Chapter V: Act III

_The same decoration as first act: an arm-chair instead of a sofa. It is
night; a lighted lamp stands on the table._

SCENE I

_Pepito listening at the door on the right, then comes
back into the middle of the stage._

PEPITO. The crisis is past at last. I hear nothing. Poor Don Julian!
He's in a sad way. His life hangs in the balance: on one side death
awaits him, and on the other another death, that of the soul, of
honour—either abyss deeper than hopeless love. The devil! All this
tragedy is making me more sentimental than that fellow with his plays
and verses. The tune of disaster, scandal, death, treason, and
disgrace, hums in my brain. By Jove, what a day, and what a night! and
the worst is yet to come. Well, it certainly was madness to move him
in his condition; but when once my uncle gets an idea into his head,
there's no reasoning with him. And, after all, he was right. No
honourable man, in his place, could have stayed, and he is a man of
spirit. Who is coming? my mother, I believe—yes. [_Enter Doña
Mercedes._]

SCENE II

_Pepito and Doña Mercedes._

MERCEDES. Where's Severo?

PEPITO. He has not left my uncle for a moment. I had no idea he was so
attached to him. If what I fear should happen——

MERCEDES. How is your uncle?

PEPITO. He suffers greatly, but says nothing. Sometimes he calls out
'Teodora' in a low harsh voice, and sometimes 'Ernest'; and then he
tugs violently at the sheets, and lies quiet again as a statue,
staring vacantly into space. Now his brow is bathed in the cold sweat
of death, and then fever seizes him. He sits up in bed, listens
attentively, and shouts that _he_ and _she_ are waiting for him. He tries
to jump out of bed to rush at them, and all my father's entreaties and
commands barely suffice to restrain him or soothe him. There's no
quieting him. Anger races hot through his veins, and thought is a
flame. It is shocking, mother, to see the bitter way his lips
contract, and how his fingers close in a vice, with head all wild, and
pupils dilated as though they drank in with yearning and despair every
shadow that floats around the chamber.

MERCEDES. How does your father bear it?

PEPITO. He groans and breathes of vengeance. He, too, mutters the names
of Teodora and Ernest. I hope to God he will not meet either, for if
he should, small chance there is of restraining his fury.

MERCEDES. Your father is a good man.

PEPITO. Yes, but with a temper——

MERCEDES. It is not easily aroused, however. But when he has cause——

PEPITO. With all due respect, he's then a very tiger.

MERCEDES. Only when provoked.

PEPITO. I don't know about other occasions, but this time he certainly
has provocation enough. And Teodora?

MERCEDES. She is upstairs. She wanted to come down—and cried—like a
Magdalen.

PEPITO. Already! Repentant or erring?

MERCEDES. Don't speak so. Unhappy girl, she is but a child.

PEPITO. Who, innocent and candid, sweet and pure and meek, kills Don
Julian. So that, if I am to accept your word, and regard her as a
child, and such is her work on the edge of infancy, we may pray God in
his mercy to guard us from her when she shall have put on years.

MERCEDES. She is hardly to be blamed. The infamy lies with your fine
friend—he of the dramas, the poet and dreamer. He it is who is the
culprit.

PEPITO. I don't deny it.

MERCEDES. Where is he?

PEPITO. Where is he? At this moment racing about the streets and public
places, flying from his conscience, and unable to get away from it.

MERCEDES. He has a conscience?

PEPITO. So it would seem.

MERCEDES. Oh, what a tragedy

PEPITO. A misfortune!

MERCEDES. Such a deception!

PEPITO. A cruel one.

MERCEDES. What shocking treason!

PEPITO. Unparalleled.

MERCEDES. Poor Julian!

PEPITO. Melancholy fate! [_Enter servant._]

SCENE III

_Doña Mercedes, Pepito, and servant._

SERVANT. Don Ernest.

MERCEDES. He dares——

PEPITO. This is too much.

SERVANT. I thought——

PEPITO. You had no business to think anything.

SERVANT. He is only passing. There is a cab waiting, so——

PEPITO. What are we to do?

MERCEDES. Let him come in. [_Exit servant._]

PEPITO. I'll give him his dismissal.

MERCEDES. Do it cleverly.

SCENE IV

_Doña Mercedes, Pepito, and Ernest. Doña Mercedes seated in the
arm-chair, Pepito standing, and Ernest behind, whom neither salute nor
look at._

ERNEST. [_Aside._] Hostile silence, anger, and contempt Through no fault
of my own, I now appear to them a prodigy of evil and insolence, and
they all despise me.

PEPITO. Listen to me, Ernest. [_Turns round to him and speaks in a hard
voice._]

ERNEST. Well.

PEPITO. I have to tell you——

ERNEST. To go away, perhaps.

PEPITO. [_Changing his tone._] Good heavens! What a notion! I
only—wanted to ask you—if it is true [_hunts for something to say_]
that you afterwards—the viscount, you know?

ERNEST. [_Gloomily looking away._] Yes.

PEPITO. How did it happen?

ERNEST. I ran downstairs—half mad—I found them—we went upstairs
again—locked the door. Two men—two witnesses—two swords—and
afterwards—I hardly know what happened. Swords clashed—there was a
cry—a thrust—blood spouted—an assassin stood—and a man lay stretched
on the ground.

PEPITO. The devil! Sharp work. Did you hear, mother?

MERCEDES. More blood shed.

PEPITO. Nebreda deserved it.

ERNEST. [_Approaching her._] Mercedes, for pity's sake—one word—Don
Julian? How is he? If you could know what my anguish is—my sorrow—what
do they say?

MERCEDES. That the wound, since his removal, is mortal, and it would be
worse for him if you went near the bed of suffering and death. Leave
this house.

ERNEST. I must see him.

MERCEDES. Go, instantly.

ERNEST. I will not.

PEPITO. What insolence!

ERNEST. It is befitting. [_To Pepito._] Pardon me, madam [_turning
respectfully to Mercedes_]; you see I am achieving the general opinion
of me.

MERCEDES. For pity's sake, Ernest——

ERNEST. Listen, Mercedes. When a man such as I am is abused, and for no
reason on earth treated as a blackguard, and finds himself snared,
with crime thrust upon him, 'tis indeed a perilous case,—for others
rather than for himself. I, in this fierce struggle with miserable
fate, have lost honour, friendship and love, and have now nothing more
to lose but the shabby shreds of an insipid and dreary existence. I
have come here solely to know if there is any hope—only for that—and
then—but you cannot deny me so slight a consolation? [_Pleading._] One
word!

MERCEDES. Very well. They say—that he is better.

ERNEST. True? You are not deceiving me? You are sure—quite sure? Oh! you
are merciful, you are kind. It is true, quite true! May God spare him!
Not his death. Let him live and be happy once more; let him forgive me
and embrace me once again! Only let me see him. [_Falls into the
arm-chair beside the table sobbing, and covers his face with his
hands. Pause._]

MERCEDES. If your father should hear—if he should come out. Courage,
Ernest, be sensible. [_Doña Mercedes and Pepito endeavour to screen
Ernest._]

PEPITO. These nervous creatures are terrible. They sob and kill in the
same breath.

ERNEST. If you see me crying, while sobs shake my throat in an
hysterical convulsion, and I seem as weak as a child, or a woman,
believe me, it is not for myself, but for him—for her—for their lost
happiness, for this indelible blot upon their name,—for the affront I
am the cause of, in return for all their love and kindness. It is not
my fault, but my utter misfortune. That is why I weep. My God, if I
could wipe out this wretched past with tears, I would gladly weep away
my blood to the last drop.

MERCEDES. Silence, I implore!

PEPITO. There, we will discuss tears and sorrows another time.

ERNEST. If everybody else is discussing them to-day, why should we too
not speak of them? The whole town is astir and on tiptoe with
excitement. It has swallowed up, devoured and blighted three
reputations, three names, three persons, and floated them on the froth
of laughter and a wave of degrading chatter down the straits of human
misery, into the social abysm of shame, where for ever lie engulfed
the conscience, and fame, and future of the unfortunates.

MERCEDES. Not so loud, Ernest.

ERNEST. Why? since the others are not murmurs, but voices, that thunder
through the air? The tragic event is known all over the town, and each
one has his own way of telling it. Wonderful! everything is known
except the truth. 'Tis fatality. [_Doña Mercedes and Pepito exhibit
keen interest in hearing the reports._] Some say that Don Julian
discovered Teodora in my rooms, and that I attacked him in blind fury
and killed him on the spot. Others—and these would seem to be my
friends, since they raise me from the rank of vulgar assassin to the
noble level of duellist—aver that we fought loyally like gentlemen.
And there are others, again, who have the tale more accurately, and
recount how Don Julian took my place in the arranged meeting with
Nebreda—that I arrived late on the scene—either from design or fear,
or because I was in the arms——but, no; it would burn my lips to give
this version—the thought of it sets my brain on fire. Seek the basest,
the vilest, that which most blackens—the filth of the mind, the mire
of the soul, the dross of degraded consciences; cast it to the wind as
it whistles along the streets upon bespattering tongues, and you will
have the tale, and may see what reputation remains for an innocent
woman and two honest men when the town takes to jabbering about them.

MERCEDES. It is sad, I admit; but perhaps public opinion is not
altogether to blame.

PEPITO. Teodora did go to your rooms—she was there——

ERNEST. To prevent the duel with Nebreda.

PEPITO. Then why did she hide herself?

ERNEST. Because we feared her presence would be misconstrued.

PEPITO. The explanation is easy and simple. The difficult thing, Ernest,
is to get us to believe it, for there is another still more easy and
simple.

ERNEST. Which dishonours more, and that's the beauty of it.

PEPITO. Well, at least, admit that Teodora was giddy, if not really
culpable.

ERNEST. Guilt is prudent and cautious. On the other hand, how imprudent
is innocence!

PEPITO. Look here, if your rule holds good for everybody, the worst of
us is an angel or a saint.

ERNEST. You are right. What does it matter? What is the weight or value
of such calumny? The worst of it is that thought is degraded by mean
contact with a mean idea. From force of dwelling upon a crime, the
conscience becomes familiar with it. It shows itself terrible and
repellent—_but it shows itself_—at night, in dark solitude!
Yes—[_aside_] but what! why are they listening to me so strangely,
almost in suspense? [_Aloud_] I am myself; my name is an honourable
one. If I killed Nebreda solely because of a lie, what would I not do
to myself if guilt threatened to give the truth to calumny?

PEPITO. [_Aside to Mercedes._] He denied it! Why, it is as clear as
daylight.

MERCEDES. [_Aside to Pepito._] He's wandering.

PEPITO. 'Tis only his confession he's making.

MERCEDES. [_Aloud._] That will do, Ernest. Go, now.

ERNEST. Impossible, madam. I should go mad if I had to spend to-night
away from this sick-room—out of my mind.

MERCEDES. But if Severo came and found you?

ERNEST. What do I care? He is a loyal gentleman. Better still, let him
come. We fly from fear, and only the guilty are afraid. Nothing will
make me run away, or acknowledge fear.

PEPITO. [_Listening._] Somebody is coming.

MERCEDES. Is it he?

PEPITO. [_Going down the stage._] No, 'tis Teodora.

ERNEST. Teodora! Teodora! I want to see her.

MERCEDES. [_Sternly._] Ernest!

ERNEST. Yes, I must ask her to forgive me.

MERCEDES. You don't remember——

ERNEST. I remember everything and understand. We two together! Ah, no.
Enough. You need not fear. For her would I shed my blood, lay down my
life, sacrifice my future, honour—all! But see her? never. 'Tis no
longer possible. The mist of blood has risen between us. [_Goes out on
the left._]

SCENE V.

_Doña Mercedes and Pepito._

MERCEDES. Leave me alone with her. Go inside to your father. I want to
see into her heart, and shall be able to probe its depths with my
tongue.

MERCEDES. Good-bye.

PEPITO. Good-bye. [_Goes out on the right._]

MERCEDES. Now to put my plan into work.

SCENE VI

_Teodora and Doña Mercedes. Teodora enters timidly, and stands near Don
Julian's door on the right, listening anxiously, and muffling her sobs
with her handkerchief._

MERCEDES. Teodora.

TEODORA. It is you. [_Advances to her._]

MERCEDES. Courage! what good does crying do?

TEODORA. How is he? how is he? the truth!

MERCEDES. Much better.

TEODORA. Will he recover?

MERCEDES. I think so.

TEODORA. My God! My life for his.

MERCEDES. [_Draws her affectionately forward._] And then—I have faith in
your good sense. I can measure your remorse by your tears and anxiety.

TEODORA. Yes [_Doña Mercedes sits down with a satisfied air_], I did
wrong, I know, in going to see him [_Doña Mercedes looks disappointed
the confession is no worse_], but last night you told me about the
outrage and the duel. I was grateful to you for doing so, although I
did not then suspect the harm you did me, nor could I now explain it
to you. Oh, what a night! [_Crosses her hands and glances upward._] I
have cried and raved, thinking of Julian's plight, of the scandal, of
the violent quarrel and the bloodshed. Everything passed before my
eyes—and then—poor Ernest dying, perhaps, for my sake! But why do you
look at me so strangely? there can be no harm in it, surely! Or are
you unconvinced, and do you think as the rest do?

MERCEDES. [_drily._] I think your fear for that fellow's life altogether
superfluous.

TEODORA. Why? with so skilled an antagonist! You have seen it—Julian——

MERCEDES. Julian has been avenged. The man who killed him no longer
lives, so that you have been wasting your fears and your tears. [_With
deliberate hardness._]

TEODORA. [_Eagerly._] It was Ernest——

MERCEDES. Yes, Ernest.

TEODORA. He met the viscount?

MERCEDES. Face to face.

TEODORA. [_Unable to restrain herself._] How noble and brave!

MERCEDES. Teodora!

TEODORA. What do you mean? Tell me.

MERCEDES. [_Sternly._] I can read your thought.

TEODORA. My thought!

MERCEDES. Yes.

TEODORA. Which?

MERCEDES. You know very well.

TEODORA. Have I no right to be glad because Julian is avenged? Is that
an impulse I could be expected to repress?

MERCEDES. That was not your feeling.

TEODORA. You know so much more about it than I do!

MERCEDES. [_Pointedly._] Believe me, admiration is not far from love.

TEODORA. What do I admire?

MERCEDES. This youth's courage.

TEODORA. His nobility.

MERCEDES. Quite so, but that's the beginning.

TEODORA. What folly!

MERCEDES. It _is_ folly—but on your side.

TEODORA. You persist! Ever this accursed idea!—while it is with immense,
with infinite pity that I am filled.

MERCEDES. For whom?

TEODORA. For whom else but Julian?

MERCEDES. Have you never learnt, Teodora, that in a woman's heart pity
and forgetfulness may mean one and the same thing?

TEODORA. I beseech you—Mercedes—silence!

MERCEDES. I wish to let light in upon the state of your mind,—to turn
upon it the lamp of truth, lit by my experience.

TEODORA. I hear you, but while I listen, it seems no longer a sister, a
friend, a mother that speaks to me, so hateful are your words. Your
lips seem to speak at inspiration of the devil's prompting. Why should
you strive to convince me that little by little I am ceasing to love
my husband, and that more and more I am imbued with an impure
tenderness, with a feeling that burns and stains? I who love Julian as
dearly as ever, who would give the last drop of blood in my body for a
single breath of life for him—for him, from whom I am now
separated—[_points to his room_]—why, I should like to go in there
this moment, if your husband did not bar my way, and press Julian once
more in my arms. I would so inundate him with my tears, and so close
him round with the passion of my love, that its warmth would melt his
doubts, and his soul would respond to the fervour of mine. But it is
not because I adore my husband that I am bound to abhor the faithful
and generous friend who so nobly risked his life for me. And if I
don't hate him, is that a reason to conclude that I love him? The
world can think such things. I hear such strange stories, and such sad
events have happened, and calumny has so embittered me, that I find
myself wondering if public opinion can be true,—in doubt of myself.
Can it be that I really am the victim of a hideous passion,
unconsciously influenced by it? and in some sad and weak moment shall
I yield to the senses, and be subjugated by this tyrannous fire?

MERCEDES. You are speaking the truth?

TEODORA. Can you doubt it?

MERCEDES. You really do not love him?

TEODORA. Mercedes, what words have I that will convince you? At another
time, such a question would drive the blood of anger to my brow, and
to-day, you see, I am discussing with you whether I am honest or not.
Yes, am I really so? To the depth of the soul? No, for endurance of
this humiliation proves me worthy of it. [_Hides her face in her hands
and flings herself down in the arm-chair._]

MERCEDES. Do not cry so, Teodora. I believe in you. Enough. No more
tears. Let me but add one more word, and there's an end to the matter.
Ernest is not what you believe him to be. He is not worthy of your
trust.

TEODORA. He is good, Mercedes.

MERCEDES. No.

TEODORA. He is fond of Julian.

MERCEDES. He would betray him.

TEODORA. Again! My God!

MERCEDES. I no longer accuse you of responding to his passion, but I
only assert—I would warn you that _he loves you_.

TEODORA. [_Rising in anger._] Loves me!

MERCEDES. It is known to everybody. In this very room, a moment ago,
before Pepito and me—you understand?

TEODORA. No, explain at once—what?

MERCEDES. He openly confessed it. He made a violent declaration, swore
that he was ready to sacrifice life, honour, soul and conscience for
you. And when you came, he wanted to see you. He only yielded to the
force of my entreaties and went away. I tremble lest he should meet
Severo and their encounter lead to an explosion. And you—what have you
to say now?

TEODORA. [_Who has listened to Mercedes intently, held in an indefinable
gloomy terror._] Heavens above! Can it be true? and I who felt—who
professed so sincere an affection for him!

MERCEDES. There, you are on the point of crying again.

TEODORA. The heart has no tears for the manifold deceptions of this
miserable life. A lad so pure and finely natured,—and to see him now
so debased and spotted! And you say that he actually uttered those
words here—he!—Ernest. Oh, oh, Mercedes! send him away from this
house.

MERCEDES. Ah, that is what I wanted. Your energy consoles me. [_With
evidence of honest satisfaction._] Pardon me—now I fully believe you.
[_Embraces her._]

TEODORA. And before? No? [_The actress must strongly accentuate this
line._]

MERCEDES. Hush! He is coming back.

TEODORA. [_Impetuously._] I will not see him. Tell him so. Julian
expects me. [_Goes to the right._]

MERCEDES. [_Detaining her._] Impossible! You must know it. He will not
heed my orders, and now that I understand so fully how you feel for
him, I should be glad to have him suffer at your hands the contempt he
has already endured at mine.

TEODORA. Then leave me. [_Enter Ernest._]

ERNEST. Teodora!

MERCEDES. [_Aside to Teodora._] It is late, do your duty quickly.
[_Aloud to Ernest._] The command you heard a little while ago from me,
you will receive again from Teodora's lips, and she is the mistress of
this house.

TEODORA. [_In a low voice to Mercedes._] Don't go away.

MERCEDES. [_To Teodora._] Are you afraid?

TEODORA. I afraid! I am afraid of nothing. [_Makes a sign for her to go.
Exit Doña Mercedes on the right._]

SCENE VII

_Teodora and Ernest._

ERNEST. The command was—that I should go away. [_Pause. Both remain
silent without looking at each other._] And you? Are you going to
repeat it? [_Teodora nods, but still does not look at him._] Have no
fear, Teodora. I will respect and obey your order. [_Submissively._]
The others could not get me to obey them, little as they may like to
hear it [_harshly_], but nothing you could say, even though you wound
me—From you I will endure anything! [_Sadly._]

TEODORA. I wound you! No, Ernest, you cannot believe that—— [_Still does
not look at him, is half vexed and afraid._]

ERNEST. I do not believe it. [_Pause._]

TEODORA. Adieu. I wish you all happiness.

ERNEST. Adieu, Teodora. [_Remains waiting for a moment to see if she
will turn and offer him her hand. Then walks down the stage, turns
back again, and approaches her. Teodora shows that she feels his
movement, and is distressed, but continues to keep her face averted._]
If with my death at this very instant I could blot out all the misery
that lies to my account, not through any fault of mine, but through an
implacable fate, I should not now be standing here alive. You may
believe it on the word of an honourable man. No shadow of the past
would remain,—neither sighs nor pain to remember, nor that sorrowful
pallor of your face [_Teodora starts and glances at him in terror_],
nor the grieved fear of those eyes, nor sobs that tear the throat, nor
tears that line the cheek. [_Teodora sobs._]

TEODORA. [_Aside, moving further away._] Mercedes was right, and I,
blind and thoughtless that I was——

ERNEST. Bid me good-bye—once—for kindness's sake.

TEODORA. Good-bye! Yes; and I forgive you all the injury you have done
us.

ERNEST. I, Teodora!

TEODORA. Yes, you.

ERNEST. What a look! What a tone!

TEODORA. No more, Ernest, I beseech you.

ERNEST. What have I done to deserve——?

TEODORA. It is all over between us. Regard me as one who no longer
exists for you.

ERNEST. Is this contempt?

TEODORA. Go.

ERNEST. Go? in this way?

TEODORA. My husband is dying in there—and here I feel as if I too were
dying. [_Staggers back and clutches the arm-chair to keep from
falling._]

ERNEST. Teodora. [_Rushes forward to support her._]

TEODORA. [_Angrily drawing herself away._] Don't touch me. [_Pause._]
Ah, I breathe again more freely. [_Tries to walk, staggers again
weakly, and a second time Ernest offers to assist her. She repulses
him._]

ERNEST. Why not, Teodora?

TEODORA. Your touch would soil me.

ERNEST. I soil you!

TEODORA. Exactly.

ERNEST. I! [_Pause._] What does she mean, Almighty God! She also! Oh, it
is not possible! Oh, death is preferable to this—It cannot be true—I
am raving—Say it is not true, Teodora—only one word—for justice—one
word of pardon, of pity, of consolation, madam. I am resigned to go
away, never to see you again, although 'twere to break, and mutilate,
and destroy my life. But it will, at least, be bearable if I may carry
into solitude your forgiveness, your affection, your esteem—only your
pity, then. So that I still may think you believe me loyal and
upright—that I could not, that I have not degraded you, much less be
capable of insulting you. I care nothing about the world, and despise
its affronts. Its passions inspire me with the profoundest disdain.
Whether its mood be harsh or cruel, however it may talk of me and of
what has happened, it will never think so ill of me as I do of it. But
you, the purest dream of man's imagining—you for whom I would gladly
give,—not only my life, but my right to heaven, ay, a thousand
times—eagerly, joyously,—You, to suspect me of treason, of hypocrisy!
Oh, this, Teodora—I cannot bear! [_Deeply moved, speaks
despairingly._]

TEODORA. [_With increasing nervousness._] You have not understood me,
Ernest. We must part.

ERNEST. But not like this!

TEODORA. Quickly, for mercy's sake. Julian suffers. [_Points to the
sick-room._]

ERNEST. I know it.

TEODORA. Then we should not forget it.

ERNEST. No; but I also suffer.

TEODORA. You, Ernest! why?

ERNEST. Through your contempt.

TEODORA. I feel none.

ERNEST. You have expressed it

TEODORA. It was a lie.

ERNEST. No; not entirely. So that our sufferings are not equal. In this
implacable strife _he_ suffers as those on earth suffer, _I_ as those
in hell.

TEODORA. Spare me, Ernest—my head is on fire.

ERNEST. And my heart aches.

TEODORA. That will do, Ernest. I entreat you to pity me.

ERNEST. That was all I asked of you.

TEODORA. Mercy.

ERNEST. Yes, mercy. But why should you claim it? What is it you fear? of
what are you thinking? [_Approaches her._]

TEODORA. Forgive me if I have offended you.

ERNEST. Offended me, no! The truth, that is what I crave,—and I implore
it on my knees. See, Teodora, my eyes are wet. [_Bends his knee before
her and takes her hand. Don Julian's door opens, and Don Severo stands
staring at them._]

D. SEVERO. [_Aside._] Miserable pair!

TEODORA. Don Severo!

SCENE VIII

_Teodora, Ernest, and Don Severo. Ernest stands apart on the right. Don
Severo places himself between him and Teodora._

D. SEVERO. [_In a low voice of concentrated anger, so that Don Julian
may not hear._] I can find no word or epithet adequate to the passion
of contempt I would express, so I must be content to call you a
blackguard. Leave this house at once.

ERNEST. [_Also in a low voice._] My respect for Teodora, for this house,
and for the sick man lying in yonder room, sir, compels me to put my
retort—in silence.

D. SEVERO. [_Ironically, under the impression that Ernest is going._]
It's the best thing you can do—obey and hold your tongue.

ERNEST. You have not understood me. I do not intend to obey.

SEVERO. You remain?

ERNEST. Until Teodora commands me to go. I was on the point of going
away for ever a moment ago, but the Almighty or the devil deterred me.
Now you come and order me out, and as if your insult were an infernal
message, it roots my heels to the floor in revolt.

SEVERO. We'll see that. There are servants to kick you out, and sticks
if necessary.

ERNEST. Try it. [_Approaches Don Severo with a threatening air. Teodora
rushes between them._]

TEODORA. Ernest! [_Turns commandingly to Don Severo._] You seem to
forget that this is my house as long as my husband lives and is its
owner. Only one of us two has the right to command here. [_Softens to
Ernest._] Not for him—but for my sake, because I am unhappy——

ERNEST. [_Unable to contain his joy at hearing himself defended by
Teodora._] You wish it, Teodora?

TEODORA. I beg it. [_Ernest bows and turns away._]

SEVERO. Your audacity confounds and shocks me as much—no, far more, than
his. [_Strides menacingly towards her. Ernest turns swiftly round,
then makes a strong effort to control himself and moves away again._]
You dare to raise your head, wretched woman, and before me too! Shame
on you! [_Ernest repeats previous movements and gestures, but this
time more accentuated._] You, so fearful and cowardly, where have you
found courage to display this energy in his defence? How eloquent is
passion! [_Ernest stands, looking back._] But you forget that, before
pitching him out, I had the authority to forbid the door of this house
to you, who have stained its threshold with Julian's blood. Why have
you returned? [_Seizes her brutally and drags her roughly toward
himself._]

ERNEST. No, I can't stand this—I cannot! [_He thrusts himself between
Severo and Teodora._] Off, you scoundrel.

SEVERO. Again!

ERNEST. Again.

SEVERO. You have dared to return?

ERNEST. You insolently affront Teodora. I still live. What do you expect
me to do, if not return and chastise you, and brand you as a coward?

SEVERO. Me?

ERNEST. Precisely.

TEODORA. No!

ERNEST. He has brought it on himself. I have seen him lift his hand in
anger to you—you, you! So now—— [_Seizes Don Severo violently._]

SEVERO. You impudent puppy!

ERNEST. True, but I'll not release you. You loved and respected your
mother, I presume. For that reason you must respect Teodora, and
humbly bow before a sorrow so immense as hers. This woman, sir, is
purer, more honest than the mother of such a man as you.

SEVERO. This to me?

ERNEST. Yes, and I have not yet done.

SEVERO. Your life——

ERNEST. Oh, my life, as much as you like—but afterwards. [_Teodora
endeavours to part them, but he pushes her gently away, without
releasing Don Severo._] You believe in a God—in a Maker—in hope. Well,
then, as you bend your knee before the altar of that God above, so
will I compel you to kneel to Teodora,—and that instantly, sir.
Down—in the dust.

TEODORA. For mercy's sake——

ERNEST. To the ground! [_Forces Don Severo to kneel._]

TEODORA. Enough, Ernest.

SEVERO. A thousand thunders.

ERNEST. At her feet!

SEVERO. You!

ERNEST. Yes, I.

SEVERO. For her?

ERNEST. For her.

TEODORA. That will do. Hush! [_She points in terror to Don Julian's
door. Ernest releases Don Severo, who rises and moves backward.
Teodora retreats and forms with Ernest a group in the background._]

SCENE IX

_Teodora, Ernest, Don Severo. Afterwards Don Julian
and Doña Mercedes._

D. JULIAN. [_Inside._] Let me go.

MERCEDES. [_Inside._] No. You must not.

D. JULIAN. It is they. Don't you hear them?

TEODORA. [_To Ernest._] Go.

SEVERO. [_To Ernest._] Avenged!

ERNEST. I don't deny it. [_Enter Don Julian, pale and dying, leaning on
Doña Mercedes' arm. Don Severo stations himself on the right, Ernest
and Teodora remain in the background._]

D. JULIAN. Together! Where are they going? Who detains them here? Away
with you, traitors. [_Wants to rush at them, but strength fails him,
and he staggers back._]

SEVERO. [_Hurrying to his assistance._] No, no.

D. JULIAN. Severo, they deceived me—they lied to me—the miserable pair!
[_While he speaks Don Severo and Doña Mercedes lead him to the
arm-chair._] There, look at them—both—she and Ernest! Why are they
together?

TEODORA AND ERNEST. [_Separating._] No.

D. JULIAN. Why don't they come to me? Teodora!

TEODORA. [_Stretches out her arms but does not advance._] Julian!

D. JULIAN. Here in my arms. [_Teodora runs forward and flings herself
into Don Julian's arms, who clasps her feverishly. Pause._] You
see—you see—[_to Don Severo_] I know well enough they are deceiving
me. I hold her thus in my arms. I crush and subdue her—I might kill
her—so! and 'tis only what she deserves. But I look at her—_I look at
her_—and then I cannot!

TEODORA. Julian——

D. JULIAN. [_Pointing to Ernest._] And that fellow?

ERNEST. Sir!

D. JULIAN. I loved him! Silence, and come hither. [_Ernest approaches._]
You see, I am still her owner. [_He holds Teodora more tightly
clasped._]

TEODORA. Yes,—I am yours.

D. JULIAN. Drop pretence. Don't lie.

MERCEDES. [_Striving to soothe him._] For pity's sake——

D. SEVERO. Julian!

D. JULIAN. [_To both._] Peace. [_To Teodora._] I see through you. I know
well that you love him. [_Teodora and Ernest try to protest, but he
will not let them._] All Madrid knows it too—all Madrid.

ERNEST. No, father.

TEODORA. No.

D. JULIAN. They deny it—they deny it! Why, it is as clear as noonday.
Why, I feel it in every fibre,—by the beat of fevered pulse, by the
consuming flame of inward illumination!

ERNEST. It is the fever of your blood and the delirium of bodily
weakness that feed the delusion. Listen to me, sir——

D. JULIAN. To hear how well you can lie?

ERNEST. [_Pointing to Teodora._] She is innocent.

D. JULIAN. But I do not believe you.

ERNEST. Sir, by my father's memory——

D. JULIAN. Don't insult his name and memory.

ERNEST. By my mother's last kiss——

D. JULIAN. That kiss has long since been wiped from your brow.

ERNEST. What then do you want, father? I will swear by anything you
wish. Oh, my father!

D. JULIAN. No oaths, or protests, or deceitful words.

ERNEST. Then what? Only tell me.

TEODORA. Yes, what, Julian?

D. JULIAN. Deeds.

ERNEST. What does he wish, Teodora? What does he ask of us?

TEODORA. I don't know. Oh, what are we to do, Ernest?

D. JULIAN. [_Watching them in feverish distrust._] Ah, you would even
deceive me to my face! You are plotting together, wretched traitors! I
see it.

ERNEST. It is fever that misleads you—not the testimony of your eyes.

D. JULIAN. Fever, yes. And since fever is fire, it has burnt away the
bandage with which before you two had blinded me, and at last I see
you for what you are. And now!—but why these glances at one another?
Why, traitors? Why do your eyes gleam so? Tell me, Ernest. There are
no tears in them to make them shine. Come nearer—nearer to me. [_Draws
Ernest to him, bends his head, and then succeeds in thrusting him upon
his knees. Thus Teodora is on one side of Don Julian and Ernest at his
feet. Don Julian passes his hand across the young man's eyes._] You
see—no tears—they are quite dry.

ERNEST. Forgive me, forgive me!

D. JULIAN. You ask my forgiveness? Then you acknowledge your sin?

ERNEST. No.

D. JULIAN. Yes.

ERNEST. I say it is not so.

D. JULIAN. Then here before me, look at her.

D. SEVERO. Julian!

MERCEDES. Sir!

D. JULIAN. [_To Teodora and Ernest._] Perhaps you are afraid? So it is
not like a brother that you cherish her? If so, prove it. Let me see
what sort of light shines in your eyes as they meet—whether, to my
close inspection, the rays dart passion's flame, or mild affection.
Come here, Teodora. Both—so—still nearer. [_Drags Teodora until she
stumbles, so that both faces are compelled towards each other._]

TEODORA. [_Frees herself with a violent effort._] Oh, no.

ERNEST. [_Also strives to free himself, but is held in Don Julian's
grasp._] I cannot.

D. JULIAN. You love one another—you can't deny it, for I've seen it.
[_To Ernest._] Your life!

ERNEST. Yes.

D. JULIAN. Your blood!

ERNEST. All.

D. JULIAN. [_Forcing him to his knees._] Stay still.

TEODORA. Julian!

D. JULIAN. Ah, you defend him, you defend him.

TEODORA. Not for his sake.

D. SEVERO. In God's name——

D. JULIAN. [_To Severo._] Silence. [_Still holds Ernest down._] Bad
friend, bad son!

ERNEST. My father.

D. JULIAN. Disloyal! Traitor!

ERNEST. No, father.

D. JULIAN. Here is my shameful seal upon your cheek—To-day with my
hand—soon with steel—so! [_With a supreme effort strikes Ernest.
Ernest jumps up with a terrible cry, and turns away, covering his
face._]

ERNEST. Oh!

D. SEVERO. [_Stretches out his hand to Ernest._] Justice.

TEODORA. My God! [_Hides her face in both hands, and drops on a chair._]

MERCEDES. [_Turning to Ernest to exculpate Don Julian._] It was only
delirium.

[_These four exclamations very hurried. A moment of stupor. Don Julian
stands still staring at Ernest, and Doña Mercedes and Don Severo
endeavour to calm him._]

D. JULIAN. It was not delirium, it was chastisement, Heaven be praised.
What did you think, ungrateful boy?

MERCEDES. That will do.

D. SEVERO. Come, Julian.

D. JULIAN Yes, I am going. [_Is led away with difficulty between Don
Severo and Dona Mercedes, and stops to look back at Teodora and
Ernest._]

MERCEDES. Quickly, Severo.

D. JULIAN. Look at them, the traitors! It was only justice—was it not?
Say so—at least I believe it.

D. SEVERO. For God's sake, Julian—well, at any rate, for _mine_——

D. JULIAN. Yes, for yours, Severo, only for yours. You alone have loved
me truly. [_Embraces him._]

D. SEVERO. Yes, yes, it is so.

D. JULIAN. [_Stops at the door and looks back again._] She is crying for
him—and does not follow me. Not even a look. She does not see that I
am dying—yes, dying.

D. SEVERO. Julian, Julian!

D. JULIAN. [_On the threshold._] Wait, wait. Dishonour for dishonour.
Good-bye, Ernest.

[_Exeunt Don Julian, Don Severo, and Mercedes._]

SCENE X

_Teodora and Ernest. Ernest drops into a chair near the
table. Teodora remains standing on the right. Pause._

ERNEST. [_Aside._] What is the use of loyalty?

TEODORA. And what is the use of innocence?

ERNEST. Conscience grows dark.

TEODORA. Pity, my God! Pity!

ERNEST. Pitiless destiny.

TEODORA. Oh, most miserable fate!

ERNEST. Poor child!

TEODORA. Poor Ernest! [_Both remain apart until now._]

D. SEVERO. [_In anguish from within._] My brother.

MERCEDES. Help!

PEPITO. Quickly. [_Ernest and Teodora move together._]

TEODORA. They are crying.

ERNEST. He is dying.

TEODORA. Come at once.

ERNEST. Where?

TEODORA. To him.

ERNEST. We cannot. [_Detains her._]

TEODORA. Why not? I want him to live.

ERNEST. And I!—but I cannot. [_Points to Don Julian's room._]

TEODORA. Then I will. [_Rushes to the door._]

LAST SCENE

_Teodora, Ernest, Don Severo and Pepito. Ernest stands on the right in
the middle of the stage, Teodora near the door of Don Julian's room.
Pepito and, behind him, Don Severo, bar the way._

PEPITO. Where are you going?

TEODORA. [_In desperation._] I must see him.

PEPITO. It is impossible.

D. SEVERO. She cannot pass. This woman must not remain in my house—turn
her out at once. [_To Pepito._] No compassion—this very moment.

ERNEST. What!

TEODORA. My mind is wandering.

D. SEVERO. Though your mother should stand in front of that woman,
Pepito, you have my orders. Obey them. Never mind her prayers or
supplications. If she should cry—then let her cry. [_With concentrated
fury._] Away with her, away—else I might kill her.

TEODORA. Julian orders——

D. SEVERO. Yes, Julian.

ERNEST. Her husband! It cannot be.

TEODORA. I must see him.

D. SEVERO. Very well. Look at him, once more—and then—depart.

PEPITO. [_Interfering._] Father——

D. SEVERO. [_Pushing him away._] Stop, sir.

TEODORA. It can't be true.

PEPITO. This is too horrible.

TEODORA. It is a lie.

D. SEVERO. Come, Teodora—come and see. [_Seizes her arm and leads her to
the door._]

TEODORA. Oh! My husband! Julian—dead. [_Staggers shudderingly back, and
falls half senseless._]

ERNEST. [_Covering his face._] My father! [_Pause. Don Severo watches
them rancorously._]

D. SEVERO. [_To his son._] Turn her out.

ERNEST. [_Placing himself before Teodora._] What cruelty!

PEPITO. [_Doubting._] Sir——

SEVERO. [_To Pepito._] Such are my orders. Do you doubt my word?

ERNEST. Pity.

D. SEVERO. [_Pointing to the death-chamber._] Yes, such pity as she
showed him.

ERNEST. Fire races through my veins. I will leave Spain, sir.

D. SEVERO. It makes no difference.

ERNEST. She will die.

D. SEVERO. Life is short.

ERNEST. For the last time——

D. SEVERO. No more. [_To his son._] Ring.

ERNEST. But I tell you she is innocent. I swear it.

PEPITO. [_Interceding._] Father——

D. SEVERO. [_With a contemptuous gesture._] That fellow lies.

ERNEST. You impel me with the current. Then I will not struggle against
it. I go with it. I cannot yet know what may be her opinion [_pointing
to Teodora_] of others, and of your outrages. Her lips are silent,
mute her thoughts. But what I think of it all—yes, I will tell you.

D. SEVERO. It is useless. It won't prevent me from—— [_Approaches
Teodora._]

PEPITO. [_Restraining him._] Father——

ERNEST. Stay. [_Pause._] Let nobody touch this woman. She is mine. The
world has so desired it, and its decision I accept. It has driven her
to my arms. Come, Teodora. [_He raises her, and sustains her._] You
cast her forth from here. We obey you.

D. SEVERO. At last, you blackguard!

ERNEST. Yes; now you are right. I will confess now. Do you want passion?
Then passion and delirium. Do you want love? Then love—boundless love.
Do you want more? Then more and more. Nothing daunts me. Yours the
invention, I give it shelter. So you may tell the tale. It echoes
through all this heroic town. But should any one ask you who was the
infamous intermediary in this infamy, you will reply 'ourselves,
without being aware of it, and with us the stupid chatter of
busybodies.' Come, Teodora; my mother's spirit kisses your pure brow.
Adieu, all. She belongs to me, and let heaven choose its day to judge
between you and me. [_Gathers Teodora into his embrace, with a glance
of defiance around._]

CURTAIN

FINIS

FOLLY OR SAINTLINESS

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA

DON LORENZO DE AVENDAÑA.
ÁNGELA, His Wife.
INÉS, Daughter of Both.
THE DUCHESS OF ALMONTE.
EDWARD, Her Son.
JUANA.
DR. TOMÁS.
DR. BERMÚDEZ.
BRAULIO.
BENITO.
SERVANT.

------------------

_Scenes of the Play take place in the study of
Don Lorenzo's house in Madrid._

------------------------------------------------------------------------