Doña Ángela. Duchess!
Duchess. Madam! [Salutes affectionately.]
Doña Ángela. You are always so good to us.
Duchess. It is my duty to offer the consolations of sincere friendship in your cruel trouble. God has willed that the same misfortune should strike us all though in different ways. [Lowers her voice and points to Edward on uttering the last word.]
Doña Ángela. But what then do you call the misfortune that has struck me? I know not.
Edward. Well, madam, the moment for naming it has arrived. It is called poverty, and shame, and the death of Inés, or——
Doña Ángela and Duchess, [At same time.] Edward!
Edward. Forgive me, mother. We should each and all speak out the truth to-day. You have already said: 'I will compromise with Don Lorenzo's calamity for the sake of the love I bear you and that which you bear me; but I will never compromise with his public dishonour,—never, not even for the price of your life.' My life, mother, was it not so 'twas said?
Duchess. [With energy, but sadly.] Yes.
Edward. [Going toward Doña Ángela.] Then, madam, let us probe the misfortune that has struck you. Whether is it called dishonour or madness? This is the problem we have to solve. Should Don Lorenzo be correct, should he be in his sound senses, should there be proof forthcoming of his assertion, it is for us to respect his cruel virtue. But if, as I (by a thousand signs that almost constitute evidence) believe, an eternal cloud has dimmed his intellect, and the light of his reason is for ever quenched,—then defend yourself, Doña Ángela. It is your most sacred duty. Defend the name you bear, your social position, even Don Lorenzo's honour, against his own raving; defend,—why should I keep it back?—Inés' life and her life's felicity. Do not, madam, leave such almighty interests and so dear an object at the mercy of a madman.
Duchess. Edward!
Edward. The word is a harsh one, but the time has come to pronounce it. Once for all, let us learn the fact whether this battle for reputation and existence into which Don Lorenzo has cast us is what it seems or what I fear:—whether, finally, the heroic sacrifice of this implacable scholar is insanity or sanctity.
Duchess. Enough, Edward. [Doña Ángela sits down on sofa, weeping bitterly. Duchess goes over to her.]
Dr. Tomás. [To Edward.] The happiness of this family affects me as closely as my own. What you propose to do has already been considered, and both the law and science will be called in to decide.
Duchess. I hope to Heaven the darkness will be illuminated for you. [To Doña Ángela.] Come, come, madam: courage, resignation! Where is Inés?
Doña Ángela. Do you wish to see her?
Duchess. Yes.
Doña Ángela. Come, then. [To Dr. Tomás.] And you too. I would like you to see her. For the past three days fever alone has lent her strength. My daughter, my dear child is very ill.
Dr. Tomás. Poor girl!
SCENE VI
Edward. They persist in doubting. What blindness! They can't understand that the unfortunate gentleman, from force of seeking, not the righting of wrongs, like the Errant Knight, but the reason of all the varied rights invented by the accumulated wisdom of centuries, has ended by losing the only one that Providence saw fit to bestow upon him—namely, natural reason. Oh, but this must not be. I cannot allow them to sacrifice my dear one's life to the extravagances of a poor madman.
SCENE VII
Inés. What are those men? Who are they?
Edward. [Rushing towards her.] Inés, my beloved! How pale you are! Your divine glance is hemmed round by deep purple shadow.
Inés. But answer me. Who are they? What are they waiting for? Send them away. [Approaches the door cautiously and peeps in; Edward endeavours to lead her down the stage.] There is something sinister about them. My father—where is my father? I was looking for him between the drawing-room and yonder closet, and I saw them—I can't bear the sight of them, and yet I cannot take my eyes from off them.
Edward. But what is the matter with you, dearest? Why do your eyes seem to shun me? Is it from me that you are running away? Inés, have you wearied of my love?
Inés. [Coming down the stage.] Wearied of your love? You must know that it is my life. But oh, Edward, to what a frightful ordeal fate has subjected us! You do not understand it. For me supreme bliss lies in your love, and the hope I place in your love is a still greater bliss—a far, far greater. The one is our present, the other contains all our future. And yet, Edward, dearest, that same hope has now become a crime for your Inés, yes, a crime. Can a cruelty more exquisite be conceived? That which destiny denies no other living being it denies me. Yesterday I was but a child. My thoughts floated upon laughter in a sphere of white transparency, like a vapoury mist in moonlight. To-day they are as heavy as lead, as burning as lava. Could you but hear their horrible whispers in the silence of night. And these thoughts are not mine. It is not my will that gives them birth. They come I know not whence. I cast them from me, and still they return. They vex me with chiding complaints: 'your poor father,' one moment, and then assail me with tempting voices, murmuring: 'Inés, Inés, who knows?—you may yet be happy—love may yet smile upon you—hope, hope, poor little thing.' Can you think of anything more horrible—surely it must be my bad angel—than to hear within oneself the voice of Satan whispering of hope to one bidden to say farewell to it?
Edward. You are not yourself, my dear Inés.
Inés. [Approaching Edward.] I am filled with remorse.
Edward. For what?
Inés. I don't know. I have done nothing wrong. My father! My poor father!
Edward. You angel of my life, my heart's desire, be calm, be calm. I beg of you to spare yourself.
Inés. Whisper, Edward. I could almost wish I were dead.
SCENE VIII
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Dead, she said?
Edward. You dead! No, Inés, don't say such a thing.
Inés. Why not? If I do not die of sorrow—should fortune ever again smile upon me, then must I die of remorse.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Of remorse! She! Should fortune ever again smile upon her! What worse fate floats in the air and hangs threateningly above my head? Remorse!—I have again caught another passing word. I traverse rooms and galleries, and wander from one place to another, pricked by insufferable anguish. I hear talk that I do not understand, and meet glances still further from my comprehension. I see tears here, smiles there, and nobody opposes me,—all either fly from me or watch me. [Aloud.] What is this? What is this?
Inés. [Rushing to his arms.] Oh, father!
Don Lorenzo. Inés, how white you are? Whence this dolorous constriction of your lips? Why do you essay a smile only to end in sobbing? How lovely she is in her sorrow! And it is all my fault.
Inés. No, father.
Don Lorenzo. I am cruel. Oh, if you do not say it, you think it.
Edward. Inés is too sweet-natured to harbour rebellious thoughts. But we who see her suffer cannot help thinking and saying it for her.
Don Lorenzo. It is but natural you should do so.
Edward. [Passionately.] Then if I am right, you are wrong.
Don Lorenzo. I am not in the wrong for that. There is something more pallid than the white brow of a lovesick maid; there are tears sadder far than the crystal drops of her beautiful eyes, something still crueller than the curving smiles of her lips, and something yet more tragic than the death of our beloved.
Edward. [With violence and contempt.] What is this worse pallor, these sadder tears, and still mournfuller tragedies?
Don Lorenzo. [Seizing his arm.] Madman! The pallor of crime, the tears of remorse, the consciousness of one's own infamy.
Edward. And this infamy, this remorse, this crime would lie in furthering your daughter's happiness?
Don Lorenzo. [Despairingly.] It should not be—but so it is nevertheless. [Pause.] And this makes my torment. This is the idea that will drive me mad.
Inés. No, no, father. You must not say that. Do what you think best without thought of me. What does it matter whether I live or die?
Don Lorenzo. Inés!
Inés. Only, do not be uncertain in it—above all, do not let others see your uncertainty. Let your speech be clear and persuasive, as it is now, and do not let worry blind you. Be calm, father. I implore you by all that is sacred.
Don Lorenzo. What do you mean? I do not understand.
Inés. Do I myself know rightly what I mean? Adieu, adieu. I cannot bear to grieve you.
Edward. [To Don Lorenzo.] Alas, if 'twere possible for you to take counsel with your heart, and silence the prompting of thought.
Inés. [To Edward.] Do not vex him. Come with me—if you thwart him maybe 'twill force his hate.
Don Lorenzo. Poor child!—she also is struggling—but she will conquer. She is not my daughter for nothing.
[Utters this proudly. Inés and Edward go up the stage; passing the door of the closet, Inés sees the keepers, and makes a movement of horror.]
Inés. What sinister vision is it that frights my gaze? Those men? Oh, father, do not enter there.
Edward. Come, Inés, come.
Inés. [To her father.] No, no. I beseech you, father.
Don Lorenzo. [Going towards her.] Inés!
Inés. Those men—there—look! [Points to closet. Don Lorenzo stands and follows her eyes. At that moment the keepers, hearing her cry, lift the curtain and show themselves.]
Edward. [Leading Inés away.] At last!
SCENE IX
Don Lorenzo. Who can they be? Enter, pray. [The keepers advance timidly, and speak abruptly.]
Braulio. Dr. Tomás——
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Ah, I understand.
Benito. Told us to wait there——
Don Lorenzo. Excuse me, I did not know——
Braulio. Not at all, sir.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] How odd they look, in sooth. Pray, be seated.
Benito. Thanks, sir.
Braulio. We are well enough standing.
Don Lorenzo. I cannot permit it——
Braulio. Don't trouble yourself, sir.
Benito. If the gentleman orders it, it is better to take a seat. [Both sit down on sofa. Don Lorenzo remains standing.]
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Their looks seem to bode no good, or is it, perhaps, that my eyes only reflect the flashes that dart across my mind? [Inspects them again attentively. Aloud.] It was Miss Avendaña who saw you when she passed, and mentioned it to me.
Braulio. Yes, that beautiful young lady.
Benito. Who looked so sorrowful.
Braulio. Like the picture of the Dolorosa. [The keepers speak shortly, and after these remarks fall into sudden silence, remaining stiff and immovable, looking vaguely before them.]
Don Lorenzo. You frightened her, and she almost ran away at the sight of you. But you must not be astonished. The poor girl is very ill—indeed, she is scarce other than a child yet.
Braulio. [Smiling sillily.] It always happens to us in every house.
Don Lorenzo. [Aside, wondering.] In every house!
Benito. [Looking for the first time at Don Lorenzo, and again looking steadily in front of him.] Can she be that poor gentleman's daughter,—eh?
Don Lorenzo. What poor gentleman?
Benito. [Without looking at him.] The gentleman who is—— [Touches his forehead, still not looking at Don Lorenzo, who, unobserved by the keepers, makes a gesture of surprise.]
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Ah—no—what an idea! [Aloud, with an effort of self-control.] Just so. She is the daughter of—— [Observes them with increasing anxiety.]
Benito. Well, she is very beautiful, though so sad.
Braulio. 'Tis reason enough she has to be sad.
Don Lorenzo. You know——?
Braulio. Everything. [Looks a moment at Don Lorenzo and then away.]
Don Lorenzo. Dr. Tomás told you?
Benito. Not to us.
Braulio. He told the doctor.
Benito. Why should he talk to us? We, in doing our duty——
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] All my body is bathed in a cold sweat, like the sweat of death. I am raving—This can't possibly be true. [Repeats mechanically.] In doing your duty——
Braulio. We are here on the look-out in case he should become obstreperous.
Don Lorenzo. In case he should become obstreperous?—who?
Braulio. Why, the gentleman.
Don Lorenzo. [Falls back staring at him in terror; passes his hand over his forehead as if to brush away an idea; retreats still further, staggers, and leans against the table. Then speaks low and abruptly in a dead voice.] So you know everything.
Braulio. Nearly everything.
Benito. As we have been waiting here for some time, we have heard the servants talk.
Don Lorenzo. They said——?
Braulio. They didn't leave us in the dark, you may be sure. It appears Don Lorenzo had an attack the night before last. You know all about it better than we do.
Don Lorenzo. [In a heavy sombre tone.] Yes.
Benito. They say he strangled a poor old woman. [Don Lorenzo recoils in horror, and covers his face with his hands.]
Braulio. There's a fellow for you! A good beginning—that's clear enough. It's always the same thing. The family——
Don Lorenzo. The family! [Removes his hands from his face, walks a few steps as if shaken by an electric shock, and stares at them with keen anxiety, speaking in the same dead voice.]
Braulio. Yes, the family—'tis natural enough.—Don't they say he wanted to give all his fortune away? ever so many millions. The devil of a lunatic altogether. Nothing else for it but what has been decided—to pack him off. We take him away and the poor ladies are left in peace.
Don Lorenzo. I!—they?—Ángela?—Inés—no, no—not possible. [Recoils again R.]
Braulio. [Staring after him. Aside.] What's the matter with the gentleman? [To Benito.] Look at him, look. [Both keepers draw together and bend forward in direction R. looking curiously at Don Lorenzo. This group should be made important.]
Don Lorenzo. Air, light! No, not light—darkness! I do not want to see. I do not want to think. [Falls into arm-chair and lets his head drop into his palms.]
Benito. I say, I believe that's——
Braulio. This is a fine fix.
Benito. Who would think it!
Braulio. Let us go back to our hiding-place.
Benito. Sh! Say nothing about it. [They rise and walk cautiously to the closet, closely watching Don Lorenzo.]
Braulio. That's settled. Not a word. We were told to stay in here. Then let us stay, and we'd have done better not to budge.
Benito. Somebody is crying and sobbing. [They reach the door, stand and look at Don Lorenzo, who has not changed his attitude. Servant enters C., crosses and goes out R.] Leave him alone, leave him alone. Now that he is calm. [They enter closet and shut door.]
SCENE X
Don Lorenzo. My God, remove this chalice from my lips—I can endure no more—no more. Oh, strength fails me. [Sobs despairingly.] Thou who madest me believe in them. Thou who madest me love them!—and now they—oh, traitors! No, no. Lord who hast given me life, relieve me of its burden soon. See, Lord, how close upon me is the temptation to thrust from me with my own hands this putrid garb of flesh. To die! How I yearn for death! Dost thou not see it? See me kneel to implore it of thee—on my knees. Thou art kind, thou art compassionate. Death, only death. Send me death, the pallid messenger of thy love. [Falls kneeling beside the arm-chair and drops his head upon folded arms.]
Dr. Tomás. [In low voice to servant.] Have they both come?
Servant. [In same tone to Dr. Tomás.] Yes, sir; both the notary and Dr. Bermúdez. [Dr. Tomás and servant stand in middle of stage observing Don Lorenzo, who is kneeling and sobbing.]
Dr. Tomás. Poor fellow! [Steps towards Don Lorenzo, changes his mind and goes up C.] Why should I? Let us make an end of it.
SCENE XI
Don Lorenzo. Now am I calmer. The hurt is mortal. I feel it—here at the heart's core. Thanks, Almighty consoler. [Dr. Tomás and Dr. Bermúdez enter C. and stand watching him.]
Dr. Tomás. You see him there—beside the arm-chair.
Bermúdez. Unfortunate man!
Don Lorenzo. [Rising. Aside.] Ah, miserable being—still, still—cherishing impossible hopes. Impossible! And suppose they honestly believe that I——? Oh, but if they loved me, surely they would not believe it. [Despairingly. Pause.] Did I not hear Inés—the child I so greatly love—speak of remorse? Why should she speak of remorse? [Aloud with increasing agitation.] All of them—wretches!—They would almost rejoice at my death. No, then I will not die, no, not until I have fulfilled my duty as an honourable man, not before I have brought the question of my madness to an end.
Dr. Tomás. [Placing a hand upon his arm.] Lorenzo.
Don Lorenzo. [Turning, recognises him, and retreats angrily.] He!
Dr. Tomás. Let me introduce one of my best friends, Dr. Bermúdez. [Pause. Don Lorenzo looks at both strangely.]
Bermúdez. [In low voice to Dr. Tomás.] You can see the effort he is making to control himself. There can be no doubt that he is vaguely conscious of his condition.
Don Lorenzo. One of your best friends—one of your best friends——
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] An idea is escaping him, and he is struggling to retain it.
Don Lorenzo. [Ironically.] Then if he is one of your best friends, your loyalty will be a guarantee of his.
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] At last he has found the word, but note the unnatural tones of his voice. [Aloud.] I come, Dr. Tomás assures me, to witness a most noble deed.
Don Lorenzo. And an act of unworthy treason as well.
Dr. Tomás. Lorenzo!
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] Let him say what he likes.
Don Lorenzo. And of an exemplary chastisement.
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] It is very serious, my friend, very serious.
Don Lorenzo. [To Dr. Tomás.] Call everybody, everybody, my own and strangers alike. Let them come here, and let them await my orders here while I am doing my duty elsewhere. What are you waiting for?
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] You must not contradict him. Call them. [Dr. Tomás rings a bell. Enter servant, to whom he speaks in low voice, and then goes out R.]
Don Lorenzo. 'Tis the last test. They almost inspire me with pity, the traitors! Oh, I am well sustained by the certainty of triumph. Be still, my heart. There they are, there they are! I can't see them—I who loved them so fondly. I cannot, and still my eyes turn to them, seeking them, seeking them ever.
SCENE XII
Don Lorenzo. Inés! It is not possible. She! No, no, it cannot be, my child! [Goes towards her with outstretched arms. Inés runs to him.]
Inés. Father! [Bermúdez hastens to interpose, and separates them roughly.]
Bermúdez. Come, come, Don Lorenzo, you might hurt your daughter very seriously.
Don Lorenzo. [Seizing his arm and shaking him violently.] You scoundrel! Who are you to tear my child away from me?
Dr. Tomás. Lorenzo!
Edward. Don Lorenzo!
Doña Ángela. Oh, heavens! [The ladies group together instinctively. Inés in her mother's arms, the Duchess near them. Dr. Tomás and Edward rush to free Bermúdez of Don Lorenzo's grasp.]
Don Lorenzo. [Aside, controlling himself.] So! the imbeciles believe it is another access of madness. Madness! Ha, ha, ha! [Laughs in a suppressed way. Everybody watches him.]
Bermúdez. [Aside to Dr. Tomás.] It is quite evident.
Doña Ángela. [Aside.] Oh, my poor husband!
Inés. [Aside.] My father!
Don Lorenzo. [Aside.] Now they will see how my madness is going to end. Before I leave this house with what a hearty pleasure will I kick that doctor out. Fresh vigour already animates me. What! Since when has it become reason sufficient to declare a man mad because he is resolved to perform his duty? Ah, that's not very likely. Humanity is neither so blind nor so base, though it is bad enough. Softly now. Treason has begun its work; then let the punishment begin too. [Aloud.] The hour has come for me to accomplish a sacred obligation, however sharp a sorrow it may be. It were a useless trouble to insist upon your presence at the necessary legal formalities. It would only bore you. The representative of law awaits me in yonder room. I, in obeying a higher law, am about to renounce a fortune that is not mine, as well as a name that neither I nor my family can any longer bear with a clear conscience. Afterwards I will return here, and with my wife and—and—my daughter, will leave this house, which in the past has only sheltered love and felicity, and to-day offers me nothing but treason and wickedness. Let no one seek to prevent me, for none of you can resist my will. Gentlemen [to Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez], do me the favour to go before—I beg you. [All slowly enter closet R. On the threshold Don Lorenzo looks back once at Inés.]
SCENE XIII
Inés. Oh, pity, Heaven, and save him.
Doña Ángela. [Embracing her.] You are right. Let us only think of him, pray for him alone.
Duchess. It is a sacred duty for you to place poor Don Lorenzo's welfare before your own happiness; but in any case, it is no less a sacred obligation to conform to a higher will than ours. [Pause.]
Inés. [To Edward.] What are they saying? Tell us, Edward, what they are saying.
Edward. He is talking; his words are cold and severe, but not in the least uncertain or troubled. [Edward returns to the door.]
Doña Ángela. What anguish! What anxiety! Death were preferable to this torture.
Inés. What can it matter what my father says since he is already judged beforehand?
Doña Ángela. Don't say such a thing, child.
Inés. I say it because I feel it to be true, and I see it in the faces of those who are now his judges.
Doña Ángela. But what—what is it you see?
Inés. In those persons the monomania of specialists.
Doña Ángela. In Tomás?
Inés. Yes—his scientific opinions—whatever they may be—his own special follies——
Doña Ángela. But in me, Inés?
Inés. [Embracing her.] Your love of me.
Doña Ángela. Hush, child, hush!
Inés. They are all against my father, every one. Poor father!
Duchess. You are raving, Inés.
Inés. Yes, I am raving, and so are you, and so are all of us—all excepting him, excepting him—my heart tells me so. You yourself, madam, what is it you desire but Edward's happiness; and Edward wants my love, and I his. My father, with his virtue and his honour, is our mutual obstacle, while in us something obscure twists itself about us till conscience is enveloped in shadows. Oh, my father, my dearest father!
Doña Ángela. For pity's sake, Inés! What ideas!
Inés. What is he saying—tell me what he is saying! I hear his voice.
Edward. [Approaching.] He is speaking of conclusive evidence.
Inés. Would to God there were. [To Edward.] And now?
Edward. They are demanding to see the evidence in order to draw up the act and present it to the judge.
Doña Ángela. And he?
Edward. He is smiling triumphantly. He is pale, fearfully pale, but composed and dignified. Here they are coming. [Edward comes down the stage and says aside.] That man terrifies me.
Inés. [Aside.] God grant it may be true—though my love should perish.
Doña Ángela. [To the Duchess.] Can it be true?
Duchess. [To Doña Ángela.] Can it be true?
Edward. [Aside, seeing Don Lorenzo enter.] Ah, is it I who am mad?
LAST SCENE
The position of the persons is as follows. The three women form a group at sofa; Edward behind the sofa looking at Don Lorenzo in terror, dominated by him. Don Lorenzo advances to the middle of the stage, with a proud, calm bearing. Behind him come Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez, who remain standing near door C.
Don Lorenzo. [Approaches table, and triumphantly places one hand on desk.] Here is the proof. Here lies the truth! [Pause. Opens desk and takes out envelope with blank sheet. Comes down stage. On one side Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez. Edward approaches him on the other.] Woe to them who think to sacrifice me to their own interests and passions! Bitter will be their deception and most cruel their punishment! Would to God my forgiveness could mitigate it for them. [Deeply moved.]
Doña Ángela. [Coming nearer.] Lorenzo!
Inés. Father——
Don Lorenzo. Here is the proof, Tomás; here is the proof, Ángela, here, my child, is the proof. Listen. [Pause. Don Lorenzo opens envelope. All gather round him.] This is—what is this? [Holds paper away from his eyes, over which he rubs his hand.] What shade is this that dims my eyes? Can it be that there are tears in them which impede clear vision? No,—I cried before—but now I am not weeping. [Looks at paper again with horrible anxiety, opens it altogether, and seeks for writing on all sides.] Where are the words that woman wrote? I have read them a thousand times—and now I can't——[To Dr. Tomás, holding out paper to him.] What does it say?—read, read—quickly—only tell me what it says.
Dr. Tomás. Nothing, my poor friend.
Don Lorenzo. Nothing! [Again looks at paper.] You are deceiving me. Dr. Bermúdez, that fellow is deceiving me. He is one of the scoundrels who have plotted this wretched treason. Read it you—read it.
Bermúdez. There is nothing written on the paper.
Don Lorenzo. Nothing written on it! You say there is nothing written upon it! It is not true—no, it is not true. Inés, my daughter, my best beloved, come and save your father.—What does it say?
Inés. Oh, father, I see nothing.
Don Lorenzo. Nothing!—she also!—But is this not the proof?
Dr. Tomás. Yes, my unhappy friend—the proof—but a far too cruel one.
Don Lorenzo. [Striking his forehead.] Ah, I understand. [Looks at Dr. Tomás and Doña Ángela.] I heard them once before talking of a proof. You! [to Dr. Tomás] and you! [To Doña Ángela.] You have taken it away. God in Heaven! [Recoils from them in horror. The rest move away from him, and he stands alone in the middle of the stage. Pause.] Be it so,—be it so!—I am defeated—most miserably defeated! How they rejoice in their triumph! See how they gaze at me in their hypocritical distress! And they feign to weep, too. They are all feigning. [Pause.] Alas! my heart—alas! for my life's illusion—alas! for love, and oh, alas! alas! my child—phantoms that whirl about and fly from me—for ever fly away!—I who believed in all things good—in the blue above, in the purity of my daughter's brow—what is there now left me to believe in? You see for yourselves. I make no resistance. I yield myself up. Yours the victory. Why have you brought those men here when I do not seek to oppose your will? I will go wherever you bid me. Adieu. Don't touch me. [To Dr. Tomás, who approaches and takes his hand.] When human flesh comes in contact with mine, it seems to me that vipers crawl along my skin. Alone—alone will I ascend my Calvary bearing my cross of sorrows without an infamous Cyrenean to assist me. Farewell, loyal friend [still addresses Dr. Tomás], who have saved the fortune of this disconsolate family from the hands of a madman. Farewell, Ángela, my tender-hearted wife. Twenty years ago, mad with love of you, I gave you my first kiss. To-day, no less a madman, I send you the last. [Kisses his hand to her with cry and expression of desperate grief.]
Doña Ángela. Lorenzo!
Don Lorenzo. Don't come near me. I might strangle you in my arms. [Ángela recoils.] Farewell, Inés, my only child. Be happy—if you can. To you I say nothing. I could not speak to you unkindly. [Walks a few steps feebly, then stops. Repulses roughly those who rush to his assistance.] Let me be. I require no one. My brow is damp with sweat, and thirst is upon my dry lips, and a fiery heat seems to swell my eyelids. [Stops again.] Listen to me, Inés, my child.—If you still retain any love for me,—if by chance your heart is touched with pity for your father,—if you feel regret for what you have done against me along with the rest of them—come once to my arms. Let me carry away into the hell of suffering that awaits me one tear of your eyes upon my cheek, one kiss of your dear lips upon mine.
Inés. Father! [All endeavour to restrain her, but she breaks from them and runs to Don Lorenzo, who catches her in his arms and holds her closely clasped to his breast.]
Don Lorenzo. My child! [The rest advance to them, but make no effort to separate them.]
Inés. No—they must not take you away—I love you dearly,—every one lies but you.
Don Lorenzo. You would not have those men carry me off?
Inés. No, no; I will defend you—and you defend me.
Don Lorenzo. Yes! I will defend you—Let them drag you from my arms if they can. [Makes a movement to carry her away.]
Doña Ángela. My child, my child! Help! [Edward, Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez struggle to separate father and daughter.]
Don Lorenzo. I will not let her go—for ever in my arms!
Inés. Yes, yes, father. Defend me.
Bermúdez. It is imperative.
Edward. Don Lorenzo!
Dr. Tomás. Lorenzo!
Duchess. Merciful god, he will kill her as he killed Juana!
Doña Ángela. Inés! [These exclamations are simultaneous: the struggle is swift. Keepers enter. The men hold Don Lorenzo, and the women restrain Inés, keeping her by force from her father.]
Edward. At last!
Inés. Father! [Holds her arms out to Don Lorenzo.]
Don Lorenzo. I was not able, child.—I could do no more.—Here upon my cheek I feel your kisses and your tears.—She at least loved me—she was innocent—I see it now. God above, thou hast accepted my martyrdom in that night of agony and temptation in exchange for her happiness. I do not regret it. Make her happy—very happy! and let the cup of bitterness be mine alone—only mine!
Inés. Adieu, father—I will save you yet.
Don Lorenzo. What can you do, child—when God himself has not seen fit to save me? [Remains near closet between keepers, guarded by Edward, Dr. Tomás and Bermúdez. Inés, held back by the other women, stands with arms strained towards him.]