SCENE IV
Pepito. Well, here we are in a nice fix, and all for nothing! However, in spite of my uncle's belief, it was little short of madness to leave a resplendent creature under the same roof and in continual contact with a handsome fellow like Ernest, with a soul on fire, or given to romanticism. He swears there's nothing in it, and that his feeling for her is pure affection, that he loves her like a sister, and that my uncle is a father to him. But I am a sly fox, and, young as I am, I know a thing or two of this world. I've no faith in this sort of relations, when the brother is young and the sister is beautiful, and brotherhood between them a fiction. But suppose it were as he says, all square. What do outsiders know about that? Nobody is under any obligation to think the best of his fellows. The pair are seen everywhere together, and, seeing them, haven't their neighbours a right to talk? No, swears Ernest. We hardly ever went out alone. Once, perhaps? That's enough. If a hundred persons saw them on that occasion, it is quite the same as if they had been seen in public a hundred times. Good Lord! How are you going to confront all the witnesses to prove whether it was once or often they chose to give an airing to this pure sympathy and brotherly love? 'Tis absurd—neither just nor reasonable. What we see we may mention—'tis no lie to say it. 'I saw them once,' says one, 'and I,' another. One and one make two. 'And I also'—that makes three. And then a fourth, and a fifth, and so, summing which, you soon enough reach infinity. We see because we look, and our senses are there to help us to pass the time, without any thought of our neighbour. He must look out for himself, and remember that, if he shuns the occasion, calumny and peril will shun him. [Pause.] And take notice that I admit the purity of the affection, and this makes it so serious a matter. Now, in my opinion, the man who could be near Teodora, and not fall in love with her, must be a stone. He may be learned and philosophical, and know physics and mathematics, but he has a body like another, and she's there with a divine one, and, body of Bacchus! that's sufficient to found an accusation on. Ah! if these walls could speak. If Ernest's private thoughts, scattered here, could take tangible form! By Jove! what's this? An empty frame, and beside it Don Julian's likeness in its fellow. Teodora was there, the pendant of my respected uncle. Why has she disappeared? To avoid temptation? [Sits down at the table.] If that's the reason—it's bad. And still worse if the portrait has left its frame for a more honourable place near his heart. Come forth, suspected imps that float about, and weave invisible meshes. Ruthlessly denounce this mystic philosopher. [Looks about the table and sees the open Dante.] Here's another. I never come here but I find this divine book open on Ernest's table. The Divine Comedy! His favourite poem, and I note that he seems never to get beyond the Francesca page. I conceive two explanations of the fact. Either the fellow never reads it, or he never reads any other. But there's a stain, like a tear-drop. My faith! what mysteries and abysses! And what a difficult thing it is to be married and live tranquilly. A paper half burnt—[picks it up]—there's still a morsel left. [Goes over to the balcony trying to read it. At this moment Ernest enters, and stands watching him.]
SCENE V
Ernest. What are you looking at?
Pepito. Hulloa! Ernest. Only a paper I caught on the wing. The wind blew it away.
Ernest. [Takes it and returns it after a short inspection.] I don't remember what it is.
Pepito. Verses. You may remember [reads with difficulty] 'The flame that consumes me.' [Aside.] Devora rhymes with Teodora.
Ernest. It is nothing important.
Pepito. No, nothing. [Throws away the paper.]
Ernest. That worthless bit of paper is a symbol of our life—a few sobs of sorrow, and a little flake of ashes.
Pepito. Then they were verses?
Ernest. Yes. When I've nothing better to do, sometimes—my pen runs away with me—I write them at night.
Pepito. And to prick enthusiasm, and get into harness, you seek inspiration in the master's book.
Ernest. It would seem——
Pepito. Say no more. 'Tis truly a gigantic work. The episode of Francesca. [Pointing to the page.]
Ernest. [Ironically and impatiently.] You can't guess wrong to-day.
Pepito. Not entirely, by Jove. Here, where the book is open, I find something I can't guess, and you must explain it to me. Reading a love-tale together to pass the time, we are told that Francesca and Paolo reached that part where the gallant author, proving himself no amateur in the business, sings the loves of Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. The match fell pat. The kiss in the book was repeated by the passionate youth on the girl's mouth. And at this point of the story, with rare skill and sublime truth, the Florentine poet tells us what happens. [Points to the line.] But this is what I do not understand. Galeoto was the book they were reading, and they read no more. They stopped reading? That's easy enough to understand. But this Galeoto, tell me where he comes in, and who was he? You ought to know, since he has given his name to the play that is to make you famous. Let me see. [Takes up the MS. and examines it.]
Ernest. Galeoto was the go-between for the Queen and Launcelot and in all loves the third may be truthfully nicknamed Galeoto, above all when we wish to suggest an ugly word without shocking an audience.
Pepito. I see, but have we no Spanish word to express it?
Ernest. We have one, quite suitable and expressive enough. 'Tis an office that converts desires into ducats, overcomes scruples, and is fed upon the affections. It has a name, but to use it would be putting a fetter upon myself, forcing myself to express what, after all, I would leave unsaid. [Takes the MS. from Pepito and flings it upon the table.] Each especial case, I have remarked, has its own especial go-between. Sometimes it is the entire social mass that is Galeoto. It then unconsciously exercises the office under the influence of a vice of quite another aspect, but so dexterously does it work against honour and modesty that no greater Galeoto can ever be found. Let a man and woman live happily, in tranquil and earnest fulfilment of their separate duties. Nobody minds them, and they float along at ease. But God be praised, this is a state of things that does not last long in Madrid. One morning somebody takes the trouble to notice them, and from that moment, behold society engaged in the business, without aim or object, on the hunt for hidden frailty and impurity. Then it pronounces and judges, and there is no logic that can convince it, nor living man who can hope to persuade it, and the honestest has not a rag of honour left. And the terrible thing is, that while it begins in error it generally ends in truth. The atmosphere is so dense, misery so envelops the pair, such is the press and torrent of slander, that they unconsciously seek one another, unite lovelessly, drift toward their fall, and adore each other until death. The world was the stumbling-stone of virtue, and made clear the way for shame—was Galeoto and—[aside] stay! what mad thought inflames me!
Pepito. [Aside.] If that's the way he discourses to Teodora, heaven help poor Don Julian. [Aloud.] I suppose last night's verses dealt with the subject.
Ernest. Yes, they did.
Pepito. How can you waste your time so coolly, and sit there so calm, doing nothing, when in another hour you will be measuring swords with Nebreda, who, for all his dandy's cane, is a man when put upon his mettle? Wouldn't it be saner and wiser to practise fencing instead of expounding questions of verse and rhyme? You look so mighty cool that I almost doubt if you regard your meeting with the viscount as serious.
Ernest. No,—for a good reason. If I kill him, the world gains; if he kill me, I gain.
Pepito. Well, that's good.
Ernest. Don't say any more about it.
Pepito. [Aside.] Now I must warily find out. [Approaches him and speaks in a low voice.] Is it for to-day?
Ernest. Yes, to-day.
Pepito. Outside the town?
Ernest. No, there's no time for that. Besides, we wish to keep it quiet.
Pepito. In a house, then?
Ernest. So I proposed.
Pepito. Where?
Ernest. Upstairs. [Speaks with cold indifference.] There's a room unlet upstairs, with a side window, through which nobody can look. Under the circumstances it's better than a field, and will be had for a handful of silver.
Pepito. And now all you need——
Ernest. The swords!
Pepito. I hear voices outside. Somebody is coming—the seconds?
Ernest. May be.
Pepito. It sounds like a woman's voice. [Approaches the door.]
Ernest. [Approaching also.] But who's keeping them?
SCENE VI
Servant. [Mysteriously.] Somebody wants to see you, sir.
Ernest. Who?
Servant. A lady.
Ernest. How extraordinary!
Pepito. [Aside to servant.] What does she want?
Servant. [To Pepito.] She is crying.
Pepito. [Aloud.] Is she young?
Servant. Really, sir, I can't say. It's very dark outside, and the lady's face is so thickly veiled that the devil himself couldn't tell what she's like, and she speaks so low you can't even hear her.
Ernest. Who can she be?
Pepito. Who could want to see you?
Ernest. I cannot think.
Pepito. [Aside.] This is startling. [Takes up his hat and holds out his hand.] Well, I'll leave you in peace. Good-bye and good luck. [To the servant.] What are you waiting for, you booby?
Servant. For orders to show the lady in.
Pepito. In such a case 'tis your business to anticipate them. And afterwards, until the veiled one has departed, you mustn't let any one in unless the sky were falling.
Servant. Then I am to show her in?
Ernest. Yes. [To Pepito at the door.] Good-bye.
Pepito. Good-bye, Ernest. [Exeunt servant and Pepito.]
Ernest. A lady? on what pretext? What does this mean? [Enter Teodora, thickly veiled; she stands without approaching.] Ah, there she is!
SCENE VII
Ernest. You desire to speak to me, madam? Kindly be seated. [Offers her a chair.]
Teodora. [Unveiling.] Forgive me, Ernest.
Ernest. Teodora!
Teodora. I am wrong to come—am I not?
Ernest. [Abruptly and stammering.] I can't say—since I don't know to what I owe this honour. But what am I saying? Alas! Here, in my rooms, madam, reverence attends you, than which you cannot find a greater [with devotion]. But what wrong can you possibly fear here, lady?
Teodora. None—and there was a time—but that once is for ever past. No thought of doubt or fear was then. I might have crossed any room on your arm without blush or fluttering pulse. But now! They tell me that you are starting for America to-morrow—and I—yes—like those who go away—perhaps not to return—it is so sad to lose a friend!—before Julian—before the whole world—thinking only of our affection—I myself, Ernest, would have held out my arms to you—in farewell.
Ernest. [Starts and quickly restrains himself.] Oh, Teodora!
Teodora. But now I suppose it is not the same thing. There is a gulf between us.
Ernest. You are right, madam. We may no longer care for one another, be no longer brother and sister. The mutual touch of palm would leave our hands unclean. 'Tis all for ever past. What we have now to learn is to hate one another.
Teodora. [In naïve consternation.] Hate! surely not!
Ernest. Have I used that word—and to you! poor child!
Teodora. Yes.
Ernest. Don't heed me. If you needed my life, and the occasion offered itself, claim it, Teodora, for, to give my life for you would be——[with passion] it would be my duty. [With a sudden change of voice. Pause.] Hate! if my lips pronounced the word, I was thinking of the misery,—I was thinking of the injury I have unwittingly wrought one to whom I owe so much. Yes, you, Teodora, must hate me—but I—ah, no!
Teodora. [Sadly.] They have made me shed tears enough; yes, you are right in that, Ernest [with tenderness], but you I do not accuse. Who could condemn or blame you for all this talk? You have nothing to do with the venomous solicitude with which evil minds honour us, nor with poor Julian's clouded temper. It is sorrow that makes him restive, and his suffering wounds me, for I know that it springs from doubt of my devotion.
Ernest. That is what I cannot understand [angrily], and in him less than in another. It is what drives me wild: by the living God, I protest it is not worthy of pity, and there is no excuse for it. That the man should exist who could doubt a woman like you!
Teodora. Poor fellow, he pays a heavy price for his savage distrust.
Ernest. [Horrified to find he has been blaming Don Julian to Teodora.] What have I said? I don't accuse him—no—I meant——[He hastens to exculpate Don Julian and modify his former words.] Anybody might feel the same, that is, if he were very much in love. In our earthly egoism, don't we doubt the very God in heaven? And the owner of a treasure jealously watches it as gold, and cannot but fear for it. I, too, in his place, would be full of doubt,—yes—even of my own brother. [Speaks with increasing fervour, and again restrains himself, perceiving that he is on the brink of a peril he would avoid. Teodora hears voices outside and rushes to the door.]
Ernest. Whither are you leading me, rebel heart? What depth have I stirred? I accuse the world of calumny, and would now prove it right.
Teodora. Do you hear? Somebody is coming.
Ernest. [Following her.] It is hardly two o'clock. Can it be——?
Teodora. [With terror.] It is Julian's voice.—He is coming in!
Ernest. No, they have prevented him.
Teodora. [Turns to Ernest, still frightened.] If it were Julian? [Moves towards the bedroom door. Ernest detains her respectfully.]
Ernest. Should it be he, stay here. Loyalty is our shield. Were it one of those who distrust us—then there, Teodora. [Points to the door.] Ah, nobody. [Listening.]
Teodora. How my heart throbs!
Ernest. You need not be afraid. The person who wanted to come in has gone away—or it was an illusion. For God's sake, Teodora——! [Advances up the stage.]
Teodora. I had so much to say to you, Ernest, and the time has passed so quickly.
Ernest. The time has flown.
Teodora. I wanted——
Ernest. Teodora, pray forgive me—but is it prudent? If any one came in—and, indeed, I fear some one will.
Teodora. That is why I came—to prevent it.
Ernest. So that——?
Teodora. I know everything, and I am stricken with horror at the thought that blood should be shed on my account. My head is on fire, my heart is bursting. [Strikes her breast.]
Ernest. It is the affront that burns and shames you until my hand has struck at Nebreda's life. He wanted mud! Well, let him have it stained with blood.
Teodora. You would kill him?
Ernest. Certainly. [Represses Teodora's movement of supplication.] You can dispose of me in all else but in this one thing. Do not ask me to feel compassion for a man whose insult I remember.
Teodora. [Prayerfully, with a sob.] For my sake!
Ernest. For your sake?
Teodora. It would be such a horrible scandal.
Ernest. That is possible.
Teodora. You can say it so coolly, and not endeavour to avoid it, not even when it is I who implore you!
Ernest. I cannot avoid it, but I can chastise it: so I think and say, and this is my business. Others will look for the insult, I for the punishment.
Teodora. [Coming nearer and speaking softly, as if afraid of her own voice.] And Julian?
Ernest. Well?
Teodora. If he were to know about it?
Ernest. He will know about it.
Teodora. What will he say?
Ernest. What?
Teodora. That only my husband, the man who loves me, has a right to defend me.
Ernest. Every honourable man has the right to defend a lady. He may not even know her, be neither a friend, nor a relative, nor a lover. It is enough for him to hear a woman insulted. Why do I fight this duel? Why do I defend her? Because I heard the calumny. Because I am myself. Who is so base as to give his protection by scale and measure? Was I not there? Then whoever it was—I or another—who was first on the scene——
Teodora. [Listens eagerly, dominated by him, and holds out her hand to him.] This is noble and honourable, and worthy of you, Ernest [then restrains herself and moves backward]. But it leaves Julian humiliated [with conviction].
Ernest. He? humiliated!
Teodora. Most surely.
Ernest. Why?
Teodora. For no reason whatever.
Ernest. Who will say so?
Teodora. Everybody.
Ernest. But wherefore?
Teodora. When the world hears of the affront, and learns that it was not my husband who avenged me, and above all [drops her eyes ashamed] that it was you who took his place—have we not then a new scandal topping the old?
Ernest. [Convinced but protests.] If one had always to think of what people will say, by Heaven there would be no manner or means of living then!
Teodora. It is so, nevertheless.
Ernest. Just so. 'Tis horrible.
Teodora. Then yield.
Ernest. Impossible.
Teodora. I beseech you.
Ernest. No. Looking into the matter, as nobody can know what will happen, it is better that I should face Nebreda. For, after all, if the fellow lack a sense of honour, he can use a sword.
Teodora. [Wounded and humiliated in the protection Ernest seems to offer Don Julian.] My husband is not lacking in courage.
Ernest. Fatality again! Either I have expressed myself ill, or you do not understand me. I know his worth. But when a desperate injury lies between men of courage, who knows what may happen? which of them may fall, and which may kill? And if this man's sword must strike Don Julian or Ernest, can you doubt which it ought to be? [Questions her with sad sincerity.]
Teodora. [In anguish] You!—oh, no—not that either.
Ernest. Why? If it is my fate? Nobody loses by my death, and I lose still less.
Teodora. For Heaven's sake, do not say that.that. [Barely able to repress her sobs.]
Ernest. What do I leave behind me? Neither friendship nor strong love. What woman is there to follow my corpse shedding a lover's tears?
Teodora. Last night I prayed for you—and you say that nobody——I could not bear you to die. [Vehemently.]
Ernest. Ah, we pray for any one; we only weep for one. [With passion.]
Teodora. [Startled.] Ernest!
Ernest. [Terrified by his own words.] What!
Teodora. [Moving further away.] Nothing.
Ernest. [Also moving away and looking nervously down.] I told you a little while ago I was half mad. Do not heed me. [Pause. Both remain silent and pensive, at some distance, not looking at each other.]
Teodora. [Starting and glancing anxiously down the stage.] Again!
Ernest. [Following her movement.] Somebody has come.
Teodora. They are trying to get in.
Ernest. [Listening.] There can be no doubt of it. There, Teodora. [Points to the bedroom door.]
Teodora. My honour is my shield.
Ernest. But it is not your husband.
Teodora. Not Julian?
Ernest. [Leading her to the door.] No.
Teodora. I hoped——[Detains him with an air of supplication.] Will you give up this duel?
Ernest. Give it up? When I've struck him!
Teodora. I didn't know that. [Despairingly, but understands that nothing can be done.] Then fly.
Ernest. I fly!
Teodora. For my sake, for his sake—for God's sake!
Ernest. [Despairingly.] You must loathe me to propose such a thing to me. Never!
Teodora. One word only. Are they coming for you now?
Ernest. It is not yet time.
Teodora. Swear it to me.
Ernest. Yes, Teodora. And you—say you don't hate me.
Teodora. Never.
Pepito. [Outside.] Nothing. I must see him.
Ernest. Quickly.
Teodora. Yes. [Hides in the bedroom.]
Pepito. Why do you prevent me?
Ernest. Ah, calumny is working to make the lie truth.
SCENE VIII
Pepito. Go to the devil—I will go in—Ernest.
Ernest. What has happened?
Pepito. I hardly know how to tell you—yet I must——
Ernest. Speak.
Pepito. My head is in a whirl. Christ above, who would think——
Ernest. Quickly. A clear account of what has happened.
Pepito. What has happened? A great misfortune. Don Julian heard of the duel. He came here to look for you, and you were out. He went away to find the seconds, and marched them off to Nebreda's house.
Ernest. Nebreda's! How?
Pepito. The Lord send you sense. Don Julian's way, of course, who makes short work of convention and the will of others.
Ernest. Go on——
Pepito. [Going to the door.] They're coming, I believe.
Ernest. Who?
Pepito. They—they're carrying Don Julian.
Ernest. You terrify me. Explain at once. [Catches his arm violently, and drags him forward.]
Pepito. He compelled him to fight. There was no way out of it. The viscount cried: 'Very well, between us two.' It was settled it should take place here. Don Julian came upstairs. Your servant sent him away, protesting you were engaged with a lady, and swearing nobody could enter.
Ernest. And then?
Pepito. Don Julian went downstairs muttering 'better so. I have the day's work for myself.' And he, my father, Nebreda and the seconds came back together, and went upstairs.
Ernest. They fought?
Pepito. Furiously, as men fight when their intent is deadly, and their enemy's heart is within reach of the sword's point.
Ernest. And Don Julian! No—it must be a lie.
Pepito. Here they are.
Ernest. Silence. Tell me who it is, but speak softly.
Pepito. There. [Enter Don Julian, Don Severo, and Rueda. The two men support Don Julian, who is badly wounded.]
Ernest. Heaven preserve us!
SCENE IX
Ernest. Don Julian! my friend, my father, my benefactor! [Hurries excitedly toward him, and speaks brokenly.]
D. Julian. [Weakly.] Ernest!
Ernest. Oh, wretched I!
Severo. Quick, come away.
Ernest. Father!
Severo. He is fainting with pain.
Ernest. For my sake!
Julian. It is not so.
Ernest. Through me—pardon! [Takes Don Julian's hand and bends on one knee before him.]
Julian. No need to ask it, lad. You did your duty, and I did mine.
Severo. A couch. [Loosens his hold of Don Julian, and Pepito takes his place.]
Pepito. [Pointing to the bedroom.] Let us carry him in there.
Ernest. [Shouting terribly.] Nebreda!
Severo. Let there be an end to folly. Is it your intention to kill him outright?
Ernest. [With frenzy.] Folly, oh, we'll see. I have two to avenge now. It is my right. [Rushes down the stage.]
Severo. [Moving to the right.] We'll take him into your room and lay him on the bed. [Ernest wheels round in terror.]
Ernest. Where?
Severo. In here.
Pepito. Yes.
Ernest. No. [Strides back, and stands before the door. The group are on the point of lifting Don Julian, desist, and stare at Ernest in indignant surprise.]
Severo. You forbid it?
Pepito. Are you mad?
Severo. Back: can't you see he is dying?
D. Julian. What is it? He doesn't wish it? [Raises himself and looks at Ernest in distrust and fear.]
Reuda. I don't understand it.
Pepito. Nor I.
Ernest. He is dying—and implores me—and doubts me—father!
Severo. Come, we must. [Pushes open the door above Ernest's shoulder. Teodora is discovered.]
Ernest. My God!
Severo and Pepito. She!
Reuda. A woman!
Teodora. [Coming forward to her husband and embracing him.] Julian!
D. Julian. Who is it? [Pushes her away to stare at her, drags himself to his feet with a violent effort, and shakes himself free of all aid.] Teodora! [Falls lifeless to the ground.]
ACT III
The same decoration as first act: an arm-chair instead of a sofa. It is night; a lighted lamp stands on the table.
SCENE I
Pepito. The crisis is past at last. I hear nothing. Poor Don Julian! He's in a sad way. His life hangs in the balance: on one side death awaits him, and on the other another death, that of the soul, of honour—either abyss deeper than hopeless love. The devil! All this tragedy is making me more sentimental than that fellow with his plays and verses. The tune of disaster, scandal, death, treason, and disgrace, hums in my brain. By Jove, what a day, and what a night! and the worst is yet to come. Well, it certainly was madness to move him in his condition; but when once my uncle gets an idea into his head, there's no reasoning with him. And, after all, he was right. No honourable man, in his place, could have stayed, and he is a man of spirit. Who is coming? my mother, I believe—yes. [Enter Doña Mercedes.]
SCENE II
Mercedes. Where's Severo?
Pepito. He has not left my uncle for a moment. I had no idea he was so attached to him. If what I fear should happen——
Mercedes. How is your uncle?
Pepito. He suffers greatly, but says nothing. Sometimes he calls out 'Teodora' in a low harsh voice, and sometimes 'Ernest'; and then he tugs violently at the sheets, and lies quiet again as a statue, staring vacantly into space. Now his brow is bathed in the cold sweat of death, and then fever seizes him. He sits up in bed, listens attentively, and shouts that he and she are waiting for him. He tries to jump out of bed to rush at them, and all my father's entreaties and commands barely suffice to restrain him or soothe him. There's no quieting him. Anger races hot through his veins, and thought is a flame. It is shocking, mother, to see the bitter way his lips contract, and how his fingers close in a vice, with head all wild, and pupils dilated as though they drank in with yearning and despair every shadow that floats around the chamber.
Mercedes. How does your father bear it?
Pepito. He groans and breathes of vengeance. He, too, mutters the names of Teodora and Ernest. I hope to God he will not meet either, for if he should, small chance there is of restraining his fury.
Mercedes. Your father is a good man.
Pepito. Yes, but with a temper——
Mercedes. It is not easily aroused, however. But when he has cause——
Pepito. With all due respect, he's then a very tiger.
Mercedes. Only when provoked.
Pepito. I don't know about other occasions, but this time he certainly has provocation enough. And Teodora?
Mercedes. She is upstairs. She wanted to come down—and cried—like a Magdalen.
Pepito. Already! Repentant or erring?
Mercedes. Don't speak so. Unhappy girl, she is but a child.
Pepito. Who, innocent and candid, sweet and pure and meek, kills Don Julian. So that, if I am to accept your word, and regard her as a child, and such is her work on the edge of infancy, we may pray God in his mercy to guard us from her when she shall have put on years.
Mercedes. She is hardly to be blamed. The infamy lies with your fine friend—he of the dramas, the poet and dreamer. He it is who is the culprit.
Pepito. I don't deny it.
Mercedes. Where is he?
Pepito. Where is he? At this moment racing about the streets and public places, flying from his conscience, and unable to get away from it.
Mercedes. He has a conscience?
Pepito. So it would seem.
Mercedes. Oh, what a tragedy
Pepito. A misfortune!
Mercedes. Such a deception!
Pepito. A cruel one.
Mercedes. What shocking treason!
Pepito. Unparalleled.
Mercedes. Poor Julian!
Pepito. Melancholy fate! [Enter servant.]