray. [The keepers advance timidly, and speak abruptly.]
Braulio. Dr. Tomás
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Ah, I understand.
Benito. Told us to wait there
Don Lorenzo. Excuse me, I did not know
Braulio. Not at all, sir.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] How odd they look, in sooth. Pray, be seated.
Benito. Thanks, sir.
Braulio. We are well enough standing.
Don Lorenzo. I cannot permit it
Braulio. Don't trouble yourself, sir.
Benito. If the gentleman orders it, it is better to take a seat. [Both sit down on sofa. Don Lorenzo remains standing.]
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Their looks seem to bode no good, or is it, perhaps, that my eyes only reflect the flashes that dart across my mind? [Inspects them again attentively. Aloud.] It was Miss Avendaña who saw you when she passed, and mentioned it to me.
Braulio. Yes, that beautiful young lady.
Benito. Who looked so sorrowful.
Braulio. Like the picture of the Dolorosa. [The keepers speak shortly, and after these remarks fall into sudden silence, remaining stiff and immovable, looking vaguely before them.]
Don Lorenzo. You frightened her, and she almost ran away at the sight of you. But you must not be astonished. The poor girl is very ill—indeed, she is scarce other than a child yet.
Braulio. [Smiling sillily.] It always happens to us in every house.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside, wondering.] In every house!
Benito. [Looking for the first time at Don Lorenzo, and again looking steadily in front of him.] Can she be that poor gentleman's daughter,—eh?
Don Lorenzo. What poor gentleman?
Benito. [Without looking at him.] The gentleman who is [Touches his forehead, still not looking at Don Lorenzo, who, unobserved by the keepers, makes a gesture of surprise.]
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Ah—no—what an idea! [Aloud, with an effort of self-control.] Just so. She is the daughter of [Observes them with increasing anxiety.]
Benito. Well, she is very beautiful, though so sad.
Braulio. 'Tis reason enough she has to be sad.
Don Lorenzo. You know?
Braulio. Everything. [Looks a moment at Don Lorenzo and then away.]
Don Lorenzo. Dr. Tomás told you?
Benito. Not to us.
Braulio. He told the doctor.
Benito. Why should he talk to us? We, in doing our duty
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] All my body is bathed in a cold sweat, like the sweat of death. I am raving—This can't possibly be true. [Repeats mechanically.] In doing your duty
Braulio. We are here on the look-out in case he should become obstreperous.
Don Lorenzo. In case he should become obstreperous?—who?
Braulio. Why, the gentleman.
Don Lorenzo. [Falls back staring at him in terror; passes his hand over his forehead as if to brush away an idea; retreats still further, staggers, and leans against the table. Then speaks low and abruptly in a dead voice.] So you know everything.
Braulio. Nearly everything.
Benito. As we have been waiting here for some time, we have heard the servants talk.
Don Lorenzo. They said?
Braulio. They didn't leave us in the dark, you may be sure. It appears Don Lorenzo had an attack the night before last. You know all about it better than we do.
Don Lorenzo. [In a heavy sombre tone.] Yes.
Benito. They say he strangled a poor old woman. [Don Lorenzo recoils in horror, and covers his face with his hands.]
Braulio. There's a fellow for you! A good beginning—that's clear enough. It's always the same thing. The family
Don Lorenzo. The family! [Removes his hands from his face, walks a few steps as if shaken by an electric shock, and stares at them with keen anxiety, speaking in the same dead voiced.]
Braulio. Yes, the family—'tis natural enough.—Don't they say he wanted to give all his fortune away? ever so many millions. The devil of a lunatic altogether. Nothing else for it but what has been decided—to pack him off. We take him away and the poor ladies are left in peace.
Don Lorenzo. I!—they?—Ángela?—Inés—no, no—not possible. [Recoils again R.]
Braulio. [Staring after him. Aside.] What's the matter with the gentleman? [To Benito.] Look at him, look. [Both keepers draw together and bend forward in direction R. looking curiously at Don Lorenzo. This group should be made important.]
Don Lorenzo. Air, light! No, not light—darkness! I do not want to see. I do not want to think. [Falls into arm-chair and lets his head drop into his palms.]
Benito. I say, I believe that's
Braulio. This is a fine fix.
Benito. Who would think it!
Braulio. Let us go back to our hiding-place.
Benito. Sh! Say nothing about it. [They rise and walk cautiously to the closet, closely watching Don Lorenzo.]
Braulio. That's settled. Not a word. We were told to stay in here. Then let us stay, and we'd have done better not to budge.
Benito. Somebody is crying and sobbing. [They reach the door, stand and look at Don Lorenzo, who has not changed his attitude. Servant enters C., crosses and goes out R.] Leave him alone, leave him alone. Now that he is calm. [They enter closet and shut door.]
SCENE X
Don Lorenzo. Dr. Tomás and servant enter R.
Don Lorenzo. My God, remove this chalice from my lips—I can endure no more—no more. Oh, strength fails me. [Sobs despairingly.] Thou who madest me believe in them. Thou who madest me love them!—and now they—oh, traitors! No, no. Lord who hast given me life, relieve me of its burden soon. See, Lord, how close upon me is the temptation to thrust from me with my own hands this putrid garb of flesh. To die! How I yearn for death! Dost thou not see it? See me kneel to implore it of thee—on my knees. Thou art kind, thou art compassionate. Death, only death. Send me death, the pallid messenger of thy love. [Falls kneeling beside the arm-chair and drops his head upon folded arms.]
Dr. Tomás. [In low voice to servant.] Have they both come?
Servant. [In same tone to Dr. Tomás.] Yes, sir; both the notary and Dr. Bermúdez. [Dr. Tomás and servant stand in middle of stage observing Don Lorenzo, who is kneeling and sobbing.]
Dr. Tomás. Poor fellow! [Steps towards Don Lorenzo, changes his mind and goes up C.] Why should I? Let us make an end of it. [Exeunt Dr. Tomás and servant.]
SCENE XI
Don Lorenzo. Afterwards Dr. Tomás and Dr. Bermúdez.
Don Lorenzo. Now am I calmer. The hurt is mortal. I feel it—here at the heart's core. Thanks, Almighty consoler. [Dr. Tomás and Dr. Bermúdez enter C. and stand watching him.]
Dr. Tomás. You see him there—beside the arm-chair.
Bermúdez. Unfortunate man!
Don Lorenzo. [Rising. Aside.] Ah, miserable being—still, still cherishing—impossible hopes. Impossible! And suppose they honestly believe that I? Oh, but if they loved me, surely they would not believe it. [Despairingly. Pause.] Did I not hear Inés—the child I so greatly love—speak of remorse? Why should she speak of remorse? [A loud with increasing agitation.] All of them—wretches!—They would almost rejoice at my death. No, then I will not die, no, not until I have fulfilled my duty as an honourable man, not before I have brought the question of my madness to an end.
Dr. Tomás. [Placing a hand upon his arm.] Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. [Turning, recognises him, and retreats angrily.] He!
Dr. Tomás. Let me introduce one of my best friends, Dr. Bermúdez. [Pause. Don Lorenzo looks at both strangely.]
Bermúdez. [In low voice to Dr. Tomás.] You can see the effort he is making to control himself. There can be no doubt that he is vaguely conscious of his condition.
Don Lorenzo. One of your best friends—one of your best friends
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] An idea is escaping him, and he is struggling to retain it.
Don Lorenzo. [Ironically.] Then if he is one of your best friends, your loyalty will be a guarantee of his.
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] At last he has found the word, but note the unnatural tones of his voice. [Aloud.] I come, Dr. Tomás assures me, to witness a most noble deed.
Don Lorenzo. And an act of unworthy treason as well.
Dr. Tomás. Lorenzo!
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] Let him say what he likes.
Don Lorenzo. And of an exemplary chastisement.
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] It is very serious, my friend, very serious.
Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. Tomás.] Call everybody, everybody, my own and strangers alike. Let them come here, and let them await my orders here while I am doing my duty elsewhere. What are you waiting for?
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] You must not contradict him. Call them. [Dr. Tomás rings a bell. Enter servant, to whom he speaks in low voice, and then goes out R.]
Don Lorenzo. 'Tis the last test. They almost inspire me with pity, the traitors! Oh, I am well sustained by the certainty of triumph. Be still, my heart. There they are, there they are! I can't see them—I who loved them so fondly. I cannot, and still my eyes turn to them, seeking them, seeking them ever.
SCENE XII
Don Lorenzo, Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez. Doña Ángela. Inés, the Duchess and Edward, R.
Don Lorenzo. Inés! It is not possible. She! No, no, it cannot be, my child! [Goes towards her with outstretched arms. Inés runs to him.]
Inés. Father! [Bermúdez hastens to interpose, and separates them roughly.]
Bermúdez. Come, come, Don Lorenzo, you might hurt your daughter very seriously.
Don Lorenzo. [Seizing his arm and shaking him violently.] You scoundrel! Who are you to tear my child away from me?
Dr. Tomás. Lorenzo!
Edward. Don Lorenzo!
Doña Ángela. Oh, heavens! [The ladies group together instinctively. Inés in her mother's arms, the Duchess near them. Dr. Tomás and Edward rush to free Bermúdez of Don Lorenzo's grasp.]
Don Lorenzo. [Aside, controlling himself.] So! the imbeciles believe it is another access of madness. Madness! Ha, ha, ha! [Laughs in a suppressed way. Everybody watches him.]
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] It is quite evident.
Doña Ángela. [Aside.] Oh, my poor husband!
Inés. [Aside.] My father!
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Now they will see how my madness is going to end. Before I leave this house with what a hearty pleasure will I kick that doctor out. Fresh vigour already animates me. What! Since when has it become reason sufficient to declare a man mad because he is resolved to perform his duty? Ah, that's not very likely. Humanity is neither so blind nor so base, though it is bad enough. Softly now. Treason has begun its work; then let the punishment begin too. [Aloud.] The hour has come for me to accomplish a sacred obligation, however sharp a sorrow it may be. It were a useless trouble to insist upon your presence at the necessary legal formalities. It would only bore you. The representative of law awaits me in yonder room. I, in obeying a higher law, am about to renounce a fortune that is not mine, as well as a name that neither I nor my family can any longer bear with a clear conscience. Afterwards I will return here, and with my wife and—and—my daughter, will leave this house, which in the past has only sheltered love and felicity, and to-day offers me nothing but treason and wickedness. Let no one seek to prevent me, for none of you can resist my will. Gentlemen [to Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez], do me the favour to go before—I beg you. [All slowly enter closet R. On the threshold Don Lorenzo looks back once at Inés.]
SCENE XIII
Doña Ángela, Inés, Duchess, and Edward.
The three women in the middle of the stage, Edward listening at the closet door.
Inés. Oh, pity, Heaven, and save him.
Doña Ángela. [Embracing her.] You are right. Let us only think of him, pray for him alone.
Duchess. It is a sacred duty for you to place poor Don Lorenzo's welfare before your own happiness; but in any case, it is no less a sacred obligation to conform to a higher will than ours. [Pause.]
Inés. [To Edward.] What are they saying? Tell us, Edward, what they are saying.
Edward. He is talking; his words are cold and severe, but not in the least uncertain or troubled. [Edward returns to the door.]
Doña Ángela. What anguish! What anxiety! Death were preferable to this torture.
Inés. What can it matter what my father says since he is already judged beforehand?
Doña Ángela. Don't say such a thing, child.
Inés. I say it because I feel it to be true, and I see it in the faces of those who are now his judges.
Doña Ángela. But what—what is it you see?
Inés. In those persons the monomania of specialists.
Doña Ángela. In Tomás?
Inés. Yes his scientific opinions—whatever they may be—his own special follies
Doña Ángela. But in me, Inés?
Inés. [Embracing her.] Your love of me.
Doña Ángela. Hush, child, hush!
Inés. They are all against my father, every one. Poor father!
Duchess. You are raving, Inés.
Inés. Yes, I am raving, and so are you, and so are all of us—all excepting him, excepting him—my heart tells me so. You yourself, madam, what is it you desire but Edward's happiness; and Edward wants my love, and I his. My father, with his virtue and his honour, is our mutual obstacle, while in us something obscure twists itself about us till conscience is enveloped in shadows. Oh, my father, my dearest father!
Doña Ángela. For pity's sake, Inés! What ideas!
Inés. What is he saying—tell me what he is saying! I hear his voice.
Edward. [Approaching.] He is speaking of conclusive evidence.
Inés. Would to God there were. [To Edward.] And now?
Edward. They are demanding to see the evidence in order to draw up the act and present it to the judge.
Doña Ángela. And he?
Edward. He is smiling triumphantly. He is pale, fearfully pale, but composed and dignified. Here they are coming. [Edward comes down the stage and says aside.] That man terrifies me.
Inés. [Aside.] God grant it may be true—though my love should perish.
Doña Ángela. [To the Duchess.] Can it be true?
Duchess. [To Doña Ángela.] Can it be true?
Edward. [Aside, seeing Don Lorenzo enter.] Ah, is it I who am mad?
LAST SCENE
Doña Ángela, Inés, the Duchess, Edward, Don Lorenzo, Bermúdez, and Dr. Tomás.
The position of the persons is as follows. The three women form a group at sofa; Edward behind the sofa looking at Don Lorenzo in terror, dominated by him. Don Lorenzo advances to the middle of the stage, with a proud, calm bearing. Behind him come Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez, who remain standing near door C.
Don Lorenzo. [Approaches table, and triumphantly places one hand on desk.] Here is the proof. Here lies the truth! [Pause. Opens desk and takes out envelope with blank sheet. Comes down stage. On one side Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez. Edward approaches him on the other.] Woe to them who think to sacrifice me to their own interests and passions! Bitter will be their deception and most cruel their punishment! Would to God my forgiveness could mitigate it for them. [Deeply moved.]
Doña Ángela. [Coming nearer.] Lorenzo!
Inés. Father
Don Lorenzo. Here is the proof, Tomás; here is the proof, Ángela, here, my child, is the proof. Listen. [Pause. Don Lorenzo opens envelope. All gather round him.] This is—what is this? [Holds paper away from his eyes, over which he rubs his hand.] What shade is this that dims my eyes? Can it be that there are tears in them which impede clear vision? No,—I cried before—but now I am not weeping. [Looks at paper again with horrible anxiety, opens it altogether, and seeks for writing on all sides.] Where are the words that woman wrote? I have read them a thousand times—and now I can't [To Dr. Tomás, holding out paper to him.] What does it say?—read,—read quickly—only tell me what it says.
Dr. Tomás. Nothing, my poor friend.
Don Lorenzo. Nothing! [Again looks at paper.] You are deceiving me. Dr. Bermúdez, that fellow is deceiving me. He is one of the scoundrels who have plotted this wretched treason. Read it you—read it
Bermúdez. There is nothing written on the paper.
Don Lorenzo. Nothing written on it! You say there is nothing written upon it! It is not true—no, it is not true. Inés, my daughter, my best beloved, come and save your father.—What does it say?
Inés. Oh, father, I see nothing.
Don Lorenzo. Nothing!—she also!—But is this not the proof?
Dr. Tomás. Yes, my unhappy friend—the proof—but a far too cruel one.
Don Lorenzo. [Striking his forehead.] Ah, I understand. [Looks at Dr. Tomás and Doña Ángela.] I heard them once before talking of a proof. You! [to Dr. Tomás] and you! [To Doña Ángela.] You have taken it away. God in Heaven! [Recoils from them in horror. The rest move away from him, and he stands alone in the middle of the stage. Pause.] Be it so,—be it so!—I am defeated—most miserably defeated! How they rejoice in their triumph! See how they gaze at me in their hypocritical distress! And they feign to weep, too. They are all feigning. [Pause.] Alas! my heart—alas! for my life's illusion—alas! for love, and oh, alas! alas! my child—phantoms that whirl about and fly from me—for ever fly away!—I who believed in all things good—in the blue above, in the purity of my daughter's brow—what is there now left me to believe in? You see for yourselves. I make no resistance. I yield myself up. Yours the victory. Why have you brought those men here when I do not seek to oppose your will? I will go wherever you bid me. Adieu. Don't touch me. [To Dr. Tomás, who approaches and takes his hand.] When human flesh comes in contact with mine, it seems to me that vipers crawl along my skin. Alone—alone will I ascend my Calvary bearing my cross of sorrows without an infamous Cyrenean to assist me. Farewell, loyal friend [still addresses Dr. Tomás], who have saved the fortune of this disconsolate family from the hands of a madman. Farewell, Ángela, my tender-hearted wife. Twenty years ago, mad with love of you, I gave you my first kiss. To-day, no less a madman, I send you the last. [Kisses his hand to her with cry and expression of desperate grief.]
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. Don't come near me. I might strangle you in my arms. [Ángela recoils.] Farewell, Inés, my only child. Be happy—if you can. To you I say nothing. I could not speak to you unkindly. [Walks a few steps feebly, then stops. Repulses roughly those who rush to his assistance.] Let me be. I require no one. My brow is damp with sweat, and thirst is upon my dry lips, and a fiery heat seems to swell my eyelids. [Stops again.] Listen to me, Inés, my child.—If you still retain any love for me,—if by chance your heart is touched with pity for your father,—if you feel regret for what you have done against me along with the rest of them—come once to my arms. Let me carry away into the hell of suffering that awaits me one tear of your eyes upon my cheek, one kiss of your dear lips upon mine.
Inés. Father! [All endeavour to restrain her, but she breaks from them and runs to Don Lorenzo, who catches her in his arms and holds her closely clasped to his breast.]
Don Lorenzo. My child! [The rest advance to them, but make no effort to separate them.]
Inés. No—they must not take you away—I love you dearly,—every one lies but you.
Don Lorenzo. You would not have those men carry me off?
Inés. No, no; I will defend you—and you defend me.
Don Lorenzo. Yes! I will defend you—Let them drag you from my arms if they can. [Makes a movement to carry her away.]
Doña Ángela. My child, my child! Help! [Edward, Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez struggle to separate father and daughter.]
Don Lorenzo. I will not let her go—for ever in my arms!
Inés. Yes, yes, father. Defend me.
Bermúdez. It is imperative.
Edward. Don Lorenzo!
Dr. Tomás. Lorenzo!
Duchess. Merciful god, he will kill her as he killed Juana!
Doña Ángela. Inés! [These exclamations are simultaneous: the struggle is swift. Keepers enter. The men hold Don Lorenzo, and the women restrain Inés, keeping her by force from her father.]
Edward. At last!
Inés. Father! [Holds her arms out to Don Lorenzo.]
Don Lorenzo. I was not able, child.—I could do no more.—Here upon my cheek I feel your kisses and your tears.—She at least loved me—she was innocent—I see it now. God above, thou hast accepted my martyrdom in that night of agony and temptation in exchange for her happiness. I do not regret it. Make her happy—very happy! and let the cup of bitterness be mine alone—only mine!
Inés. Adieu, father—I will save you yet.
Don Lorenzo. What can you do, child—when God himself has not seen fit to save me? [Remains near closet between keepers, guarded by Edward, Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez. Inés, held back by the other women, stands with arms strained towards him.]
Curtain