SCENE IV
Teodora, Ernest, Doña Mercedes, and Don Severo. The latter remain standing behind as they enter. The room is quite dark, save for a glimmer of light shed from the balcony, whither Ernest and Teodora have moved.
Ernest. How good you are!
Teodora. And you, what a boy! After to-day I hope you have done with sadness—eh?
Ernest. Quite.
Mercedes. [Outside, speaking low.] How dark it is!
Severo. [In same tone.] Come away, Mercedes.
Mercedes. [Crossing the threshold.] There is nobody here.
Severo. [Detaining her.] Yes, there is. [Both stand a while peering.]
Ernest. Teodora, my whole life, a thousand lives would still not be enough to offer you in return for your kindness. Don't judge me by my morose temper. I cannot lend a showy front to my affections, but, believe me, I do know how to love—and hate as well. My heart can beat to bursting under the lash of either sentiment.
Mercedes. [To Severo.] What are they saying?
Severo. Something odd, but I hear imperfectly. [Teodora and Ernest go out on the balcony, speaking low.]
Mercedes. 'Tis Ernest.
Severo. And she—I suppose—is——
Mercedes. Teodora.
Severo. Their eternal tricks—always together. I can stand no more of this. And their words? I mustn't put it off any longer——
Mercedes. True, Severo. Come away. It is certainly your duty, since everybody is talking.
Severo. Yes, I must open Julian's eyes—to-day, at once.
Mercedes. The fellow has impudence enough, and to spare.
Severo. By all that's holy—so has she.
Mercedes. Poor girl! She's but a child. Leave her to me.
Teodora. Another house? Surely no. You wouldn't leave us? What an idea! Julian would never consent.
Severo. [To Doña Mercedes.] I should think not indeed, neither would I. [Aloud.] Ah, Teodora, you didn't see me? This is how you receive your guests.
Teodora. [Coming from the balcony.] Don Severo! I am delighted.
Mercedes. Is there no dinner this evening? It's near the hour.
Teodora. Mercedes too!
Mercedes. Yes, Teodora.
Severo. [Aside.] She is a capital actress. What a creature!
Teodora. I must ring for lights. [Touches the bell on the table.]
Severo. Quite so. Every one likes plenty of light.
Servant. Madam?
Teodora. Bring the lamps, Genaro. [Exit servant.]
Severo. He who follows the narrow path of loyalty and duty, and is always that which he appears to be, need never fear the light, nor blush in its glare.
Teodora. [Laughing naturally.] So I should think, and such, I imagine, is the general opinion. [Looks at Mercedes.]
Mercedes. I suppose so.
Severo. Hulloa, Don Ernest! what were you doing out there? Were you with Teodora when we came in! [Speaks with marked intention.]
Ernest. [Coldly.] I was here as you see.
Severo. The deuce you were! It is rather dark to see. [Approaches him with outstretched hand, looking fixedly at him. Teodora and Mercedes converse apart. Aside.] His face is flushed, and he appears to have been crying. In this world only children and lovers weep. [Aloud.] And Julian?
Teodora. He went away to write a letter.
Ernest. [Aside.] Though I have patience to spare, this man tries me hard.
Severo. [To Teodora.] I am going to see him. There is still time before dinner?
Teodora. Plenty.
Severo. Good. Then to work. [Aside, rubbing his hands, and looking back at Ernest and Teodora. Aloud.] Goodbye.
Teodora. Goodbye.
Severo. [Rancorously, from the door.] My faith!
SCENE V
Teodora, Doña Mercedes, and Ernest. The ladies occupy the sofa, and Ernest stands near them.
Mercedes. [To Ernest.] We did not see you to-day.
Ernest. No, madam.
Mercedes. Nor Pepito?
Ernest. No.
Mercedes. He is upstairs alone.
Ernest. [Aside.] Let him stop there.
Mercedes. [Gravely and mysteriously to Teodora.] I wish he would go. I want to speak to you.
Teodora. Indeed?
Mercedes. [In same tone.] Yes, it is something very serious.
Teodora. Well, begin!
Mercedes. Why doesn't he go?
Teodora. [In a low voice.] I don't understand you.
Mercedes. Courage! [Takes her hand and clasps it affectionately. Teodora looks at her in sombre question.] Send him about his business.
Teodora. If you insist. Ernest, will you do me a favour?
Ernest. Gladly—with a thousand wills.
Mercedes. [Aside.] One were still too many.
Teodora. Then go upstairs—to Pepito——But it might bore you to carry a message.
Ernest. By no means.
Mercedes. [Aside.] In what a sweet, soft voice he speaks to her!
Teodora. Tell him—ask him if he has renewed our subscription at the Opera as I told him. He knows about it.
Ernest. With pleasure—this very moment.
Teodora. Thanks, Ernest, I am sorry——
Ernest. Nonsense. [Exit.]
Teodora. Adieu!
SCENE VI
Teodora. Something serious? You alarm me, Mercedes. Such mystery! What can it mean?
Mercedes. It is indeed very serious.
Teodora. Concerning whom?
Mercedes. All of you.
Teodora. All of us?
Mercedes. Julian, Ernest, and you.
Teodora. All three?
Mercedes. Yes, all three. [Short pause. Both women stare at each other.]
Teodora. Then make haste.
Mercedes. [Aside.] I should like to——but, no; I must go gently in this unsavoury affair. [Aloud.] Listen, Teodora. My husband is, after all, your husband's brother, and in life and death our fortunes are one. So that we owe one another in all things protection, help, and advice,—is it not so? To-day it may be I who offer assistance, and to-morrow, should I need it, I unblushingly claim it of you.
Teodora. You may count upon it, Mercedes. But come to the end of the matter now.
Mercedes. Up to to-day, Teodora, I shrank from this step, but Severo urges me. 'It can't go on,' he insists. 'My brother's honour and my own self-esteem forbid me to witness that which fills me with shame and sorrow. On all sides am I assailed with innuendoes, with the smiles, the covert glances and the reproaches of my friends. There must be an end to this low gossip about us.'
Teodora. Continue, pray.
Mercedes. Then heed me. [They exchange a prolonged gaze.]
Teodora. Tell me, what is the gossip?
Mercedes. The murmuring of the river tells us that its waters are swollen.
Teodora. I understand nothing of your river and its swollen waters, but do not drive me wild.
Mercedes. [Aside.] Poor child! My heart grieves for her. [Aloud.] So you do not understand me?
Teodora. I? not in the least.
Mercedes. [Aside.] How stupid she is! [Aloud, energetically.] You make a laughing-stock of him.
Teodora. Of whom?
Mercedes. Why, of your husband, of course.
Teodora. [Impetuously, rising.] Julian! what a falsehood! What wretch could say so? Julian would strike him!
Mercedes. [Endeavouring to soothe her and make her sit down.] He would need a good many hands, then; for, if report speak truly, he would have to strike the entire town.
Teodora. But what does it all mean? What is the mystery, and what is this talk of the town?
Mercedes. So you're sorry?
Teodora. I am sorry. But what is it?
Mercedes. You see, Teodora, you are quite a child. At your age one is so often thoughtless and light, and then such bitter tears are afterwards shed. You still don't understand me?
Teodora. No, what has such a case to do with me?
Mercedes. It is the story of a scoundrel and the story of a lady——
Teodora. [Eagerly.] Whose name——?
Mercedes. Her name——
Teodora. Oh, what does it matter?
[Teodora moves away from Mercedes, who shifts her seat on the sofa to follow her. The double movement of repugnance and aloofness on Teodora's part, and of insistence and protection on Mercedes', is very marked.]
Mercedes. The man is a shabby-hearted betrayer, who, for one hour of pleasure, would thrust upon the woman a life of sorrow: the husband's dishonour, the ruin of a family, and she left shamed and condemned to social penitence in the world's disdain, and to keener punishment still at the whip of her own conscience.
[Here Teodora, avoiding Mercedes, reaches the edge of the sofa, bows her head and covers her face with both hands. At last she understands.]
Mercedes. [Aside.] Poor little thing! She touches me. [Aloud.] This man is not worthy of you, Teodora.
Teodora. But, madam, what is the drift of all this blind emotion? Do not imagine that my eyes are dimmed with fear or horror or tears. They burn with the flame of anger. To whom can such words be addressed? What man do you mean? Is it, perchance——?
Mercedes. Ernest.
Teodora. Ah! [Pause.] And the woman I? Not so? [Mercedes nods and Teodora rises again.] Then listen to me, though I may offend you. I know not who is the viler, the inventor of this tale or you who repeat it. Shame upon the meanness that formed the idea, and shame upon the villainy that spreads it! It is so abominable, so fatal, that I almost feel myself criminal because I cannot instantly reject the thought and forget it. Heavens! could I suppose or credit such baseness? Because of his misfortunes I loved him. He was like a brother to me, and Julian was his providence. And he so noble and thorough a gentleman! [Stands staring at Mercedes, then turns away her face. Aside.] How she inspects me! I scarcely like to say a good word for him to her. My God! I am compelled already to act a part.
Mercedes. Be calm, child.
Teodora. [Raising her voice.] Oh, what anguish! I feel cold and inconsolable. Stained in this way by public opinion! Oh, my dearest mother, and you, Julian, my heart's beloved. [She falls sobbing into a chair on the left, and Mercedes strives to console her.]
Mercedes. I did not imagine—forgive me—don't cry. There, I didn't really believe it was serious. I knew your past exonerated you. But as the case stands, you must admit that out of every hundred a hundred would accuse you and Julian of excessive rashness, or say you had led the world to conclude the worst. You a girl of twenty, Julian a man of forty, and Ernest between you, with his head full of romantic thoughts. On the one hand, a husband given up to business, on the other a youth to dreams, every day bringing its opportunity, and you there, unoccupied, in the flush of romance. It was wrong for people to conclude the worst because they saw you walking with him, and saw him so often at the theatre with you. But, Teodora, in reason and justice I think that, if the world was bent on seeing evil, you furnished the occasion. Permit me to point out to you that the fault which society most fiercely chastises, pursues most relentlessly and cruelly, and in every varied imaginable way, both in man and woman is—don't frown so, Teodora—is temerity.
Teodora. [Turning to Mercedes without having heard her.] And you say that Julian——
Mercedes. Is the laughing-stock of the town, and you——
Teodora. Oh, I! That's no matter. But Julian!—Oh, oh, so good, so chivalrous! If he only knew——
Mercedes. He will know, for at this very moment Severo is telling him.
Teodora. What!
Julian. [Inside.] That will do.
Teodora. Oh, goodness!
Julian. Let me alone.
Teodora. Come away, quickly.
Mercedes. [Rushing with Teodora towards first door on the right.] Yes, yes, quickly. What folly! [Teodora and Mercedes go to the right.]
Teodora. [Stopping suddenly.] But wherefore, since I am not guilty? Not only does miserable calumny stain us, but it degrades us. It is so steeped in evil, that, against all evidence, its very breath takes the bloom off our consciences. Why should an idle terror cast its mean influence over me? [At this moment Don Julian appears on the threshold of the first door on the right hand side, and behind him stands Don Severo.]
Teodora. Julian!
D. Julian. Teodora! [She runs over to him, and he folds her in a passionate embrace.] Here in my arms, dearest. It is the home of your honour.
SCENE VII
Teodora, Doña Mercedes, Don Julian, and Don Severo. Don Julian and Doña Mercedes form the centre group.
D. Julian. Let it pass for this once, but, please God! there's an end of it. Whoever in future shall stain this face with tears [pointing to Teodora], I swear, and mean it, will never again cross the threshold of my house—though he should be my own brother. [Pause. Don Julian soothes and comforts Teodora.]
D. Severo. I only mentioned common report.
D. Julian. Infamous!
D. Severo. It may be so.
D. Julian. It is.
D. Severo. Well, let me tell you what every one says.
D. Julian. Filth! abominable lies.
D. Severo. Then repeating them——
D. Julian. 'Tis not the way to put an end to them.
D. Severo. You are wrong.
D. Julian. Right—more than right. A fine thing it would be if I let you carry the mire of the street into my drawing-room!
D. Severo. But I will do so.
D. Julian. You shall not.
D. Severo. You bear my name.
D. Julian. Enough.
D. Severo. And your honour——
D. Julian. Remember that you are in my wife's presence.
D. Severo. [In a low voice to Don Julian.] If our father saw you——
D. Julian. What do you mean, Severo?
Mercedes. Hush! Here is Ernest.
Teodora. [Aside.] How dreadful! If he should know—— [Teodora turns away her face, and holds her head bent. Don Julian looks at her questioningly.]
SCENE VIII
Teodora, Doña Mercedes, Don Julian, Don Severo, Ernest and Pepito grouped from left to right. On entering, Pepito stands on Don Julian's side and Ernest walks over to Teodora.
Ernest. [Looking at Don Julian and Teodora. Aside.] He and she! It is no illusion. Can it be what I feared? what that fool told me. [Referring to Pepito, who at that moment enters behind.] It was not his invention.
Pepito. [Staring strangely about.] My salutations to all, and good appetite—as it is dinner-time. Here are the tickets, Teodora. Don Julian——
Teodora. Thanks, Pepito. [Accepts them mechanically.]
Ernest. [To Don Julian in a low voice.] What's the matter with Teodora?
D. Julian. Nothing.
Ernest. [In same tone.] She is pale, and has been crying.
D. Julian. [Angrily.] Don't busy yourself about my wife. [Pause. Don Julian and Ernest exchange glances.]
Ernest. [Aside.] The wretches! They've completed their work.
Pepito. [In a low voice to his mother, pointing to Ernest.] He ought to have a strait-jacket. I quizzed him about Teodora. Poof! 'Pon my word, I thought he'd kill me.
Ernest. [Aloud, with resolution and sadness.] Don Julian, I have thought over your generous offer, and much as I've already abused your kindness, it goes sorely against me to refuse it now. But, sir, I feel that I ought to reject this post you offer me.
D. Julian. Why?
Ernest. Because I am so fashioned,—a poet and a dreamer. My father, sir, trained me for no career. I want to travel; I am restless and liable to revolt. I am not capable of settling down like another. Like a new Columbus, I am bitten by the spirit of adventure. But we will appeal to Don Severo. He will decide if I am right.
D. Severo. You speak like the book of wisdom and like a man of sense. I have been thinking as you do for a long while.
D. Julian. Since when have you felt this itch for new worlds and travel? When did you make up your mind to leave us? And the means?—where are they?
D. Severo. He wants to go away—to some place more to his taste than here. To be just, Julian, the rest is your affair. Give him as much as he wants, too, for this is no time for economy.
Ernest. [To Don Severo.] I don't traffic with dishonour, nor receive alms. [Pause.] Well, it must be so; and as our parting would be a sad one—for in this life, who knows? I may never come back, and may not see them again—it is better that we should shake hands now, here, Don Julian, and have it over. Thus we snap the tie, and you forgive my selfishness. [Deeply moved.]
D. Severo. [Aside.] How they stare at one another!
Teodora. [Aside.] What a noble fellow!
Ernest. [To Don Julian.] Why do you withhold your hand? It is our last adieu, Don Julian. [Goes toward him with outstretched hands. Don Julian embraces him.]
D. Julian. No, lad. The question well considered, this is neither the first nor the last. It is the cordial embrace of two honourable men. You must not mention your mad project again.
D. Severo. Then he is not going away?
D. Julian. Never. I have not the habit of changing my mind or the plans I have matured because of a boy's caprice or a madman's folly. And I have still less intention of weakly subjecting my actions to the town's idle gossip.
D. Severo. Julian!
D. Julian. Enough. Dinner is served.
Ernest. Father, I cannot——
D. Julian. But what if I believe you can? Or does my authority begin to bore you?
Ernest. I beg you——
D. Julian. Come, dinner is ready. Give your arm to Teodora, and take her in.
Ernest. [Looking at her, but holding back.] To Teodora!
Teodora. [With a similar emotion.] Ernest!
D. Julian. Yes, as usual. [There is a movement of uncertainty on both sides; finally Ernest approaches and Teodora takes his arm, but neither dares to look at the other, and both are abrupt and violently agitated.]
D. Julian. [To Pepito.] And you! The deuce, why don't you offer your arm to your mother? My good brother Severo will take mine. So, quite a family party, and now let pleasure flow with the wine in our glasses. So there are gossips about? Well, let them chatter and scream. A farthing for all they can say. I shouldn't object to a glass house, that they might have the pleasure of staring in at Teodora and Ernest together, and learn how little I care for their spite and their calumnies. Each man to his fancy.
Servant. Dinner is served.
[The dining-room door opens and displays a well-appointed table.]
D. Julian. Let us look after our life, since it will be the affair of others to look after our death. Come. [Invites the others to pass.]
Teodora. Mercedes.
Mercedes. Teodora.
Teodora. I pray you, Mercedes.
[Doña Mercedes passes in with Pepito and takes her place at the table. Ernest and Teodora stand plunged in thought, Ernest looking anxiously at her.]
D. Julian. [Aside.] He is looking at her, and there are tears in her eyes. [Teodora, walking unsteadily and struggling with emotion, slowly follows the others inside.]
D. Julian. [To Severo.] Are they talking together?
D. Severo. I don't know, but I think it very probable.
D. Julian. Why are they looking back at us? Both! Did you notice? I wonder why.
D. Severo. You see, you are growing reasonable at last!
D. Julian. No, I've caught your madness. Ah, how sure a thing is calumny! It pierces straight to the heart.
ACT II
Scene represents a small room almost poorly furnished. Door at the end, on the right another door, and on the left a balcony. A book-case, a table, an arm-chair. On the table Don Julian's portrait in a frame, beside it an empty frame; both small and alike. On the table an unlighted lamp, the 'Divina Commedia,' open at the Francesca episode, and close to it a morsel of burnt paper. Papers scattered about, and the MS. of a play. A few chairs. Time, day.
SCENE I
D. Severo. Don Ernest is out?
Servant. Yes, sir. He went out early.
D. Severo. No matter. We'll wait. I suppose he will be in sooner or later.
Servant. I should think so. Nobody could be more punctual than he.
D. Severo. That will do.
Servant. Certainly, sir. If you want anything, you'll find me downstairs. [Exit servant.]
SCENE II
D. Severo. [Looking round.] How modest!
D. Julian. Poor is a better word.
D. Severo. What a lodging! [Opens the door and peeps in.] An alcove, this study, and an outer room—and that's all.
D. Julian. And thereby hangs the devil's own tale of human ingratitude, of bastard sentiment, of miserable passions, and of blackguard calumny. And whether you tell it quickly or at length, there's never an end to it.
D. Severo. It is the work of chance.
D. Julian. Not so, my dear fellow. It was the work of—well, I know whom.
D. Severo. Meaning me?
D. Julian. Yes, you as well. And before you the empty-pated idlers whom it behoved to busy themselves shamelessly about my honour and my wife's. And I, coward, mean, and jealous, I let the poor fellow go, despite my evidence of his upright nature. I responded to his nobler conduct by black ingratitude. Yes, ingratitude. You see my ostentatious wealth, the luxury of my surroundings and equipages, and the credit of my firm. Well, do you know where all that comes from?
D. Severo. I have quite forgotten.
D. Julian. Justly said,—forgotten! Such is the natural reward of every generous action, of every unusual impulse that prompts one man to help another quietly, without a flourish of trumpet or self-advertisement—just for friendship's or for honesty's sake.
D. Severo. You are unjust to yourself. To such an excess have you pushed gratitude, that you have almost sacrificed honour and fortune to it. What more could be expected—even of a saint? There's a limit to all things, good and evil. He is proud and obstinate, and, however much you may oppose him, 'tis none the less a fact that he's his own master. If he chooses to leave your palace in a fit of despair, for this shanty—'tis his right. I admit, my dear boy, that it's very sad—but then, who could have prevented it?
D. Julian. The world in general, if it would mind its own business instead of tearing and rending reputations by the movement of its tongue and the sign of its hand. What did it matter to the public if we, fulfilling a sacred duty, treated Ernest, I as a son, and Teodora as a brother? Is it reason enough to assume the worst, and trumpet scandal because a fine lad sits at my table, walks out with my wife, and has his seat in my opera-box? Is by chance impure love the sole supreme bond between man and woman in this world of clay? Is there no friendship, gratitude, sympathy, esteem, that youth and beauty should only meet in the mire? And even supposing that the conclusion of the fools was the right one, is it their business to avenge me? I have my own eyes to look after my own affairs, and to avenge my wrongs have I not courage, steel, and my own right hand?
D. Severo. Well, accepting that outsiders were wrong to talk, did you expect me, who am of your blood and bear your name, to hold my tongue?
D. Julian. By heavens, no! But you should have been more careful. You might have told me alone of this sorry business, and not have set flame to a conflagration under my very roof.
D. Severo. I erred through excess of affection, I admit. But while I confess that the world and I have done the mischief—it by inventing the situation, and I by weakly crediting, and by giving voice to the shabby innuendoes—you, Julian [approaches him and speaks with tender interest], have nothing to reproach yourself with. You have the consolation of having acted throughout as a gentleman.
D Julian. I cannot so easily console myself, while my heart gives shelter to that same story which my lips and my intelligence reject. I indignantly turn away from the world's calumny, and to myself I say: 'What if it should be no lie: if perchance the world should be right?' So I stand in strife between two impulses, sometimes judge, sometimes accomplice. This inward battle wears me out, Severo. Doubt increases and expands, and my heart groans, while before my bloodshot vision stretches a reddened field.
D. Severo. Delirium!
D. Julian. No, 'tis not raving. You see, I bare myself to you as a brother. Think you Ernest would have left my house if I had firmly stood in his way and opposed his crossing the threshold? If so, why does a traitorous voice keep muttering in my disturbed consciousness: ‘’twere wise to leave the door open to his exit, and lock it well afterwards, for the confiding man is but a poor guardian of honour’s fortress.’ In my heart I wish what my lips deny. 'Come back, Ernest,' aloud, and to myself 'do not come back,' and while I show him a frank front, I am a hypocrite and a coward, watchful and worn with mistrust. No, Severo, this is not to act like an honest man. [He drops into the arm-chair beside the table in deep dejection.]
D. Severo. It is how any husband would act who had a beautiful young wife to look after, especially one with a romantic temperament.
D. Julian. Don't speak so of Teodora. She is a mirror that our breath tarnishes by any imprudent effort to bring it to our level. It gave back the sun's pure light before the million vipers of the earth gathered to stare at it. To-day they crawl within the glass in its divine frame, but they are insubstantial shadows. My hand can wave them away, and once more you will see the clear blue of heaven.
D. Severo. All the better.
D. Julian. No, not so.
D. Severo. Then what the deuce do you want?
D. Julian. Oh, so much. I told you that this inward struggle of which I spoke is changing me to another man. Now my wife finds me always sad, always distant. I am not the man I was, and no effort will ever make me so again. Seeing me so changed, she must ask, 'Where is Julian? this is not my dear husband; what have I done to forfeit his confidence, and what shabby feeling causes this aloofness?' a shadow lies between us, ever deepening, and slowly, step by step, we move more apart. None of the old dear confidence, none of the old delightful talks; smiles frozen, tones embittered, in me through unjust resentment, in her through tearful grief,—I wounded in my love, and she, by my hand, wounded in her woman's dignity. There's how we stand.
D. Severo. Then you stand upon the verge of perdition. If you see your position so plainly, why don't you remedy it?
D. Julian. 'Tis of no use. I know I am unjust to doubt her, nay, worse still. I don't doubt her now. But who will say that, I losing little by little, and he gaining as steadily, the lie of to-day will not to-morrow be truth? [He seizes Don Severo by the arm, and speaks with voluble earnestness and increasing bitterness.] I, jealous, sombre, unjust and hard, he noble and generous, resigned and inalterably sweet-natured, with that halo of martyrdom which, in the eyes of women, sits so becomingly on the brow of a brave and handsome youth. Is it not clear that his is the better part, and that my loss is his gain? while I can do nothing to alter the injustice of it. You see it, too? And if the ignoble talk of the town should compel those two to treason, though they may now truthfully assert: 'we are not lovers,' the force of repetition of the word may eventually drive them to the fact.
D. Severo. If that's how you feel about it, Julian, I think the safest thing would be to let Ernest carry out his project.
D. Julian. That I've come to prevent.
D. Severo. Then you are insane. He purposes to go to Buenos Ayres. Nothing could be better. Let him go—in a sailing vessel, fresh wind to his sail, and good speed.
D. Julian. Do you wish me to show myself so miserably ungrateful and jealous before Teodora? Don't you know, Severo, that a woman may despise a lover and love him still, but not so a husband? Contempt is his dishonour. You would not have my wife follow the unhappy exile across the ocean with sad regrets? And I, should I see the trace of a tear upon her cheek, the mere thought that it might be for Ernest would drive me to strangle her in my arms. [Speaks with rancour and rage.]
D. Severo. What is it then you do want?
D. Julian. I must suffer. The care of unravelling the knot belongs to the world that conceived the drama solely by looking at us,—so fertile is its glance for good and ill.
D. Severo. [Moving back.] I think somebody is coming.
Servant. [From without, not seen on the stage.] Don Ernest cannot be much later. [Enter Pepito.]
SCENE III
D. Severo. You here?
Pepito. [Aside.] By Jove, I see they know all about it. [Aloud.] We are all here. How do you do, uncle? How do, father? [Aside.] Easy. They know what's in the wind. [Aloud.] What brings you?—but I suppose you are looking for Ernest.
D. Severo. What else could bring us here?
D. Julian. I daresay you know what this madman is up to?
Pepito. What he's up to! Well, yes—rather. I know as much as another.
D. Severo. And it's to-morrow?
Pepito. No, to-morrow he is going away, so it must be to-day.
D. Julian. [Surprised.] What do you say?
Pepito. That's what Pepe Uceda told me last night at the club. He is Nebreda's second, so he ought to know. But why do you stare so oddly? Didn't you know——
D. Julian. [Hastily covering his brother's movement.] Everything.
D. Severo. We——
D. Julian. [Aside.] Hold your tongue, Severo.—He starts to-morrow, and to-day he stakes his life—and we are here, of course, to prevent both, the duel and the departure. [Don Julian makes it evident that he is only sounding Pepito's knowledge of facts, and that he is only aware of the pending departure.]
D. Severo. What duel?
D. Julian. [Aside to Severo.] I know nothing about it, but I shall presently.
Pepito. [Aside.] Come, I haven't been such a duffer after all.
D. Julian. [Speaking with an air of certainty.] We know there is a viscount——
Pepito. Yes.
D. Julian. With whom Ernest proposes to fight—a certain trustworthy person has informed us, who was at once apprised of it. They say 'tis a serious matter [Pepito nods], a disgraceful quarrel in the presence of several witnesses [Pepito nods again]—the lie direct, and a deluge of bad language——
Pepito. [Interrupts excitedly, glad of his more accurate information.] Language indeed!—a blow bigger than a monument.
D. Severo. On which side?
Pepito. Ernest struck the viscount.
D. Julian. Of course Ernest struck the viscount. I thought you knew that, Severo. The viscount insulted him. Patience is not the lad's strong point—hence the blow.
Pepito. Exactly.
D. Julian. [Confidently.] I told you we knew the whole story. [Then anxiously.] The affair is serious?
Pepito. Most serious. I don't like discussing it, but since you know so much, there is no need for further mystery.
D. Julian. None whatever. [He approaches Pepito eagerly.]
Pepito. [After a pause, adopts an ominous air to announce bad news.] It is a matter of life and death. [Looks round triumphantly. Don Julian and Don Severo start.] The viscount is neither a chicken nor a skulk. He can handle a sword.
D. Julian. And the quarrel? What was it? Nebreda is supposed to be——
Pepito. It was hardly a quarrel. I'll tell you the facts. [Both men draw near eagerly.] Ernest, you know, means to leave Madrid to-morrow, and take passage in the Cid lying in Cadiz. Luiz Alcaráz had promised him a letter of introduction, and the poor fellow went off to meet him at the café and get it, with the best of intentions. Luiz wasn't there, so he waited. Some of the frequenters of Alcaráz's table, who did not know him, were in the full swing of glorious slander, and did not notice his clenched teeth. A name mentioned meant a reputation blasted. Broad-handed, ready-tongued, every living soul passed in their review. In this asylum of charity, in the midst of more smoke than an express train emits, between lifted glass and dropped cigarette ashes, with here and there a lump of sugar, the marble was converted for the nonce into a dissecting-table: each woman dishonoured, another glass of the old tap: a shout of laughter for each tippler's cut. In four clippings these lads left reputations ragged and the ladies rent to tatters. Yet what did it all come to? They but echoed society at a café-table. I don't say all this for myself, nor think it, but 'twas how Ernest spoke when he recounted the quarrel to me.
D. Julian. Well, make an end of it.
Pepito. The end of it is, that between name and name, there was mention of one that Ernest could not endure. 'Who dares to ridicule an honourable man?' he shouts. Somebody retorts: 'a lady,' and names a woman. His head was instantly on fire, and he flings himself upon Nebreda. The poor viscount fell like a ninepin, and there you have an Agramante's camp. The day's business is now a duel—in a room somewhere—I don't know where.
D. Julian. [Seizing his arms.] The man was I!
Pepito. Sir?
D. Julian. And Teodora the woman? How have we fallen—she, myself, our love? [Sits down and covers his face with both hands.]
Severo. What have you done, you blockhead!
Pepito. Didn't he say he knew all about it? and I naturally believed him.
D. Julian. Dishonoured, dishonoured!
Severo. [Approaching him.] Julian, my dear fellow.
D. Julian. It is true. I ought to be calm, I know. But what heart can I have when faith is gone? [Seizes his brother's hand.] Just heaven! Why are we so disgraced? What reason have they to turn and throw mud at us? No matter. I know my duty as a gentleman. I can count on you, Severo?
Severo. On me? Till death, Julian. [They shake hands cordially.]
Julian. [To Pepito.] The duel?
Pepito. For three o'clock.
Julian. [Aside.] I'll kill him—yes, kill him. Come. [To Severo.]
Severo. Whither?
D. Julian. To look for this viscount.
Severo. Do you mean——?
D. Julian. I mean to do what I ought and can to avenge myself and save Don Juan of Acedo's son. Who are the seconds? [To Pepito.]
Pepito. Alcaráz and Rueda.
D. Julian. I know them both. Let him stay here [pointing to Pepito], so that in the event of Ernest's return——
Severo. Of course.
D. Julian. [To Pepito.] Without arousing his suspicion, find out where the duel takes place.
Severo. You hear.
D. Julian. [To his brother.] Come.
Severo. What's the matter with you, Julian?
D. Julian. 'Tis a long while since I've felt so overjoyed. [Catches Severo's arm feverishly.]
Severo. The deuce! overjoyed! You're beside yourself.
D. Julian. I shall meet that fellow.
Severo. Nebreda?
D. Julian. Yes. Observe, until to-day calumny was impalpable. There was no seizing its shape. I have now discovered it, and it has taken a human form. There it is at hand, in the person of a viscount. Swallowing blood and gall for the past three months—the devil!—and now—fancy, face to face—he and I!