SCENE IX
Don Lorenzo. [Tries to lift Juana and she resists.] Come, Juana, come and rest. Afterwards we will talk as much as you like.
Juana. Afterwards, no. Suppose I should die before!
Don Lorenzo. [Impatiently.] Nonsense; you mustn't think of such a thing.
Juana. It is twenty years since I have seen you, and now they won't leave us together an instant. It is very cruel of them.
Don Lorenzo. [Again tries to raise her.] Afterwards, my good Juana.
Juana. And you too want to leave me—you too! Ah, I can compel you to stay with me.
Don Lorenzo. Juana!
Juana. Listen—one word, and then you are free, if you still wish to leave me. It was I, I myself, who stole the locket.
Don Lorenzo. You!
Juana. Yes.
Don Lorenzo. What for?
Juana. So that you might not see it.
Don Lorenzo. Why?
Juana. Because there was a paper in it containing something your mother had written that I did not want you to see.
Don Lorenzo. What was it?
Juana. I know the words by heart. They were: 'Lorenzo, my son, in the casket which lies at the head of my bed there is hidden a paper under a sealed envelope. When I am dead, open it, and read what I wrote during a night of sharp remorse. Forgive me, and may God inspire you.'
Don Lorenzo. [In surprise.] 'Forgive me, and may God inspire you.' She wrote that?
Juana. Yes.
Don Lorenzo. You also made strange mention of remorse. [With increasing curiosity.]
Juana. Remorse was the word. Now go away if you like.
Don Lorenzo. [Thinking.] No. [Pause.] And that paper?
Juana. It was no secret for me that your mother had written it. Where it was hidden was what I did not know. That there was something hidden in the locket a vigilance so alert as mine had easily discovered, and what the paper contained misgiving helped me to divine. That was why I took the locket. It was mine by right. It had cost me twenty years of tears and anguish, than which none more bitter or intolerable have ever been shed.
Don Lorenzo. Forgiveness, remorse, a secret—and my mother! I cannot imagine what you would say. Confused shades gather and drift before my mind, and pain strikes my heart in lightning flashes. You are raving, and you make me rave too.
Juana. No, no.
Don Lorenzo. But that secret paper in the casket——
Juana. It was mine, and you did not see it because it was not right you should see it. Since your mother was dead, what could it matter to her? Have I not said it,—there is nothing more selfish than death?
Don Lorenzo. That paper——
Juana. I have it.
Don Lorenzo. Here?
Juana. Here. [Lifts her hand to her bosom.] Look, it is but a sheet of paper, and yet it weighs so heavily upon my heart.
Don Lorenzo. I must see it.
SCENE X
Dr. Tomás. Lorenzo, Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. [Impatiently.] What do you want?
Dr. Tomás. The duchess has come.
Don Lorenzo. An appropriate hour.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside.] What a tone! [Aloud.] Come and receive her.
Don Lorenzo. Yes, I'll go.
Juana. Don't leave me, for Christ's sake. By all that is most sacred to you I implore you to stay. [Aside.] If he only knew.
Dr. Tomás. Are you coming?
Don Lorenzo. Yes,—yes; but don't worry me. I've told you before, I'll go.
Juana. Do not leave me. I will tell you everything, everything. I will give you that paper—which your mother wrote twenty years ago—her letter—her signature—you will see. But only don't leave me yet.
Dr. Tomás. [Angrily.] Come, Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. I said I would go—but afterwards. I know when I ought to go. Now leave us. [To Juana.] Give me the paper.
Juana. As soon as that man goes away.
Don Lorenzo. [Violently.] Will you go!
Dr. Tomás. But the duchess——
Don Lorenzo. Let her wait. Has she never kept others waiting in her ante-chambers? Well, then, mine are at least as good as hers.
Dr. Tomás. Are you out of your senses?
Don Lorenzo. I am in them well enough, but not in yours, where I should be ill at ease. Leave me at once.
Dr. Tomás. What can be the matter, Lorenzo? [Approaches him eagerly.]
Don Lorenzo. Nothing, nothing. I am tired of hearing you. For heaven's sake leave me alone.
Dr. Tomás. Very well, very well. But what the deuce has come over the man?
SCENE XI
Don Lorenzo. Now we are alone.
Juana. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. What is it? Do you distrust me? Then I will go away. Promise to give me that paper. My child's happiness awaits me yonder, and nevertheless a hand of iron, the hand of implacable fate retains me here by your side. Consider, Juana, if I am resolved to probe this secret.
Juana. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. The paper! Since it was written by my mother, it is mine.
Juana. Don't be angry with me, Lorenzo, dear one. It is here. [Takes it from her bosom.] This is it.
Don Lorenzo. [Tries to seize it.] Give it me.
Juana. Wait, wait. I will read it myself. I will read it more slowly than you—and thus you will be spared a too sudden knowledge of the truth.
Don Lorenzo. Then read on, and let us see.
Juana. Yes, dear, but do not look at me. Only listen. [Holds the paper so that Don Lorenzo shall not see the contents; reads.] 'Lorenzo, my son, forgive me——'
Don Lorenzo. Again!
Juana. [Reading.] 'I feel that the end of life is near for me, and remorse has taken hold of me.' [Pause.]
Don Lorenzo. Continue.
Juana. 'I wish to tell you the truth, and I love you too greatly to do so. Read the secret of your existence in these lines stained by my tears, and do then as you will.'
Don Lorenzo. The secret of my existence! Give it me. [Tries to snatch the paper from her.]
Juana. No.
Don Lorenzo. What nightmare is this, Juana? You seem to have encircled my head with a band of iron that presses intolerably across my temples. Give me that paper.
Juana. No. God help me!
Don Lorenzo. You must. [Seizes the paper, and reads with intense emotion.] 'Your father was rich, very rich. He possessed millions. I was very poor. We had no children——' We had no children, she says——
SCENE XII
Doña Ángela. [Enters precipitately.] The duchess!
Don Lorenzo. [Angrily, while Juana tears paper from him, and conceals it.] Again! leave me alone. What do you want?
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo, Lorenzo.
Edward. [Rushes in.] Don Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. You, also—go away, go all of you.
Doña Ángela. Mercy upon us, what is this? What can it mean? What is the matter with you, Lorenzo? do be sensible.
Don Lorenzo. Away, away! I implore, if needs be I am ready to kneel to you, but only leave me. Oh, human selfishness! They think there is nothing else besides their passions and interests. Tomás, Ángela, Edward, the duchess—all of them. Ah, it is the dropping of water on the skull.
Edward. But, sir, my mother is coming——
Doña Ángela. Yes, the duchess, tired of waiting, is coming.
Edward. She says she is coming herself to seek the sage in his den.
Don Lorenzo. Then let her come. But leave me, leave me all of you, if you would not drive me wild.
Doña Ángela. [To Edward.] It is impossible for your mother to see him in this state.
Edward. Come, madam, we will go and keep her in the gallery to gain time. Perhaps Inés will be able to soothe him in a little while.
SCENE XIII
Don Lorenzo. The paper! that accursed paper! Where is it? You have it.
Juana. [Showing it.] Yes.
Don Lorenzo. Then give it me. 'We had no children,' she said. [Makes an unsuccessful effort to read.] Where is it? I don't know. The letters swim before me. My eyes are dim. 'We had no children!' I cannot read, I can't. Do me the kindness to read it for me. [Juana takes the paper.] Ah, there, where it says: 'We had no children.'
Juana. [Reads.] 'My husband knew that an incurable disease was rapidly undermining his health. Death went with him, nestled in his heart. Mad with love for me, he wished to secure me all his fortune, and I—it was wrong, I know now, it was wrong, for he had a father living, but I,—oh, forgive me, Lorenzo, you who are so kind and honourable—I accepted.' [Pause.]
Don Lorenzo. Continue, continue.
Juana. 'We looked about for a child. I cannot write any more. Juana knows the secret. She will tell you all. Once more, I implore you to forgive me. Farewell, Lorenzo, and may God counsel you. I loved you like a son, though you were no child of ours.'
Don Lorenzo. I—I—was not—what does it mean? Not her son? I bear a name that is not mine! For forty years have I enjoyed a fortune that belonged to others. I have robbed everything—social position, name and wealth. All, all! Even my mother's caresses, since she was not my mother,—even her kisses, since I was not her son. No, no. This is not possible. I am not so base. Juana, Juana, for the love you bear the God above, tell me the truth. Look, it is not for my own sake—what does it matter what happens to me?—but for my family's sake—for those unfortunate women—for my dear child's sake, my beloved Inés, who will die of it, and you see, I cannot let her die. [Bursts into desperate sobs.]
Juana. That is true. But hush! Who need know of it? and then it will not matter.
Don Lorenzo. But if it be true?
Juana. [In a low voice.] It is true.
Don Lorenzo. It seems a lie. That woman who cherished me so tenderly was not my mother?
Juana. No. Your mother loved you still more.
Don Lorenzo. Who was she, then?
Juana. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. What was her name?
Juana. Look at me without anger, and I will tell you.
Don Lorenzo. Where is she?
Juana. In strife with the torments of hell.
Don Lorenzo. Is she also dead?
Juana. She is dying. [Towards the end of this dialogue Juana raises herself, and both stand in nervous agitation, staring wildly. When she utters the last word, she falls back again powerless upon the sofa.]
Don Lorenzo. Juana!
Juana. [Contorted with pain.] Not that name!
Don Lorenzo. Mother!
Juana. Yes, call me so—my son! [Makes a supreme effort to hold him to her.]
SCENE XIV
Dr. Tomás. Here she is—she is coming.
Juana. [Freeing herself.] Leave me—they are coming, and I do not wish them to see me.
Don Lorenzo. No—wait—I scarce know what I would say to you, but I have much to tell you.
Juana. Afterwards—Good-bye now, I can die content. I have called him son. [Exit slowly R. Don Lorenzo follows her, and Dr. Tomás stands watching them.]
Don Lorenzo. No, not yet. [Juana disappears behind curtain. Don Lorenzo would follow, but is detained by Dr. Tomás, and obliged to return to the middle of the stage.]
SCENE XV
Duchess. [With exquisite courtesy.] Señor de Avendaña.
Don Lorenzo. Avendaña, Avendaña! I don't know where he is, madam. [In sombre absent tone.]
Doña Ángela. [Aside.] What is he saying?
Inés. Goodness, what does this mean?
Duchess. I understand, Señor de Avendaña, how unwelcome must be my visit, since I come to claim of you the most precious of your possessions [points to Inés], and certainly it is not surprising that you should receive me as an enemy. [Sweetly.]
Don Lorenzo. Fate is my enemy, nobody else, madam.
Inés. [Aside.] Oh, what can have happened?
Duchess. You are right. It is the ruthless enemy of the parents.
Don Lorenzo. Still more so of the children.
Duchess. I do not deny it. But in spite of it, 'tis divine law that governs our human sorrows, and we are forced to respect it. [Makes an effort to turn the conversation, but does not conceal her wonderment.]
Don Lorenzo. Ah, madam, those laws might often prove less cruel if it were only human cruelty that dictated them. [The duchess evinces marked impatience. Edward approaches her. Inés goes to her father, while Doña Ángela and Dr. Tomás look on gloomily.]
Inés. [Aside to Don Lorenzo.] Father, I entreat you——
Edward. [Aside to Duchess.] For my sake, mother.
Duchess. [Haughtily and dryly.] I am a mother, and I adore my son. I know that happiness is not possible for him without this young lady, and rather than lose one child I prefer to gain two.
Inés. [To Don Lorenzo.] See how kind she is, father.
Don Lorenzo. To lose a son were a terrible misfortune.
Duchess. [Gently and approaching Don Lorenzo.] Will you not consent to bestow also the name of son upon my boy?
Inés. [In low voice of entreaty.] Answer, father.
Don Lorenzo. [Looks sadly at his daughter, takes her head between his hands, and contemplates her yearningly.] How sweet you are! It seems incredible that you should not prove stronger than the law of honour.
Duchess. [Unable to control herself.] To make an end of the matter, Señor de Avendaña, do you wish my son, the Duke of Almonte, to give his name to your daughter Inés?
Don Lorenzo. [In magnificent fury.] If I were a scoundrel, madam, this were an excellent occasion for procuring an honest name for my nameless child.
Inés. Father!
Dr. Tomás.
Doña Ángela.}Lorenzo!
Duchess. I must frankly confess that I can make nothing of your answers nor of your attitude, which is quite other than what I had expected. I will content myself with asking for the last time—do you consent?
Don Lorenzo. I am an honourable man. Misfortune may conquer me, but it will never disgrace me. Your Grace, this marriage is impossible.
Duchess. [Offended, retreats a step.] Ah!
Inés. What do you say, father? Impossible!
Don Lorenzo. Yes, impossible. For I am not Avendaña. My parents were not my parents. This house is not my house. To you, my dearest girl, I can only give a soiled and an unworthy name,—because I am the wretchedest of men and I do not wish to be the basest.
Inés. Father, father—oh, why are you killing me? [Falls into a chair.]
Doña Ángela. What have you done, you madman?
Don Lorenzo. Inés, my child! Thou hast conquered, O God; but have pity on me.
ACT II
SCENE I
Edward. I hear nothing. Has she recovered consciousness? To think how close a thing to life is death! [Pause.] They believe that I must give up my beloved girl! They suppose me capable of crediting Don Lorenzo's absurd tale. Poor scholar! Why, he doesn't know what he is saying. [Pause.] And even if his assertion were true, would that make Inés other than the loveliest, the most adorable of women? Mine she will be, though I should have to cast myself at my mother's feet and bathe them with my tears. Don Lorenzo must consent, even if we have to gag him and put him into a strait-jacket. And that wretched beggar from whom the ill-advised philosopher has caught his delirium must be sent away, far away from everybody. How will my poor Inés bear up against the blow her father has inflicted upon her? [Again approaches the door and listens.] Nothing, nothing. Silence, always the same silence. [Comes down.] Her father! her own father! Heaven help me, but I almost hate the man. [With increasing passion.] The madman! How he delighted to torture her! Her father!—that brainless scholar! an atheist clothed in sanctity! a new Don Quixote minus wit and plus pedantry! a mock Bayard of honour! What sort of father is he who pretends to a reputation for virtue through his daughter's broken heart? A fig for such virtue! Vice itself is more lovable. No one comes, and the hours go by—ah, I hear somebody coming at last.
SCENE II
Edward. How is Inés, mother? Has she regained consciousness?
Duchess. She has now, thank God. Poor child! I could not go until I was assured it was all right, and that she was better. And you, my son?
Edward. I must see her.
Duchess. Edward!
Edward. Then we have to talk to Don Lorenzo, and afterwards——
Duchess. Afterwards you will get to the end of my patience. I have done all for you that honour, dignity, and social convention permit—even more. But the moment has come for you to show yourself a man, to remember who you are and listen to the voice of duty.
Edward. Rightly said, mother, that is what I am prepared to do, but it remains to be seen if we entertain the same idea of duty.
Duchess. You must give Inés up.
Edward. Why? Because of her poverty?
Duchess. By no means.
Edward. Then why, mother? Because Don Lorenzo wishes to perform a sublime action which, if he carries out the prospect, will immortalise him in tale and history, and, who knows, may even lift him aloft into the Calendar?
Duchess. I see you appreciate the humour of the situation, and that is no bad sign.
Edward. I want to show you how perfectly cool I am. As for Don Lorenzo, we must regard the affair as a joke, or put him into an asylum.
Duchess. Don't say such things, Edward. It offends me to hear you speak so. There may be some slight exaggeration, perhaps no inconsiderable precipitation, and a certain air of melodramatic display in Don Lorenzo's project, but we cannot deny that he is acting like a gentleman.
Edward. Why does he revel in his daughter's misfortune?
Duchess. Because he is accomplishing his duty without respect of human passions.
Edward. Then if Don Lorenzo is so honourable, and the lustre of noble actions is a heritage, Inés will be something more than the angel of my life—she will bring me a wealth of hereditary virtue.
Duchess. She will also bring more than her share of hereditary dishonour. [In low voice approaching him.] The girl has no name good or bad, since nobody knows what her father's is, and that of her grandmother has been inscribed as a thief's upon the infamous register of a prison.
Edward. Hush!
Duchess. If we are to believe Don Lorenzo, that unhappy girl's fate is to be a humble nurse's grandchild, and her father's accomplice in living under a false name. It would perhaps be an excess of aristocratic pride to reject such an honourable alliance, but to such a decision am I led by what you, with your modern education, will doubtless qualify as old-fashioned prejudices.
Edward. Well, mother, I love Inés.
Duchess. You are mad, boy.
Edward. That were not strange, since love is said to be a madness.
Duchess. You almost make me lose my judgment.
Edward. Would you prefer to lose me?
Duchess. Enough, Edward. We must leave this house which, in an evil moment, I entered to-day for the first time.
Edward. But say—is not Inés sweet?
Duchess. Assuredly—as an angel of God's heaven, when I first beheld her, and now she looks like the angel of sorrow.
Edward. Does not the whole world regard Don Lorenzo as an accomplished scholar, and have you yourself not said that he is a saint?
Duchess. It would be injustice to deny the value of a reputation so illustrious as his, or the keenness of his sense of honour.
Edward. Then there is no objection to him.
Duchess. Certainly not.
Edward. [Approaches the duchess and speaks in a low voice.] Can't we find some means of averting scandal? Who knows anything of this wretched story, true or false, though to me it seems more likely false? Only ourselves, and we will hold our tongue. Dr. Tomás is almost one of the family. Death will shortly seal the lips of that unhappy woman. And, after all, Don Lorenzo is a father; he will do for Inés' sake that which you refuse to do for mine. Why, mother dear, need we go in search of misery and death when felicity is within our reach?
Duchess. Ah, see how contact with crime perverts the noblest minds! Unfortunate boy, do you not understand that you are proposing a monstrous thing to me? that you wish me to be an accomplice to a felony? Good heavens, what has come over you that you should think and speak such things?
Edward. Who on earth speaks of anything monstrous or proposes felony? Have we all gone mad with Don Lorenzo, or are you martyrising me for your own entertainment?
Duchess. You suggested our averting scandal by silence.
Edward. Yes.
Duchess. Then——
Edward. Listen, mother. This is what I meant to say. If Don Lorenzo's tale be true, which is what I doubt, the legitimate heirs of this confounded wealth may be discovered cautiously, in secret, and a way can be found to restore it to them.
Duchess. But on what pretext?
Edward. If you had to beg for a fortune, it might be difficult to find one, but when it comes to giving, don't be afraid. It is easy enough, and any pretext is equally welcome to those who receive it.
Duchess. Inés will still bear a name she has no title to.
Edward. She will bear mine, which is worth all others.
Duchess. That is true. But Don Lorenzo——
Edward. Leave him alone. He has enough to do with his philosophy. We have ourselves to think of, and I believe that it can be all managed if you will consent. With a word you can give Inés back life, and give a new life to me in exchange for that which your unkindness blighted, and which I first owed to your affection. Restore happiness to this unhappy family, and bestow their usurped fortune upon the rightful heirs without noise or vain display. This is no felony, and it is not a monstrous thing to do.
Duchess. You magnetise me, Edward. I scarce know what to say. But an inward voice warns me that what you suggest is neither right nor just,—that deception can never be preferable to truth, and despite Don Lorenzo's ravings, I feel that duty triumphs in him, while in you it is passion that triumphs, for all your arguments.
Edward. How so? Tell me.
Duchess. I cannot discuss it with you, Edward.
Edward. What you cannot do is love me as you ought.
Duchess. Not love you; cruel boy! You have wounded me to the heart, though I know that you do not believe what you say.
Edward. Then yield to me.
Duchess. Don't press me, Edward.
Edward. You are yielding—I see it. Your face is pale, there are tears in your eyes, and your lips tremble. [Caressingly.] Confession of consent hangs upon them—yes, why not? What is there absolutely opposed to that high ideal of honour you and Don Lorenzo worship? What wrong is there in my plan?
Duchess. There is wrong, Edward.
Edward. So little, an atom, a shadow, a mere scruple. And don't I deserve you should commit so trivial an error for me? Go among the people whom you treat with such contempt, and from whom the aristocrat's pride separates you by an abyss; seek out a mother, and ask her if, for her son's sake, she would not stifle upon a cry of love all these refinements of conscience.
Duchess. [Passionately.] I am capable of making any sacrifice a mother can make.
Edward. [Embracing her.] Thanks, mother, thanks.
Duchess. But——
Edward. You have promised, you have promised. [Without heeding her.] And, after all, it may not even be necessary. What assurance have we that Don Lorenzo's tale is true? What tangible proofs are there? None that we know of. The word of a dying woman in delirium? Is that enough?
Duchess. Truly not.
Edward. Yet we have not even that much; for Dr. Tomás has not been able to interrogate Juana. How do we know that she told it to Don Lorenzo, or if he only dreamed it? Let me assure you, Don Lorenzo's head is no sound one.
Duchess. It is not, indeed.
Edward. What an odd and extravagant fellow he is!
Duchess. For my part, I really thought he had gone mad.
Edward. Depend upon it, he is not far off. All these men of learning end that way. Both Dr. Tomás and Ángela admit that he doesn't reason like other men.
SCENE III
Doña Ángela. For pity's sake, madam, do not leave us yet. Inés wishes to see you. She calls upon your name through heart-breaking sobs, for you are her sole consolation.
Duchess. Poor child!
Doña Ángela. She will not remain in bed, though we begged her to do so, and her nervous agitation is such that she fills us with terror. If strength had not failed her, she would have come to look for you. In kindness, duchess, do go to my stricken girl, and console her, you who are so affectionate a mother. 'Tis a most afflicted mother that implores you.
Edward. And you will tell her that there is still hope, that all depends upon Don Lorenzo—won't you?
Doña Ángela. What? Is it true? Oh, madam—— [To duchess, and takes her hand effusively.]
Edward. Yes [to Doña Ángela], I will explain it. You must persuade your husband.
Duchess. But——[Edward does not heed her, and talks aside to Doña Ángela.] That boy of mine does just what he likes with me. What am I to say to this good woman now that he has promised my consent? Oh, what a hare-brained fellow! The girl herself is lovely, like a dream, and altogether very charming. Poor Inés!—and Don Lorenzo possesses, or rather did possess, a colossal fortune. Ah! what things are human might and human vanity!
Doña Ángela. [To Edward.] I understand, I understand. [Then comes over to the duchess.] I am very grateful to you for your great kindness. Do, pray, carry the good news yourself to my daughter, and I, in a little while, will induce Lorenzo to consent. Never fear, he will give in. It is certain, else will he prove himself quite heartless.
Edward. Come, mother.
Duchess. What am I to do?
Edward. How good of you!
SCENE IV
Don Lorenzo. My mother dying—and yonder that other morsel of my soul! What can I do, my God? [Walks slowly toward door R. and meets Doña Ángela.]
Doña Ángela. Where are you going, Lorenzo?
Don Lorenzo. To see my daughter.
Doña Ángela. Impossible. She has recovered consciousness now, and your presence might again upset her, since you it was who caused her illness.
Don Lorenzo. But I wish to see her.
Doña Ángela. You cannot. With you duty is always imperative, so you will respect that unhappy girl's grieving solitude [ironically], not upon the command of my will, which must always be second to yours, but upon that of your own reflective judgment.
Don Lorenzo. You are right. [Pause. Both are in middle of stage.] My own beloved daughter! What does she say of me?
Doña Ángela. Nothing.
Don Lorenzo. She does not blame me?
Doña Ángela. I cannot answer for the murmurings of sorrow in her heart.
Don Lorenzo. I to be her executioner! to destroy all her hopes! Can it be that I have broken her heart?
Doña Ángela. You know full well what you have done, Lorenzo. So much the better, if remorse will now help you to repair your cruel work.
Don Lorenzo. I am indeed miserable.
Doña Ángela. You miserable! Inés it is who is miserable, not you, who doubtless find assured ineffable joy and divine consolation in contemplating your own moral perfection. [Ironically.]
Don Lorenzo. How ill you judge me, and how little you understand me!
Doña Ángela. I judge you ill, and yet humbly admire the fruit of your sainthood! That I do not understand you, I admit, for superior beings such as you are not within reach of so mediocre an intelligence as mine.
Don Lorenzo. Ángela, your words pierce my heart like a sharp dagger.
Doña Ángela. Your heart! impossible.
Don Lorenzo. But what would you have me do? Speak, advise, decide—bring light to a mind that gropes among shadows.
Doña Ángela. What would I have you do? Whatever you like now. Only save your child. Place no fresh obstacle to this marriage. Don't continue to irritate the duchess's pride by brutal and futile revelations. Don't make it impossible for us to remedy the evil you have done by any new explosion.
Don Lorenzo. Frankly, then, you would have me hold my tongue.
Doña Ángela. That is it. Hold your tongue.
Don Lorenzo. But that would be infamous.
Doña Ángela. I know nothing about it. I feel, I can't argue.
Don Lorenzo. My whole soul rises up in revolt against the idea. To become an accomplice in the most repugnant, because most cowardly, of crimes! To enjoy usurped wealth and a name I have no right to, and all that is not ours! God has not willed it so, and what he has not willed should not be. Inés, you and I, all sunk in the mire! Is this what you would counsel? [With increasing excitement.] Then virtue is but a lie, and you all, whom I have most loved in this world, perceiving what I regarded as divinity in you, are only miserable egoists, incapable of sacrifice, a prey to greed and the mere playthings of passion. Then you are all but clay, and nothing more. And if you are but clay, resolve yourselves to dust, and let the wind of the tempest carry all off. [Violently.]
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. Beings shaped without conscience or free will are simply atoms that meet to-day and separate to-morrow. Such is matter—then let it go.
Doña Ángela. You are wandering, Lorenzo. I don't understand you. I don't know what it is you want.
Don Lorenzo. To respect truth and justice.
Doña Ángela. Truth!
Don Lorenzo. Yes.
Doña Ángela. And cry it to the world from the housetops.
Don Lorenzo. I will announce it.
Doña Ángela. And leave us in poverty.
Don Lorenzo. I will earn your bread and my own by my work.
Doña Ángela. You earn your bread! Scholar's vanity! Well, be it so, but listen to me first. If it should be that we really have no right to our wealth, give it up,—well and good. [Don Lorenzo bursts into a cry of delight and advances to her with outstretched arms.] Privations do not fright me, nor am I the miserable woman and egoist you painted erewhile.
Don Lorenzo. Ángela, my dear wife, forgive me.
Doña Ángela. Do you want my forgiveness? Do you want me to continue blessing the hour I became your wife, as I have always blessed it till to-day?
Don Lorenzo. Yes.
Doña Ángela. Then do your duty as a man of honour, but in silence, prudently, without ostentation, or noise, or scandal.
Don Lorenzo. Why? The duchess would never consent to her son's marriage with Inés even at that price.
Doña Ángela. Edward answers for his mother's consent.
Don Lorenzo. She will never give in.
Doña Ángela. She will. She is a woman and a mother. We have not all attained such perfection as yours.
Don Lorenzo. I do not believe it.
Doña Ángela. Is it that you do not believe it, or that you fear it?
Don Lorenzo. But supposing she should consent,—how can I retain a name that is not mine?
Doña Ángela. What shabby subtleties to sacrifice my Inés to!
Don Lorenzo. A name, Ángela, in social life is——
Doña Ángela. A name is but a sound, a passing breath of air, something vain and evanescent. But a child, Lorenzo, is a creature made of our own flesh and of the blood in our veins: a creature that, while still nothing, we shelter warm in our bosom, and receive into our arms upon its first cry; that gives us its first smile and its first kiss; that lives by our life, and is at once our sweetest joy and our sharpest sorrow: a creature we love more than ourselves, but without a taste of that selfish leaven which degrades all our other loves; the sole divine affection that exists upon this earth, and if heaven be heaven, beyond the blue it will also be found in God himself. Choose now between what you call a name, and what I call a child.
Don Lorenzo. Your words madden me.
Doña Ángela. If you first lost your senses for Inés' misfortune, it matters little that I should drive you mad for her good.
Don Lorenzo. You are partly right, Ángela. I am a poor fool. My scruples are, perhaps, exaggerated. My daughter, my dear Inés—she, so good, so lovely—she would die,—would surely die.
Doña Ángela. At last, Lorenzo, my dear husband.
Don Lorenzo. But stay—no—my ideas are confused. My brain turns to the flail of a fiery whirlwind. Yet I still feel convinced that it would not be enough to renounce my fortune. I am bound to say why I renounce it.
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. [Not listening to her, but talking to himself.] It is true that without it I could always materially make restitution of material possessions,—and still without recognising the legitimate rights of those I have despoiled. 'Twould be to make a traitorous and cowardly restitution, under shadow of vain and artificial rights, which I must fabricate for my convenience, and for the benefit of my family, instead of openly and honourably relinquishing what is not mine.
Doña Ángela. What nonsense you talk, Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. [Not heeding her.] If I retain a name that is not mine, I prove myself a shabby thief—I am compelled to pronounce a word that burns on my lips. I rob a name and all its rights, and I deprive my victims of their best means of defence against a cupidity that may any day develop in my descendants, and perhaps give rise to a worse iniquity in the future. Don't you see it? Surely you must see it if you are not totally blind! I must tell the truth, the whole truth, in a loud voice, happen what will.
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. Would a judge and a tribunal sentence me to despoilment of my goods alone, or to despoilment of both my goods and my name? Of everything, everything—is it not so? Then what a judge would decide I have to do myself—my own judge—or I am a wretched fellow. Such, my poor wife, is what my conscience ordains me to do. I want no half-hearted view of honesty, for there is no middle term between clean honour and complete abasement. All this is quite clear to me. Nothing so clear as duty.
Doña Ángela. Very well, if the affair is made public the duchess will not give her consent.
Don Lorenzo. She will not consent. 'Tis what I have already said.
Doña Ángela. Ah, Lorenzo, Lorenzo, you are everything,—philosopher, moralist, jurisconsult, and, needless to say, gentleman. All, all, wretched reflecting machine, except a father.
Don Lorenzo. If you want to drive me out of my senses you are succeeding.
Doña Ángela. That would indeed be difficult.
Don Lorenzo. Because I am out of them already?
Doña Ángela. Yes, but you haven't yet got to the bottom of the abyss. Hear me, Lorenzo, for I, too, understand something of logic—after all, am I not your wife? It is your intention to tell the truth, the entire truth?
Don Lorenzo. It is so.
Doña Ángela. Before the tribunal of human justice?
Don Lorenzo. We need not trouble ourselves about divine justice, which at this moment is weighing you and me.
Doña Ángela. Understand me well, Lorenzo. I want to know if you will repeat to the judge, to the lawyers and all, no matter whom, whose business it will be to take possession of your abandoned fortune in the interests of the rightful owners, the story you told us a little while ago?
Don Lorenzo. Yes.
Doña Ángela. You will tell them everything?
Don Lorenzo. I am bound to do so.
Doña Ángela. Hear me further. You will have to acknowledge Juana the nurse as your mother.
Don Lorenzo. That is the only way left me to wipe away the stain of an iniquitous sentence. Here alone were reason sufficient to prove the crime of the silence you counsel.
Doña Ángela. And here, I say, is reason sufficient to command silence as an imperative duty. Can't you see that if Juana be innocent of the wrong imputed, she is guilty of a much greater,—which is called illegal retention of personal rights? You know it well. Falsification of a family is quite as bad as degrading or destroying it. To deprive legitimate owners of their fortune is far worse than to lift a locket from the ground. To conceal an illegitimate birth under an honest name is the same as covering the plague-spot of vice with an ermine mantle. If Juana be your mother, all this has she done, and has persisted in the deception for forty years.
Don Lorenzo. [Moves away and grasps his head in both hands.] Silence, for God Almighty's sake, silence!
Doña Ángela. That is just what I am begging of you—silence!
Don Lorenzo. She is my mother.
Doña Ángela. What of that? He who can injure an innocent daughter need not trouble himself to respect a culpable mother. Is not divine law above human law? Is not justice first?—Justice, duty, and truth? Must not the command of the spirit ever triumph over the weaknesses of the flesh?
Don Lorenzo. You speak well—but in spite of it you are raving. [Moves away from her.]
Doña Ángela. And why? You seem already to be growing as ordinary and weak as any poor mother. Does duty not order you to let your daughter die? Then let her die. Does it not also command you to cast the dying Juana into a prison-cell? Then hasten to procure her condemnation. You see, Lorenzo, I have some logic too, in my own way.
Don Lorenzo. Infernal logic.
Doña Ángela. And yours? From what sublime sphere does it descend?
Don Lorenzo. [Moves still further off.] Let me be, let me be. I can stand no more. My own Inés—and my mother! What have I done to you, Ángela, that you should torture me so? [Falls nervously into arm-chair at table.] My head burns; it is on fire.
Doña Ángela. [Gently.] Lorenzo, Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. Yes, you are right, and I am a poor fool. How can I know what I ought to do? Darkness envelops me. What is truth? What is falsehood?
Doña Ángela. [Aside.] It was very cruel of me, but I have saved my child. He will not speak. [Don Lorenzo seated, sinks down in chair, with his arms upon table, and hides his face in both hands. Doña Ángela approaches him caressingly and speaks tenderly.] Forgive me, Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. Go away—in mercy leave me.
Doña Ángela. I wanted to show you the abyss you were falling into. I wanted to save Inés, and to save you yourself from your own outbreak.
Don Lorenzo. Yes, yes, Ángela. I understand, but leave me now.
Doña Ángela. Do you forgive me?
Don Lorenzo. I forgive you—and love you. Poor Ángela, you too are suffering. But I desire to be alone.
Doña Ángela. Very well. I am going. But do not fret. We shall find some way out of the difficulty. I will tell Inés that you want to see her—you would like to speak to her and comfort her?
Don Lorenzo. [Submissively.] If she wishes it.
Doña Ángela. Then wait here, and I will come for you presently, and then, beside our child, together, at one in our desire and with a common will, you'll see that we shall get the better of fatality which now seems to crush us.
Don Lorenzo. We'll conquer it, yes, we'll conquer it. [Speaks unconsciously.]
Doña Ángela. Good-bye, and don't bear me rancour.
Don Lorenzo. Bear you rancour! I?
Doña Ángela. Then good-bye.