SCENE V
Don Lorenzo. [Seated at table in profound dejection. Fire burns redly, room enveloped in deep shadow. Pause.] Now I am alone. How the shadows play around me! The fire burns dull and red. So much the better. Darkness gathers. Come to my aid, obscurity! 'Tis now the hour when the conscience spreads its most luminous rays. I would do what is right, but then, I know not what is right. My will is strong enough, but reason is dimmed. Three names dance before my eyes in the black night that enshrouds me. Ángela, Juana, and Inés! Destiny leads me to my Calvary, and I ascend my cross of suffering without complaint. But you, my dear ones, you, Inés, why must you precede me, marking with your tears the way that is to tear my feet? I alone—but not you! My God, my God! how low the flame of conscience flickers, and how faint is my will! Despair, alas! holds me in its grip. I desire good, and seek it in Thee, O Lord. Come to my aid, answer to my call. Shadows that encircle me, space in which I most dolorously wander, time that is mine own eternity of pain, and thou, august silence, that dost hear me in thy consoling mood, call all of you upon your God whom my voice may not reach. Tell him that I would my daughter were spared, and that I implore the chalice of bitterness may pass her by, that I myself may drain it with my lips to the very dregs. Let all fall upon me, and let her live in all her loveliness and goodness and purity.—Not on her, my God, not on her! [Drops his head on table in bitter weeping.]
SCENE VI
Don Lorenzo. A flickering shadow has passed before my eyes. Has it all been a dream? No, Juana is yonder, and the proof, the proof. [Opens desk and takes out paper.] Here is the proof. Unhappily it is no dream. It is terrible and implacable reality. I have read it a hundred times, and can never weary of reading it: 'I have loved you like a son, although you are no child of ours.' 'Although you are no child of ours!'
Juana. [Aside, watching him.] He is reading—reading that letter written by one he believed to be his mother. I it is who am his mother—not another. [Advances slowly.] How sad he looks! and there are tears in his eyes. In his eyes, do I say? Perhaps it is my own eyes, looking at him, that are wet. His eyes or mine! What matter? There are tears somewhere. [Comes nearer.] He is crying. Why? Because I am his mother? But what of that, if nobody else knows my secret? I am so near death! Yes, death! I shall soon die. Cold and eternal night has already penetrated to the depths of my being. It is all dark within. [Staggers and leans against the table. Don Lorenzo turns to her.]
Don Lorenzo. Juana!
Juana. Still that name.
Don Lorenzo. Mother!
Juana. It offends you that I am such—I see it.
Don Lorenzo. Do you think so ill of me?
Juana. Well, if it does not offend you, you are ashamed of me as your mother?
Don Lorenzo. I ashamed of you! To-morrow the world will know that I am your son.
Juana. To-morrow! What do you mean? [With terror.] My hearing is dull, and I cannot rightly have understood what you said.
Don Lorenzo. I made a mistake. Not to-morrow. You must leave Spain first, and then, when you are in some safe place, since man's justice can often be very cruel, I will proclaim the truth aloud. I will give up a name that is not mine, as well as an appropriated fortune. That is what I have decided to do.
Juana. Christ above!
Don Lorenzo. And then along with Ángela and my poor child I will join you.
Juana. You, poor and dishonoured, with only a stained and contemptible name! And why? Wherefore? What compels you? Speak, my son. My wits forsake me. What forces you to it?
Don Lorenzo. Conscience, mother, and your misdoing.
Juana. You intend to tell the truth?
Don Lorenzo. [Angrily.] Why did you ever tell it to me? If I had known nothing about it I should not now be obliged to break my daughter's heart.
Juana. Why? And you can ask me that? You don't understand? Oh, ungrateful son! [Hides her face in her hands and sobs bitterly.]
Don Lorenzo. Mother!
Juana. Because I was dying, because I am dying—and I wanted you to know all that I had sacrificed for your sake before I went. And because I wished to hear you call me mother at least once. For that, and for no other reason. Because the heart within me rose to my throat and nearly choked me, till at last I could no longer command myself, and had to call you son.
Don Lorenzo. I understand, mother, and do not blame you.
Juana. But you will not do as you have just threatened? Say you will not. It would be infamous to your family and most cruel to me.
Don Lorenzo. Cruel, yes, but not infamous. With this cruelty shall I wipe out all infamy.
Juana. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. Forgive me.
Juana. [Tragically.] You accuse me of having committed an infamy?
Don Lorenzo. I have not said it.
Juana. [In stifled voice.] But it was for your sake—for your sake, my son. [Don Lorenzo remains silent and gloomy, not looking toward his mother.] My God, I did it for his sake, and this is how he repays me! Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. Wrong may not prevail. The work of iniquity must fall into ruins beneath its own weight. My sacrifice will serve to wipe out your sin.
Juana. Lorenzo! [Don Lorenzo draws her to the light and places the letter in her hand, obliging her to read it.]
Don Lorenzo. What does it say there?
Juana. [Sits down and reads with difficulty.] 'Forgive me, and may God inspire you.'
Don Lorenzo. Well, mother, I have forgiven her, and prayed to Heaven for inspiration. Your entreaties are vain.
SCENE VII
Doña Ángela. [Standing in doorway.] Lorenzo, Inés wants you.
Don Lorenzo. My daughter! I am coming. Excuse me, mother. I will return instantly.
Juana. [Detains him and speaks softly.] Now I know that you despise me; now I know that you hate me.
Don Lorenzo. Mother!
Juana. [Grasps his arm.] But not for my sake, for hers—for the sake of that dear child.
Don Lorenzo. [Despairingly.] Not even for her sake.
Juana. [Falls into the arm-chair and covers her face with her hands. Exeunt Don Lorenzo and Doña Ángela.]
SCENE VIII
Juana. [Holding the paper in her hand.] Not even for her sake! [Sobs.] Sacrifice yourself, Juana, for your son. Renounce his caresses, tear your breast with your nails on seeing him kiss another woman and call her mother; drink deeply of the tears of bitterness, and gather them in your heart until it overflows or bursts. Bear the brand of shame upon your brow, wear yourself out in poverty and sorrow in a garret for twenty years, with no other happiness or consolation than seeing him pass in his carriage from the distance. Oh, heavens, I am dying! [Pause. She gets better.] Still,—still worse,—poor Juana! suffer all I have mentioned, and in exchange procure him wealth, reputation, celebrity—and at the last moment of your life come to him and only ask a kiss, only ask him to say once: 'How good you have been to me! How fondly you have loved me!' What will he say? Nothing of this. He will glance at you in austere sadness, and tell you that you have committed an infamy, and that he must wipe out your crime,—that your work is—a work of iniquity. A work of iniquity! Oh, Lorenzo, my son! Why are you so cruel? Why do you cast from you in contempt all that I gave you at the price of my own happiness? See what tears you cost me! [Changes her voice and crosses R. with a desperate gesture.] And my sacrifice has been in vain. I have forfeited my own happiness and lost his too. Mad woman, egoist! Why did I tell him the truth? [Pause.] But it must not be, it must not be. No, the work of iniquity will not fall into ruins yet a while. Poor visionary! I will deny everything. [In a dead voice.] You will be happy and rich and powerful whether you like it or no. He put the sole proof into my hand. [Takes up the paper.] Very well, then. Between his mother and his daughter he will be saved. Strange coincidence! She, calling for him, obliges him to go away, and I stay behind. Ah, let us exhaust what little strength remains. So, a little nearer still, through the darkness—just so dark a night was it when my mistress came to my bedside and murmuring asked: 'Would you have your child rich and happy?' And first I doubted, and then I consented—and now—and now I still say 'yes.' [Reaches table. Pause.] Is Lorenzo coming back? [Listens.] Yes, I think he is coming. He will ask me for the letter as he did before. Here, to the fire with it. [Tries to walk, but cannot.] I hear his voice. Strength fails me. I have no time. He will come. No, I will not give it up. Once more it is in my hands. Ah, now I know, now I know. I will slip a clean sheet into the envelope so that he may notice nothing. [Does this.] Lorenzo calls it a work of iniquity. My poor boy, he is in some things as innocent as a child. Thus—thus, I leave it where it was—and this other goes to the flames. [Throws paper into the fire and stoops to watch it burn.] Now it is in flames. See how luminously they quiver upon my mistress's portrait. [Looks at portrait upon the wall.] And now, see, it is in ashes—that which was the only proof. The only one? No: another still remains—it is I—and soon that also will be ashes. [Pause.] Now I will go to my room. [Moves.] My God, how weak I have grown! [Moves again with an effort.] But I have saved him. Felicity, fortune are his—I cannot see,—I cannot see. The light is dim. Is it the light or my eyes that are dim? [Approaches table, takes up candle and walks again.] Light, light! where is my room? Shadows! All is darkness. Alas, alas, I cannot, I cannot [Lets candle fall. Room is only lit by the red reflection of the fire. She falls between fireplace and table.]
SCENE IX
Juana, Duchess, Don Lorenzo, Doña Ángela, and Inés. The latter enters R. Don Lorenzo tries to get away from his daughter, who stands at door in white; behind her, half hidden by curtains, the Duchess and Doña Ángela.
Don Lorenzo. [Coming down the stage.] No more, no more. It is the last test,—the last, yes. But, oh, how my will fainted.
Doña Ángela. [To Inés.] Follow him. Do not leave him alone. He will give in.
Inés. Why do you fly from me, father? [Advances a little, behind her the duchess and Doña Ángela. This scene must be strongly marked and fantastic. Don Lorenzo, in the middle of the stage, evinces in his attitude, manner, and expression that he is undergoing a desperate inward struggle. Inés, delicate-looking and charming, approaches him slowly, and Doña Ángela and duchess, in black, follow, encouraging her. Juana dying; the study is quite dark save for the glimmer of the firelight which shows out Inés sharply.]
Don Lorenzo. Here lies my real temptation. Oh, how lovely she is! What an aureola of divine beauty encircles her head—the sole ray of light in this heavy darkness.
Doña Ángela. [Aside to Inés.] Do you see? He cannot resist you. Implore him, implore him, my child.
Inés. [Advancing.] Kiss me, father.
Don Lorenzo. [Retreating.] Alas for me if those dear arms should clasp themselves like a halter round my neck!
Juana. [Aside.] A halter round the neck! He is right.
Inés. For the love of God, father, for the love of me, for all the tears shed by those eyes you used to kiss so fondly when I was a child. [Lifts her hands to her eyes, and then offers them to Don Lorenzo to kiss.] See how the drops still flow from my eyelids. My fingers are wet with them. Kiss them, and let your lips taste of their bitterness.
Don Lorenzo. Yes—I will kiss them—I will kiss them—but, alas! if one of mine should fall upon them.
Juana. [Aside.] Fall, fall, so he said. I also am falling into the bottomless abyss. But first, first I must embrace my son.
Inés. Father!Father! [Don Lorenzo retreats. Doña Ángela, Inés and the duchess follow him.]
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Juana. 'Twas Lorenzo they called. There—there—I see something.
Don Lorenzo. No, no—a thousand times, no. Would you degrade me?
Inés. And you, father—who would believe it?—would kill me. If not, why do you seek to place an obstacle between me and the love of my life?
Don Lorenzo. No, my Inés, no—the duchess—it is the duchess.
Inés. It is not true. The duchess consents.
Don Lorenzo. At the cost of my honour.
Duchess. Not so, Inés. In exchange for silence.
Inés. Don't you hear her, father?
Don Lorenzo. [Moving away and repulsing her.] I only hear voices begging my conscience of me. I only see shadows pursuing me through the shadows—phantasms of space, engendered by temptation. Leave me, leave me—in God's name. If you are strong enough to wring my heart, at least you are not strong enough to bend my will.
Juana. His voice! Lorenzo, Lorenzo! [Comes over to embrace him.]
Don Lorenzo. Mother! [Embraces her.]
Inés. [Taking refuge behind Doña Ángela.] Whose voice is that? Who is that woman? What shade is that which has come out of the darkness and encircles my father with its arms? I'm afraid.
Don Lorenzo. Juana! my mother!
Inés. His mother! Why does he call her mother?
Don Lorenzo. Because she's my mother, and because I should call her so.
Juana. I? his mother? Good gracious, what an idea! How I wish it were so!
Duchess. Do you hear—do you hear what she says?
Doña Ángela. She denies it.
Don Lorenzo. [Violently.] You are my mother.
Juana. Ah, my poor Lorenzo. [Laughs with an effort, embraces him, and whispers.] Child of my heart!
Don Lorenzo. On your life, repeat aloud what you have just whispered to me.
Juana. I whispered! Well, what did I say? To be his mother! Could I wish for a greater blessing?
Don Lorenzo. [Furiously.] Ah, you deny it.
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. [With increasing fury.] Do you deny that you are my mother?
Juana. Why not?
Don Lorenzo. [Despairingly.] You denied me at the hour of my birth, and again you deny me at the hour of your death.
Juana. [Clasping him closely, so that in the darkness it is not possible to discern if they are embracing, or if Don Lorenzo has caught her in his rage.] Child of my love! [Whispers in a dying voice.]
Don Lorenzo. [Deliriously.] That's so, that's so.
Juana. I am dying.
Don Lorenzo. No, mother.
Duchess. Heavens! Is the man going to kill her? Help! [Runs to door R.]
Doña Ángela. Edward—doctor!
Don Lorenzo. Mother, mother!
Juana. No,—God help me!—no, not that.
SCENE X
Don Lorenzo, Juana, Inés, Doña Ángela, Duchess, Dr. Tomás, and Edward. Latter two enter R. with lights, all help to separate Juana and Don Lorenzo.
Dr. Tomás. Come, come.
Don Lorenzo. My mother—forgive me, forgive me. You don't wish me to call you mother—my mother.
Juana. Farewell.
Don Lorenzo. Juana! [Juana makes a terrible effort, and rises as if wounded in the heart by the name of Juana; falls back.]
Dr. Tomás. Dead!
Don Lorenzo. No, it cannot be. [Embraces her.] I killed her by calling her mother,—and the last cry she heard from my lips was Juana. Ah, my God, my God! Why hast thou punished her so hardly, and why hast thou forsaken me?
ACT III
SCENE I
Dr. Tomás. Everything is quiet. The girl's sobbing can no longer be heard, and Don Lorenzo's fury is calmed. 'Tis but the gentle precursor of a fresh tempest. [Pause.] There are moments when I doubt and vacillate. He,—he,—my good friend, poor Lorenzo—the very idea gives me no rest. Well, well, we shall soon know the truth now,—meanwhile, courage. I have sacred obligations to fulfil towards this afflicted family. Nobody could more earnestly desire to help them than I.
Servant. A gentleman, accompanied by two—really sir, I don't know what to call them—but their dress,—well, the gentleman has given me his card for you, and they are all waiting outside.
Dr. Tomás. [Looking at card.] Ah, Doctor Bermúdez. Show him in.
Servant. And the other two?
Dr. Tomás. Let them wait. [Exit servant.] As the hour approaches my doubts and my anxiety increase. Poor Doña Ángela! what a blow for her! And in what a state of nervous agitation is her unhappy daughter! How lucid her glance, and how quick her intelligence! Nobody has explained the matter to her, and yet I believe she knows everything. She guesses what she does not precisely know, and suspects what she does not guess. Oh, no; the situation cannot be prolonged. However sad reality may be, we have to face it.
SCENE II
Dr. Tomás, Dr. Bermúdez. Afterwards two keepers, attired like gentlemen, but evincing that they are not such. Dr. Tomás advances with outstretched hand.
Dr. Tomás. Doctor.
Bermúdez. Dr. Tomás.
Dr. Tomás. Punctual as ever.
Bermúdez. No, I am a little early. I want to hide these fellows somewhere.
Dr. Tomás. Yes, yes, I understand.
Bermúdez. I have made them dress so as to avert suspicion in Don Lorenzo. This is a case for such general precautions.
Dr. Tomás. Quite so, quite so. We must proceed with great caution. It was an access of fury, a veritable access of fury, as I told you. He has only had one, the other night. Perhaps I am mistaken.
Bermúdez. I sincerely hope so—and you, too, I am sure.
Dr. Tomás. Ah, my friend, I scarce know what I am doing. But we trust in your science, your experience, and profound penetration to relieve us of our present doubt.
Bermúdez. You flatter me. You also are a doctor——
Dr. Tomás. Don't count on me, Bermúdez. I am good for nothing. I declare myself incompetent. It is a question of my best friend, of a brother almost. Besides, he has always struck me—you know my school. There is not a divisional line between reason and madness.
Bermúdez. Quite true. All men of learning are more or less insane.
Dr. Tomás. Precisely. Excitement of the brain beyond certain limits——
Bermúdez. That's it. What we have to do is to see what can be done with Don Lorenzo. Now these two fellows——
Dr. Tomás. Oh, it will be easy enough to invent a tale. We'll call them witnesses—say they've come with the notary—anything, in fact. Poor Lorenzo is not in a condition to take note of details.
Bermúdez. Where will they wait?
Dr. Tomás. [Pointing to door R.] Inside that door.
Bermúdez. [Going up the stage.] Here, Braulio! {Enter two keepers, rather heavy and rough in appearance.]
Dr. Tomás. Go into that closet. You will be called if necessary,—meanwhile, remain quiet. [Keepers salute and enter closet R.] Since Juana's death Don Lorenzo has not used this room. [To Bermúdez.] With the door shut—— [Shuts it.]
Bermúdez. [Looking at his watch.] I will be with you in a moment. I'll be back again before the notary arrives. I'm only off somewhere in the neighbourhood.
Dr. Tomás. A visit?
Bermúdez. Yes; a very strange case of insanity. [Enter Doña Ángela C., who stands looking at Bermúdez.] She's——? [To Dr. Tomás, glancing at Doña Ángela.]
Dr. Tomás. Yes—his wife. Don't say anything to her.
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] I'll be back shortly. Your servant, madam. [Salutes Doña Ángela, and exit C.]
SCENE III
Doña Ángela and Dr. Tomás. Doña Ángela follows Bermúdez with her eyes, then glances towards the closet where keepers are concealed.
Doña Ángela. Who was that going away? And who were the two men that accompanied him?him?
Dr. Tomás. Don't be alarmed, dear madam. It will be all right. These are only ordinary precautions, for, who knows? Don Lorenzo might have another access of fury like that of the night before last, and for your sakes—for his own——
Doña Ángela. Oh, doctor, don't hint such a thing.
Dr. Tomás. Don't you remember with what frenzy he grasped poor Juana's dying body? Now that nobody is listening, in all confidence let me say that I firmly believe he was the determining cause——
Doña Ángela. Tomás, Tomás!
Dr. Tomás. Well, at any rate he hastened her death. You heard how bitterly he accused himself in his delirium. Don't let us forge illusions. It was a real access of——
Doña Ángela. [Sobbing.] Lorenzo, my husband!
Dr. Tomás. The crisis may return, for to-day——
Doña Ángela. Yes, I know what his intention is. Ah, doctor, how unfortunate we are! How unfortunate my poor Lorenzo is!
Dr. Tomás. What is he doing now?
Doña Ángela. He is quite calm. He writes, and walks about. He wants to be continually with Inés and me, because solitude terrifies him. A moment ago he stared at me mournfully, but with such tenderness, and kissed me, murmuring, 'poor Ángela.'
Dr. Tomás. You must not contradict him.
Doña Ángela. No, doctor. We agree with him in everything.
Dr. Tomás. And he still persists in the same idea?
Doña Ángela. Yes. From time to time he asks what o'clock it is, gets impatient with the notary's delay, and then mutters in an undertone: 'Though all the world should oppose me, I must do it.'
Dr. Tomás. What a fellow! What character!
Doña Ángela. Oh, doctor, for the love of God, don't deceive me. Tell me, do you really believe Lorenzo to be—to be,—no, I can't—I can't bring myself to pronounce the horrible word.
Dr. Tomás. I don't yet know what to believe. We shall soon see, my dear friend, we shall see. It was precisely to be relieved once and for all of intolerable anxiety that I asked Dr. Bermúdez to call. He is the first authority upon all such cases.
Doña Ángela. But it is impossible, it is surely impossible.
Dr. Tomás. It would rejoice me to learn so, and we need not lose hope. But impossible, madam! Ah, human reason is so slight a thing.
Doña Ángela. Oh, my dear husband! No, I cannot bear—it cannot be.
Dr. Tomás. Come, come, Doña Ángela. Have sense and courage, if only for your daughter's sake, for poor Inés. And who knows yet? We have to see if Don Lorenzo has any explanation to offer—any proof——
Doña Ángela. What proof can he have? Even the dying Juana cried out to him, 'No, no, you are not my son,' while he, frenzied and delirious, grasped her in his arms and strove to force an impossible confession from the half dead body, calling her 'mother' in the strident voice of dementia. No, you can't console me, friend. It is useless. I foresee that our misfortune is inevitable.
Dr. Tomás. I almost fear so.
Doña Ángela. And then his way of receiving the duchess, he who is always the pink of courtesy, a finished gentleman——
Dr. Tomás. You are right. On that occasion I understood how it was with him. But who can be resigned when fate strikes so suddenly?
Doña Ángela. Adoring a child as he adores Inés, is there anybody who could act as he proposes to act to-day?
Dr. Tomás. Nobody, madam, nobody in his right mind.
Doña Ángela. Have you told Dr. Bermúdez?
Dr. Tomás. Not everything. That would be dangerous. But quite enough to enable him to pronounce an opinion.
Doña Ángela. And what is it?
Dr. Tomás. Am I to speak fully?
Doña Ángela. Yes, yes, doctor. Conceal nothing. I know there is no remedy.
Dr. Tomás. With skillful treatment, separated from everybody, especially from those whose presence could only serve to exasperate his nervous sensibility by very reason of his affection for them——
Doña Ángela. Tomás!
Dr. Tomás. In some good asylum here in Spain or abroad——
Doña Ángela. What! What is it you say? Separate him from us! Take him away! He—he—never. I am his wife. I will never consent to it.
Dr. Tomás. The sight of Inés will aggravate his delirium.
Doña Ángela. Her absence would be his death.
Dr. Tomás. He smothered that poor woman to death.
Doña Ángela. There you are wrong, Tomás. With her father Inés runs no risk. She is his daughter.
Dr. Tomás. He believed Juana to be his mother.
Doña Ángela. It must not be, Tomás, it must not be. Why can't you find a way of relieving my anguish instead of torturing me so?
Dr. Tomás. Doña Ángela!
Doña Ángela. It is true, my friend, 'twould indeed be no easy matter to find consolation for such a sorrow as mine.
Dr. Tomás. There is no human sorrow inconsolable, however great it may be.
Doña Ángela. Oh, but mine is.
Dr. Tomás. Yours still less than many others. Come, let us discuss it dispassionately.
Doña Ángela. How can I, with fever running fire in my veins?
Dr. Tomás. Hear me out. If what Don Lorenzo asserts be true, if there were irrefragable proofs——
Doña Ángela. Then my poor husband would not be out of his mind. We it would be who are blind and foolish. Oh, what a blessing that would be!
Dr. Tomás. Not so great, for in that case you would have to face poverty, dishonour—death even.
Doña Ángela. Hush, Tomás.
Dr. Tomás. I say death advisedly, for Inés would most certainly die of it. On the other hand, if Lorenzo's calamity be proved——
Doña Ángela. Don't continue. I can't bear to think of it.
Dr. Tomás. But think of Inés, and in thinking of her you will see that, terrible as the wound is—we must acknowledge the fact, sad as it is—it is by no means a mortal wound. For youth, what alone is mortal is to destroy the future—not simply precipitate the past into nothingness.
Doña Ángela. For mercy's sake, Tomás!
Dr. Tomás. The happiness of Inés' lifetime depends upon her father's calamity—don't forget it.
Doña Ángela. Let God's will be done, but do not seek to awaken ideas rather fitted to frighten than to comfort me.
SCENE IV
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] But where have I left the key? Oh, my head! and the notary will be here presently. I left the letter in the desk. I remember quite well. Two days ago, when my mother——
Dr. Tomás. [Without seeing Don Lorenzo.] Poor Doña Ángela! The proof [ordeal] will be a terrible one.
Don Lorenzo. What? What are they saying? The proof! yes; they are speaking of the proof. [Looks eagerly about the table for key of desk.]
Doña Ángela. Yes, it will be a terrible one—very terrible to walk between two precipices. Lorenzo on the one side, Inés on the other. You are right indeed.
Don Lorenzo. [Aloud, angrily.] I have lost it.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside, turning round.] I should think you have, unfortunate man.
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. Ah, they're there. [Recognises them with a suspicious glance.]
Doña Ángela. [Gently.] What are you looking for? We will help you.
Don Lorenzo. You! no. Wherefore? It is my work.
Doña Ángela. But at least tell us what you have lost.
Don Lorenzo. Everything—even the love of mine own. Say if there can be more for me to lose.
Doña Ángela. No, Lorenzo, do not believe it.
Don Lorenzo. At last! The key. Heaven be praised! [Aside, distrustfully.] It was there—it was in the lock. [Opens desk and takes out the paper Juana placed there.] Ah, here it is. I breathe again freely. [Reads.] 'For Lorenzo.' This is the paper.
Doña Ángela. [Approaching.] Have you found what you were looking for?
Don Lorenzo. Yes. [Dr. Tomás also approaches.]
Doña Ángela. What paper is it?
Don Lorenzo makes a movement to take paper out of envelope, but seeing Dr. Tomás and Doña Ángela come nearer, he puts it back in desk, locks it, and pockets the key.]
Don Lorenzo. A very important one. [Looks from one to the other angrily and suspiciously.] But why do you want to know?
Doña Ángela. Don't be offended, Lorenzo. Forgive me if I have committed an indiscretion.
Don Lorenzo. I forgive! It is I who want your forgiveness. Through me, through my fault, are you about to be plunged into misery.
Doña Ángela. Do not say so. We could never be miserable, you being happy.
Don Lorenzo. And I, could I be happy, fortune having deserted you and my beloved child?
Doña Ángela. She, too, will be happy.
Don Lorenzo. Impossible, for you know what I am thinking of.
Doña Ángela. You have told me. Don't you remember?
Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. Tomás.] And you?
Dr. Tomás. I also know.
Don Lorenzo. You approve?
Doña Ángela. [Sweetly.] Whatever you do will be well done.
Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. Tomás] What have you to say?
Dr. Tomás. The same.
Don Lorenzo. [Thoughtfully.] 'The same.' What conformity of opinion! Do you know that I have sent for a notary?
Doña Ángela. We know it.
Don Lorenzo. [Looking at both.] You know it. And do you likewise know that I am about to have a legal act drawn up containing my formal declaration and renunciation?
Doña Ángela. Yes, Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. So that the judge may then ordain as the law directs? Is it not so?
Dr. Tomás. It is natural.
Don Lorenzo. [To Doña Ángela.] What do you say to it?
Doña Ángela. [In weeping voice.] If this wealth we now enjoy is not legally yours—you do well.
Dr. Tomás. If the name you bear is not yours, you must certainly give it up.
Doña Ángela. In any case your will is law.
Don Lorenzo. Yes, but a tyrannical law, an impious law—eh?
Doña Ángela. Still, a law that I respect above all others.
Don Lorenzo. [Nervous, unquiet, almost irritable.] And you don't resist it? You don't struggle against it?
Dr. Tomás. Your conduct is that of a man of honour. Strictly speaking, there is nothing else for you to do.
Don Lorenzo. What unheard-of submission! What extraordinary docility! What a sudden change! You are deceiving me. I tell you, you are lying to me. [Violently.]
Doña Ángela. For pity's sake, Lorenzo.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside.] Ah, there is no hope. Like a black wave dementia has spread over his mind.
Don Lorenzo. [More calmly.] Well, well, better so. [Pause. Approaches Doña Ángela affectionately.] Where is Inés?
Doña Ángela. My poor child!
Don Lorenzo. You don't defend her against me? [Then gently.] Nevertheless, it is your duty.
Doña Ángela. Alas, Lorenzo, what strength has your wretched wife to use against you? Your will grows iron in strife and calamity; mine bends to the very dust.
Don Lorenzo. You are right. My will is irresistible when duty orders me. [To Dr. Tomás.] What do you think of all this?
Dr. Tomás. That it should be so.
Don Lorenzo. So it is. [Pause.] Poor Ángela! And do you know what we are going to do once the act is signed and the proof given up?
Dr. Tomás. You have a proof?
Don Lorenzo. You didn't know. [Aside, wondering.] (And they were talking about it when I entered!) Yes, I have it, irrefutable, past doubt, clear as daylight, although it is black as night and treason.
Doña Ángela. Keep calm, Lorenzo.
Dr. Tomás. Then what is it?
Don Lorenzo. A letter of my mother's—of the woman who called herself my mother.
Doña Ángela. [Aside.] Good Heavens! Can it be true?
Don Lorenzo. Her signature, her handwriting—it is here—in my power.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside.] Ah, if it were so.
Don Lorenzo. Then when the proof is delivered up, you, my poor Inés, and I will at once leave this house—this house which already has ceased to be ours, and which this very day the law will take into possession until it is handed over to the heirs of Avendaña. [With increasing animation.] And in a little while we shall wander forth without resources, without a name, bearing a dying child in our arms—for have you not assured us that Inés will die? [to Dr. Tomás]—fronting a despairing solitude——no, 'twas not well said—I blasphemed. We will bear away with us an unstained honour and a tranquil conscience, and our heads will be held high, while God is with us. What matter if the world forsake us, thus accompanied?
Doña Ángela. [Embracing him.] Before, I said with my lips only: 'Your will is law, Lorenzo.' Now I say it with my heart.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside.] If the proof exists, this man is a saint. But, alas! if it does not exist, the unfortunate fellow is nothing but a lunatic. [Enter servant.]
Servant. The Duchess of Almonte, and his Grace the Duke.
Doña Ángela. Show them in. [To Dr. Tomás.] Have you informed them?
Dr. Tomás. [To Doña Ángela.] I told them last night. The duchess promised to come. You see, she has kept her word.
Don Lorenzo. I cannot see them. I must be alone, unless you are with me—only you. Good-bye, Ángela.
Doña Ángela. Good-bye, Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. [Looking at his watch.] How slowly time passes! [Goes to door R. Dr. Tomás follows him.] Have you given notice to the witnesses? [At door.]
Dr. Tomás. I have two inside waiting, and another will be here presently.
Don Lorenzo. Who are they?
Dr. Tomás. You don't know them. They are friends of mine.
Don Lorenzo. And why not mine too?
Dr. Tomás. I always considered my friends as yours.
Don Lorenzo. [Looks at him for a moment.] So they are. [Aside.] Ah, this complaisance! I would have preferred to see them resist—struggle against me!