Chapter VII: Act II

SCENE—_The same as First Act. Night, a fire is burning,
a shaded candle on the study table._

SCENE I

_Edward listens at door R., then comes up C._

EDWARD. I hear nothing. Has she recovered consciousness? To think how
close a thing to life is death! [_Pause._] They believe that I must
give up my beloved girl! They suppose me capable of crediting Don
Lorenzo's absurd tale. Poor scholar! Why, he doesn't know what he is
saying. [_Pause._] And even if his assertion were true, would that
make Inés other than the loveliest, the most adorable of women? Mine
she will be, though I should have to cast myself at my mother's feet
and bathe them with my tears. Don Lorenzo must consent, even if we
have to gag him and put him into a strait-jacket. And that wretched
beggar from whom the ill-advised philosopher has caught his delirium
must be sent away, far away from everybody. How will my poor Inés bear
up against the blow her father has inflicted upon her? [_Again
approaches the door and listens._] Nothing, nothing. Silence, always
the same silence. [_Comes down._] Her father! her own father! Heaven
help me, but I almost hate the man. [_With increasing passion._] The
madman! How he delighted to torture her! Her father!—that brainless
scholar! an atheist clothed in sanctity! a new Don Quixote _minus_ wit
and _plus_ pedantry! a mock Bayard of honour! What sort of father is
he who pretends to a reputation for virtue through his daughter's
broken heart? A fig for such virtue! Vice itself is more lovable. No
one comes, and the hours go by—ah, I hear somebody coming at last.

SCENE II

_Edward and the Duchess, who enters R._

EDWARD. How is Inés, mother? Has she regained consciousness?

DUCHESS. She has now, thank God. Poor child! I could not go until I was
assured it was all right, and that she was better. And you, my son?

EDWARD. I must see her.

DUCHESS. Edward!

EDWARD. Then we have to talk to Don Lorenzo, and afterwards——

DUCHESS. Afterwards you will get to the end of my patience. I have done
all for you that honour, dignity, and social convention permit—even
more. But the moment has come for you to show yourself a man, to
remember who you are and listen to the voice of duty.

EDWARD. Rightly said, mother, that is what I am prepared to do, but it
remains to be seen if we entertain the same idea of duty.

DUCHESS. You must give Inés up.

EDWARD. Why? Because of her poverty?

DUCHESS. By no means.

EDWARD. Then why, mother? Because Don Lorenzo wishes to perform a
sublime action which, if he carries out the prospect, will immortalise
him in tale and history, and, who knows, may even lift him aloft into
the Calendar?

DUCHESS. I see you appreciate the humour of the situation, and that is
no bad sign.

EDWARD. I want to show you how perfectly cool I am. As for Don Lorenzo,
we must regard the affair as a joke, or put him into an asylum.

DUCHESS. Don't say such things, Edward. It offends me to hear you speak
so. There may be some slight exaggeration, perhaps no inconsiderable
precipitation, and a certain air of melodramatic display in Don
Lorenzo's project, but we cannot deny that he is acting like a
gentleman.

EDWARD. Why does he revel in his daughter's misfortune?

DUCHESS. Because he is accomplishing his duty without respect of human
passions.

EDWARD. Then if Don Lorenzo is so honourable, and the lustre of noble
actions is a heritage, Inés will be something more than the angel of
my life—she will bring me a wealth of hereditary virtue.

DUCHESS. She will also bring more than her share of hereditary
dishonour. [_In low voice approaching him._] The girl has no name good
or bad, since nobody knows what her father's is, and that of her
grandmother has been inscribed as a thief's upon the infamous register
of a prison.

EDWARD. Hush!

DUCHESS. If we are to believe Don Lorenzo, that unhappy girl's fate is
to be a humble nurse's grandchild, and her father's accomplice in
living under a false name. It would perhaps be an excess of
aristocratic pride to reject such an honourable alliance, but to such
a decision am I led by what you, with your modern education, will
doubtless qualify as old-fashioned prejudices.

EDWARD. Well, mother, I love Inés.

DUCHESS. You are mad, boy.

EDWARD. That were not strange, since love is said to be a madness.

DUCHESS. You almost make me lose my judgment.

EDWARD. Would you prefer to lose me?

DUCHESS. Enough, Edward. We must leave this house which, in an evil
moment, I entered to-day for the first time.

EDWARD. But say—is not Inés sweet?

DUCHESS. Assuredly—as an angel of God's heaven, when I first beheld her,
and now she looks like the angel of sorrow.

EDWARD. Does not the whole world regard Don Lorenzo as an accomplished
scholar, and have you yourself not said that he is a saint?

DUCHESS. It would be injustice to deny the value of a reputation so
illustrious as his, or the keenness of his sense of honour.

EDWARD. Then there is no objection to him.

DUCHESS. Certainly not.

EDWARD. [_Approaches the duchess and speaks in a low voice._] Can't we
find some means of averting scandal? Who knows anything of this
wretched story, true or false, though to me it seems more likely
false? Only ourselves, and we will hold our tongue. Dr. Tomás is
almost one of the family. Death will shortly seal the lips of that
unhappy woman. And, after all, Don Lorenzo is a father; he will do for
Inés' sake that which you refuse to do for mine. Why, mother dear,
need we go in search of misery and death when felicity is within our
reach?

DUCHESS. Ah, see how contact with crime perverts the noblest minds!
Unfortunate boy, do you not understand that you are proposing a
monstrous thing to me? that you wish me to be an accomplice to a
felony? Good heavens, what has come over you that you should think and
speak such things?

EDWARD. Who on earth speaks of anything monstrous or proposes felony?
Have we all gone mad with Don Lorenzo, or are you martyrising me for
your own entertainment?

DUCHESS. You suggested our averting scandal by silence.

EDWARD. Yes.

DUCHESS. Then——

EDWARD. Listen, mother. This is what I meant to say. If Don Lorenzo's
tale be true, which is what I doubt, the legitimate heirs of this
confounded wealth may be discovered cautiously, in secret, and a way
can be found to restore it to them.

DUCHESS. But on what pretext?

EDWARD. If you had to beg for a fortune, it might be difficult to find
one, but when it comes to giving, don't be afraid. It is easy enough,
and any pretext is equally welcome to those who receive it.

DUCHESS. Inés will still bear a name she has no title to.

EDWARD. She will bear mine, which is worth all others.

DUCHESS. That is true. But Don Lorenzo——

EDWARD. Leave him alone. He has enough to do with his philosophy. We
have ourselves to think of, and I believe that it can be all managed
if you will consent. With a word you can give Inés back life, and give
a new life to me in exchange for that which your unkindness blighted,
and which I first owed to your affection. Restore happiness to this
unhappy family, and bestow their usurped fortune upon the rightful
heirs without noise or vain display. This is no felony, and it is not
a monstrous thing to do.

DUCHESS. You magnetise me, Edward. I scarce know what to say. But an
inward voice warns me that what you suggest is neither right nor
just,—that deception can never be preferable to truth, and despite Don
Lorenzo's ravings, I feel that duty triumphs in him, while in you it
is passion that triumphs, for all your arguments.

EDWARD. How so? Tell me.

DUCHESS. I cannot discuss it with you, Edward.

EDWARD. What you cannot do is love me as you ought.

DUCHESS. Not love you; cruel boy! You have wounded me to the heart,
though I know that you do not believe what you say.

EDWARD. Then yield to me.

DUCHESS. Don't press me, Edward.

EDWARD. You are yielding—I see it. Your face is pale, there are tears in
your eyes, and your lips tremble. [_Caressingly._] Confession of
consent hangs upon them—yes, why not? What is there absolutely opposed
to that high ideal of honour you and Don Lorenzo worship? What wrong
is there in my plan?

DUCHESS. There is wrong, Edward.

EDWARD. So little, an atom, a shadow, a mere scruple. And don't I
deserve you should commit so trivial an error for me? Go among the
people whom you treat with such contempt, and from whom the
aristocrat's pride separates you by an abyss; seek out a mother, and
ask her if, for her son's sake, she would not stifle upon a cry of
love all these refinements of conscience.

DUCHESS. [_Passionately._] I am capable of making any sacrifice a mother
can make.

EDWARD. [_Embracing her._] Thanks, mother, thanks.

DUCHESS. But——

EDWARD. You have promised, you have promised. [_Without heeding her._]
And, after all, it may not even be necessary. What assurance have we
that Don Lorenzo's tale is true? What tangible proofs are there? None
that we know of. The word of a dying woman in delirium? Is that
enough?

DUCHESS. Truly not.

EDWARD. Yet we have not even that much; for Dr. Tomás has not been able
to interrogate Juana. How do we know that she told it to Don Lorenzo,
or if he only dreamed it? Let me assure you, Don Lorenzo's head is no
sound one.

DUCHESS. It is not, indeed.

EDWARD. What an odd and extravagant fellow he is!

DUCHESS. For my part, I really thought he had gone mad.

EDWARD. Depend upon it, he is not far off. All these men of learning end
that way. Both Dr. Tomás and Ángela admit that he doesn't reason like
other men.

SCENE III

_The Duchess, Edward, and Doña Ángela._

DOÑA ÁNGELA. For pity's sake, madam, do not leave us yet. Inés wishes to
see you. She calls upon your name through heart-breaking sobs, for you
are her sole consolation.

DUCHESS. Poor child!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. She will not remain in bed, though we begged her to do so,
and her nervous agitation is such that she fills us with terror. If
strength had not failed her, she would have come to look for you. In
kindness, duchess, do go to my stricken girl, and console her, you who
are so affectionate a mother. 'Tis a most afflicted mother that
implores you.

EDWARD. And you will tell her that there is still hope, that all depends
upon Don Lorenzo—won't you?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What? Is it true? Oh, madam—— [_To duchess, and takes her
hand effusively._]

EDWARD. Yes [_to Doña Ángela_], I will explain it. You must persuade
your husband.

DUCHESS. But——[_Edward does not heed her, and talks aside to Doña
Ángela._] That boy of mine does just what he likes with me. What am I
to say to this good woman now that he has promised my consent? Oh,
what a hare-brained fellow! The girl herself is lovely, like a dream,
and altogether very charming. Poor Inés!—and Don Lorenzo possesses, or
rather did possess, a colossal fortune. Ah! what things are human
might and human vanity!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_To Edward._] I understand, I understand. [_Then comes
over to the duchess._] I am very grateful to you for your great
kindness. Do, pray, carry the good news yourself to my daughter, and
I, in a little while, will induce Lorenzo to consent. Never fear, he
will give in. It is certain, else will he prove himself quite
heartless.

EDWARD. Come, mother.

DUCHESS. What am I to do?

EDWARD. How good of you!

[_Exeunt Duchess and Edward, R._]

SCENE IV

_Doña Ángela, Don Lorenzo, enters door L._

DON LORENZO. My mother dying—and yonder that other morsel of my soul!
What can I do, my God? [_Walks slowly toward door R. and meets Doña
Ángela._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Where are you going, Lorenzo?

DON LORENZO. To see my daughter.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Impossible. She has recovered consciousness now, and your
presence might again upset her, since you it was who caused her
illness.

DON LORENZO. But I wish to see her.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You cannot. With you duty is always imperative, so you will
respect that unhappy girl's grieving solitude [_ironically_], not upon
the command of my will, which must always be second to yours, but upon
that of your own reflective judgment.

DON LORENZO. You are right. [_Pause. Both are in middle of stage._] My
own beloved daughter! What does she say of me?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Nothing.

DON LORENZO. She does not blame me?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. I cannot answer for the murmurings of sorrow in her heart.

DON LORENZO. I to be her executioner! to destroy all her hopes! Can it
be that I have broken her heart?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You know full well what you have done, Lorenzo. So much the
better, if remorse will now help you to repair your cruel work.

DON LORENZO. I am indeed miserable.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You miserable! Inés it is who is miserable, not you, who
doubtless find assured ineffable joy and divine consolation in
contemplating your own moral perfection. [_Ironically._]

DON LORENZO. How ill you judge me, and how little you understand me!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. I judge you ill, and yet humbly admire the fruit of your
sainthood! That I do not understand you, I admit, for superior beings
such as you are not within reach of so mediocre an intelligence as
mine.

DON LORENZO. Ángela, your words pierce my heart like a sharp dagger.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Your heart! impossible.

DON LORENZO. But what would you have me do? Speak, advise, decide—bring
light to a mind that gropes among shadows.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What would I have you do? Whatever you like now. Only save
your child. Place no fresh obstacle to this marriage. Don't continue
to irritate the duchess's pride by brutal and futile revelations.
Don't make it impossible for us to remedy the evil you have done by
any new explosion.

DON LORENZO. Frankly, then, you would have me hold my tongue.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. That is it. Hold your tongue.

DON LORENZO. But that would be infamous.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. I know nothing about it. I feel, I can't argue.

DON LORENZO. My whole soul rises up in revolt against the idea. To
become an accomplice in the most repugnant, because most cowardly, of
crimes! To enjoy usurped wealth and a name I have no right to, and all
that is not ours! God has not willed it so, and what he has not willed
should not be. Inés, you and I, all sunk in the mire! Is this what you
would counsel? [_With increasing excitement._] Then virtue is but a
lie, and you all, whom I have most loved in this world, perceiving
what I regarded as divinity in you, are only miserable egoists,
incapable of sacrifice, a prey to greed and the mere playthings of
passion. Then you are all but clay, and nothing more. And if you are
but clay, resolve yourselves to dust, and let the wind of the tempest
carry all off. [_Violently._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. Beings shaped without conscience or free will are simply
atoms that meet to-day and separate to-morrow. Such is matter—then let
it go.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You are wandering, Lorenzo. I don't understand you. I don't
know what it is you want.

DON LORENZO. To respect truth and justice.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Truth!

DON LORENZO. Yes.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And cry it to the world from the housetops.

DON LORENZO. I will announce it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And leave us in poverty.

DON LORENZO. I will earn your bread and my own by my work.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You earn your bread! Scholar's vanity! Well, be it so, but
listen to me first. If it should be that we really have no right to
our wealth, give it up,—well and good. [_Don Lorenzo bursts into a cry
of delight and advances to her with outstretched arms._] Privations do
not fright me, nor am I the miserable woman and egoist you painted
erewhile.

DON LORENZO. Ángela, my dear wife, forgive me.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Do you want my forgiveness? Do you want me to continue
blessing the hour I became your wife, as I have always blessed it till
to-day?

DON LORENZO. Yes.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Then do your duty as a man of honour, but in silence,
prudently, without ostentation, or noise, or scandal.

DON LORENZO. Why? The duchess would never consent to her son's marriage
with Inés even at that price.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Edward answers for his mother's consent.

DON LORENZO. She will never give in.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. She will. She is a woman and a mother. We have not all
attained such perfection as yours.

DON LORENZO. I do not believe it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Is it that you do not believe it, or that you fear it?

DON LORENZO. But supposing she should consent,—how can I retain a name
that is not mine?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What shabby subtleties to sacrifice my Inés to!

DON LORENZO. A name, Ángela, in social life is——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. A name is but a sound, a passing breath of air, something
vain and evanescent. But a child, Lorenzo, is a creature made of our
own flesh and of the blood in our veins: a creature that, while still
nothing, we shelter warm in our bosom, and receive into our arms upon
its first cry; that gives us its first smile and its first kiss; that
lives by our life, and is at once our sweetest joy and our sharpest
sorrow: a creature we love more than ourselves, but without a taste of
that selfish leaven which degrades all our other loves; the sole
divine affection that exists upon this earth, and if heaven be heaven,
beyond the blue it will also be found in God himself. Choose now
between what you call a name, and what I call a child.

DON LORENZO. Your words madden me.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. If you first lost your senses for Inés' misfortune, it
matters little that I should drive you mad for her good.

DON LORENZO. You are partly right, Ángela. I am a poor fool. My scruples
are, perhaps, exaggerated. My daughter, my dear Inés—she, so good, so
lovely—she would die,—would surely die.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. At last, Lorenzo, my dear husband.

DON LORENZO. But stay—no—my ideas are confused. My brain turns to the
flail of a fiery whirlwind. Yet I still feel convinced that it would
not be enough to renounce my fortune. I am bound to say why I renounce
it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. [_Not listening to her, but talking to himself._] It is
true that without it I could always materially make restitution of
material possessions,—and still without recognising the legitimate
rights of those I have despoiled. 'Twould be to make a traitorous and
cowardly restitution, under shadow of vain and artificial rights,
which I must fabricate for my convenience, and for the benefit of my
family, instead of openly and honourably relinquishing what is not
mine.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What nonsense you talk, Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. [_Not heeding her._] If I retain a name that is not mine, I
prove myself a shabby thief—I am compelled to pronounce a word that
burns on my lips. I rob a name and all its rights, and I deprive my
victims of their best means of defence against a cupidity that may any
day develop in my descendants, and perhaps give rise to a worse
iniquity in the future. Don't you see it? Surely you must see it if
you are not totally blind! I must tell the truth, the whole truth, in
a loud voice, happen what will.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. Would a judge and a tribunal sentence me to despoilment of
my goods alone, or to despoilment of both my goods and my name? Of
everything, everything—is it not so? Then what a judge would decide I
have to do myself—my own judge—or I am a wretched fellow. Such, my
poor wife, is what my conscience ordains me to do. I want no
half-hearted view of honesty, for there is no middle term between
clean honour and complete abasement. All this is quite clear to me.
Nothing so clear as duty.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Very well, if the affair is made public the duchess will
not give her consent.

DON LORENZO. She will not consent. 'Tis what I have already said.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Ah, Lorenzo, Lorenzo, you are everything,—philosopher,
moralist, jurisconsult, and, needless to say, gentleman. All, all,
wretched reflecting machine, except a father.

DON LORENZO. If you want to drive me out of my senses you are
succeeding.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. That would indeed be difficult.

DON LORENZO. Because I am out of them already?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Yes, but you haven't yet got to the bottom of the abyss.
Hear me, Lorenzo, for I, too, understand something of logic—after all,
am I not your wife? It is your intention to tell the truth, the entire
truth?

DON LORENZO. It is so.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Before the tribunal of human justice?

DON LORENZO. We need not trouble ourselves about divine justice, which
at this moment is weighing you and me.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Understand me well, Lorenzo. I want to know if you will
repeat to the judge, to the lawyers and all, no matter whom, whose
business it will be to take possession of your abandoned fortune in
the interests of the rightful owners, the story you told us a little
while ago?

DON LORENZO. Yes.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You will tell them everything?

DON LORENZO. I am bound to do so.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Hear me further. You will have to acknowledge Juana the
nurse as your mother.

DON LORENZO. That is the only way left me to wipe away the stain of an
iniquitous sentence. Here alone were reason sufficient to prove the
crime of the silence you counsel.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And here, I say, is reason sufficient to command silence as
an imperative duty. Can't you see that if Juana be innocent of the
wrong imputed, she is guilty of a much greater,—which is called
illegal retention of personal rights? You know it well. Falsification
of a family is quite as bad as degrading or destroying it. To deprive
legitimate owners of their fortune is far worse than to lift a locket
from the ground. To conceal an illegitimate birth under an honest name
is the same as covering the plague-spot of vice with an ermine mantle.
If Juana be your mother, all this has she done, and has persisted in
the deception for forty years.

DON LORENZO. [_Moves away and grasps his head in both hands._] Silence,
for God Almighty's sake, silence!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. That is just what I am begging of you—silence!

DON LORENZO. She is my mother.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What of that? He who can injure an innocent daughter need
not trouble himself to respect a culpable mother. Is not divine law
above human law? Is not justice first?—Justice, duty, and truth? Must
not the command of the spirit ever triumph over the weaknesses of the
flesh?

DON LORENZO. You speak well—but in spite of it you are raving. [_Moves
away from her._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And why? You seem already to be growing as ordinary and
weak as any poor mother. Does duty not order you to let your daughter
die? Then let her die. Does it not also command you to cast the dying
Juana into a prison-cell? Then hasten to procure her condemnation. You
see, Lorenzo, I have some logic too, in my own way.

DON LORENZO. Infernal logic.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. And yours? From what sublime sphere does it descend?

DON LORENZO. [_Moves still further off._] Let me be, let me be. I can
stand no more. My own Inés—and my mother! What have I done to you,
Ángela, that you should torture me so? [_Falls nervously into
arm-chair at table._] My head burns; it is on fire.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Gently._] Lorenzo, Lorenzo.

DON LORENZO. Yes, you are right, and I am a poor fool. How can I know
what I ought to do? Darkness envelops me. What is truth? What is
falsehood?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_Aside._] It was very cruel of me, but I have saved my
child. He will not speak. [_Don Lorenzo seated, sinks down in chair,
with his arms upon table, and hides his face in both hands. Doña
Ángela approaches him caressingly and speaks tenderly._] Forgive me,
Lorenzo.

DON LORENZO. Go away—in mercy leave me.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. I wanted to show you the abyss you were falling into. I
wanted to save Inés, and to save you yourself from your own outbreak.

DON LORENZO. Yes, yes, Ángela. I understand, but leave me now.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Do you forgive me?

DON LORENZO. I forgive you—and love you. Poor Ángela, you too are
suffering. But I desire to be alone.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Very well. I am going. But do not fret. We shall find some
way out of the difficulty. I will tell Inés that you want to see
her—you would like to speak to her and comfort her?

DON LORENZO. [_Submissively._] If she wishes it.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Then wait here, and I will come for you presently, and
then, beside our child, together, at one in our desire and with a
common will, you'll see that we shall get the better of fatality which
now seems to crush us.

DON LORENZO. We'll conquer it, yes, we'll conquer it. [_Speaks
unconsciously._]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Good-bye, and don't bear me rancour.

DON LORENZO. Bear you rancour! I?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Then good-bye.

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 and Juana, who stands in door R._

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

_Juana, Don Lorenzo, Doña Ángela enters door R._

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! [_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?

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