# The Great Galeoto; Folly or Saintliness; Two Plays Done from the Verse of José Echegaray into English Prose by Hannah Lynch/The Great Galeoto/Act I

Scene—A drawing-room in Don Julian's house. At the back of stage a large door, and beyond a passage separating it from the dining-room door, which remains closed throughout the act. On the left a balcony, and beyond it a door. On the right two doors. On the stage a table, an arm-chair, handsome and luxurious mounting. Hour, towards sunset.
SCENE I
Teodora and Don Julian. Teodora near the balcony; Don Julian seated on the sofa, lost in thought.
Teodora. What a lovely sunset! what clouds and light, and what a sky! Suppose it were true, as the poets say, and our fathers believed, that our fate is stamped upon the azure heaven! Were the mysterious secret of human destiny traced by the stars upon the sapphire sphere, and this splendid evening should hold the cipher of ours, what happiness it must disclose! what a smiling future! What a life in our life, and what radiance in our heaven! Is it not so, Julian? [She approaches Don Julian.] Ah, plunged in thought, I see! Come and look out. What, no word for me?
D. Julian. [Absently.] What is it?
Teodora. [Coming near.] You have not been listening to me!
​D. Julian. You have my heart ever—who are its magnet and its centre. But my mind is apt to be besieged by preoccupations, cares, business——
Teodora. They are the plague of my life, since they rob me, if not of my husband's affections, at least of some of his attention. But what is the matter, Julian? [Affectionately.] Something worries you. Is it serious, that you are so solemn and so silent? If it should be trouble, Julian, remember that I have a right to share it. My joys are yours, and your sorrows are no less mine.
D. Julian. Sorrows! Troubles! Are you not happy? Do I not possess in you the living embodiment of joy? With those cheeks so ruddy in the glow of health, and those dear eyes, clear like your soul and resplendent as the sky, and I the owner of all you, could pain, or shadow, or grief teach me I am other than the happiest man alive?
Teodora. It is a business annoyance, perhaps?
D. Julian. Money never yet forced sleep or appetite to forsake me. I have never felt aversion, much less contempt for it, so it follows that the article has flowed easily into my coffers. I was rich, I am rich; and until Don Julian of Garagarga dies of old age, please God and his own good fortune, he will remain, if not the wealthiest, certainly the surest, banker of Madrid, Cadiz, and Oporto.
Teodora. Then what is your preoccupation?
D. Julian. I was thinking—'tis a good thought, too.
Teodora. Naturally, since 'tis yours.
D. Julian. Flatterer! you would spoil me.
Teodora. But I am still unenlightened.
D. Julian. There is an important matter I want to achieve.
​Teodora. Connected with the new works?
D. Julian. No; it has nothing to do with stone or iron.
Teodora. What, then?
D. Julian. It is a question of kindness—a sacred debt of old date.
Teodora. [Gleefully.] Oh, I can guess now.
D. Julian. So!
Teodora. You mean Ernest.
D. Julian. You are right.
Teodora. Yes, yes, you must. Poor lad! he's so good and noble and generous.
D. Julian. Quite his father's son—the model of a loyal hidalgo.
Teodora. And then so clever! Only twenty-six, and a prodigy! what doesn't he know?
D. Julian. Know! I should think he did know. That's nothing—rather, that's the worst of it. While he is wandering in the sphere of sublime thought, I fear he's not likely to learn much of a world so deceptive and prosaic as ours, which takes no interest in the subtleties of the mind until three centuries after genius has been buried.
Teodora. But with you for a guide, Julian—you don't intend to abandon him yet a while, surely?
D. Julian. God forbid. I should be black-hearted indeed if I would so readily forget all I owe his father. Don Juan of Acedo risked for my family name and wealth, ay, almost his life. Should this lad need mine, he might ask it, and welcome. 'Twould be but just payment of the debt my name represents.
Teodora. Well said, Julian. It is like you.
​D. Julian. You remember, about a year ago, I heard my good friend was dead, and his son was left badly off. I lost no time, caught the train to Gerona, nearly used force, and carried the boy back here. When he stood in the middle of this room I said to him: 'You are master here; you may command me and mine. Since I owe your father everything, you must regard me in the light of his representative. If I fall short, my desire is to come as near as possible to him. As for the amount of affection I have to dispose of—we'll see if I don't outrace him there.'
Teodora. I remember it well. The soft-hearted fellow burst out crying, and clung to you like a child.
D. Julian. He's but a child, as you say. That's why we must think and plan for him. And 'twas of that I was so seriously thinking a moment ago. I was meditating a half-formed project, while you, dear, wanted me to contemplate a panorama of radiant cloud and scarlet sun that cannot compare with the sun that shines in my own heaven.
Teodora. I cannot divine your idea. What is it you project doing for Ernest?
D. Julian. Those are my words.
Teodora. But is there something yet undone that you expect to discover? He has lived with us for the past year like one of ourselves. Were he your son, or a brother of mine, could you show him more tenderness, I more affection?
D. Julian. It is much, but not enough.
Teodora. Not enough! I fancy,——
D. Julian. You are thinking of the present, and I of the future.
Teodora. Oh! the future! That is easily settled. See, he lives here with us as long as he likes, for years. It is ​his home. Then when the just and natural law prompts him to fall in love and desire another, we will marry him. You will nobly share your wealth with him, and we will lead them from the altar to their own house,—he and she! The proverb, you know, says wisely, 'for each wedded pair a house.' He will live just a little away from us, but that will be no reason for our forgetting him, or loving him less. I see it all distinctly. They are happy, and we even happier. They have children, of course, and we perhaps more—well, at least, one little girl, who will fall in love with Ernest's son, and to whom we will marry her by and by.
[Spoken playfully, with volubility, grace, blushes, and lively gesture, according to the actress's talents.]
D. Julian. But where in heaven's name are you going to stop? [Laughing.]
Teodora. You spoke of his future, Julian, and I've sketched it. If not this one, I will neither approve nor accept it.
D. Julian. How like you, Teodora! but——
Teodora. Ah, there is a but already.
D. Julian. Listen, Teodora. It is but a debt we owe to look after the poor fellow as if he were a relative, and obligation runs with the exactions of our affection. So much for himself, so much for his father's son. But every human action is complex, has two points of view, and every medal has its reverse. Which means, Teodora, that you must understand it is a very different matter to give and receive favours; and that in the end Ernest might feel my protection a humiliation. He's a high-spirited, fine lad, a trifle haughty perhaps, and it is imperative there should be an end to his present position. We may, if we can, do more for him, but we must seem to do less.
Teodora. How so?
​D. Julian. We'll see—but here he comes—— [Looks down the stage.]
Teodora. Hush!
SCENE II
Don Julian, Teodora, and Ernest behind.
D. Julian. Welcome!
Ernest. Don Julian!—and Teodora! [Salutes absently. Sits down near the table in pensive silence.]
Don Julian. [Approaching him.] What's the matter?
Ernest. Nothing.
D. Julian. You look as if something ailed you—your preoccupation reveals it. No trouble, I hope?
Ernest. Nonsense.
D. Julian. Nor disappointment?
Ernest. None whatever.
D. Julian. I don't annoy you?
Ernest. You! good heavens! [Rises and comes toward him effusively.] You speak out of the right of friendship and affection, and you read me through and through. Yes, sir; there is indeed something the matter. I will tell you, if you, and you also, Teodora, out of your pity, will hold me excused. I am an ungrateful fool, a mere boy, in truth, deserving neither of your kindness nor of your affection. Possessing such a father and such a sister, I ought to be happy, with no care for the morrow. But it is not so. I blush to explain it,—can't you understand?—Yes, yes, you must see how false my position is. I live here on alms. [With energy.]
Teodora. Such a word——
​Ernest. Teodora!
Teodora. Affronts us.
Ernest. I expressed myself ill—but it is so.
D. Julian. I say it is not so. If any one in this house lives upon alms, and those no slight ones, it is I and not you.
Ernest. I am acquainted, sir, with the story of two loyal friends, and of some money matters long forgotten. It does honour to my father and to his hidalgic race. But I am shamed in profiting by it. I am young, Don Julian, and although I may not be worth much, there ought still to be some way for me to earn my bread. It may be pride or folly, I cannot say. But I remember what my father used to say: 'What you can do yourself, never ask another to do. What you can earn, never owe to any one else.'
D. Julian. So that my services humiliate and degrade you. You count your friends importunate creditors.
Teodora. Reason may be on your side, Ernest, and in knowledge you are not deficient, but, believe me, in this case the heart alone speaks with wisdom.
D. Julian. Your father did not find me so ungenerous or so proud.
Teodora. Ah, friendship was then a very different thing.
Ernest. Teodora!
Teodora. [To Don Julian.] What a noble anxiety he displays!
Ernest. I know I seem ungrateful—I feel it—and an idiot to boot. Forgive me, Don Julian.
D. Julian. His head is a forge.
​Teodora. [Also apart to Don Julian.] He doesn't live in this world.
D. Julian. Just so. He's full of depth and learning, and lets himself be drowned in a pool of water.
Ernest. [Meditatively.] True, I know little of life, and am not well fitted to make my way through it. But I divine it, and shudder, I know not why. Shall I founder on the world's pool as upon the high sea? I may not deny that it terrifies me far more than the deep ocean. The sea only reaches the limit set by the loose sand: over all space travel the emanations of the pool. A strong man's arms can struggle with the waves of the sea, but no one can struggle against subtle miasma. But if I fall, I must not feel the humiliation of defeat. I wish and pray that at the last moment I may see the approach of the sea that will bear me away at its will; see the sword that is to pierce me, the rock against which I am to be crushed. I must measure my adversary's strength, and despise it falling, despise it dying, instead of tamely breathing the venom scattered through the ambient air.
D. Julian. [To Teodora.] Didn't I tell you he was going out of his mind?
Teodora. But, Ernest, where are you wandering?
D. Julian. Yes. What has all this to do with the matter?
Ernest. Sir, I have come to the conclusion that others, seeing me housed and fed here, are saying of me what I long have thought. They see me constantly driving out with you, in the morning walking with Teodora or Mercedes, in your opera-box, hunting on your lands, and daily occupying the same place at your table. Though you would like to think otherwise, in one way or another the gossip runs: Who is he? Is he a relation? Not so. The secretary? Still less. A partner? If a partner, it ​may be accepted he brings little or nothing to the general fund. So they chatter.
D. Julian. By no means. You are raving.
Ernest. I beg to contradict you.
D. Julian. Then give me a name.
Ernest. Sir——
D. Julian. One will do.
Ernest. There is one at hand—upstairs.
D. Julian. Name him.
Ernest. Don Severo.
D. Julian. My brother?
Ernest. Exactly, your brother? Will that suffice? or shall we add his respected wife, Doña Mercedes? and Pepito, their son? What have you to say then?
D. Julian. That Severo is a fool, Mercedes an idle chatterer, and the lad a puppy.
Ernest. They only repeat what they hear.
D. Julian. It is not true. This is false reasoning. Between gentlemen, when the intention is honourable, what can the opinion of the world really matter? The meaner it is, the loftier our disdain of it.
Ernest. 'Tis nobly said, and is what all well-bred men feel. But I have been taught that gossip, whether inspired by malice or not, which is according to each one's natural tendency, begins in a lie and generally ends in truth. Does gossip, as it grows, disclose the hidden sin? Is it a reflex of the past, or does it invent evil and give it existence? Does it set its accursed seal upon an existent fault, or merely breed that which was yet not, and furnish the occasion for wrong? Should we ​call the slanderer infamous or severe? the accomplice or the divulger? the public avenger or the tempter? Does he arrest or precipitate our fall? wound through taste or duty? and when he condemns, is it from justice or from spite? Perhaps both, Don Julian. Who can say? though time, occasion, and facts may show.
D. Julian. See here, Ernest, I don't understand an iota of all this philosophising. I presume 'tis on such nonsense you waste your intelligence. But I don't want you to be vexed or worried. It's true—you really wish for austere independence, to stand alone at a post of honour?
Ernest. Don Julian!
D. Julian. Answer me.
Ernest. [Joyously]. Yes.
D. Julian. Then count it gained. At this very moment I have no secretary. I am expecting one from London. But nobody would suit me better than a certain young fool, who is enamoured of poverty. [Speaks in pleasant reproach.] His work and salary will, of course, be settled as any one else's, though he be a son to one who cherishes him as such.
Ernest. Don Julian!
D. Julian. [Affecting comical severity.] Remember, I am an exacting business man, and I have not the habit of giving my money away for nothing. I intend to get as much as possible out of you, and work you hard. In my house the bread of just labour alone is consumed. By the clock, ten hours, starting at daybreak, and when I choose to be severe, you will see that Severo himself is no match for me. So, before the world you pose as the victim of my selfishness … but in private, dear boy, ever the same, the centre of my dearest affections. [Unable to maintain former tone, Don Julian breaks off, and holds his hand out to Ernest.]
​Ernest. [Deeply moved.] Don Julian!
D. Julian. You accept, then?
Ernest. I am yours to command.
Teodora. [To Don Julian.] At last you have tamed the savage.
Ernest. [To Don Julian.] Anything for your sake.
D. Julian. So would I have you always, Ernest. And now I have to write to my London correspondent, and thank him, and while recognising the extraordinary merit of his Englishman, whom he extols to the skies, regret that I have already engaged a young man. [Walks toward the first door on the right hand.] This is how we stand for the present; but in the future—it will be as partners. [Returns with an air of mystery.]
Teodora. Stop, Julian, I beg of you. Can't you see that he will take alarm? [Don Julian goes out on the right, and laughs to himself, looking back at Ernest.]
SCENE III
Teodora and Ernest. Towards the end of the last scene twilight has fallen, so that at this moment the room is in deep shadow.
Ernest. I am dazed by so much kindness. How can I ever repay it? [He sits down on the sofa, displaying great emotion. Teodora walks over and stands beside him].
Teodora. By ejecting the spirit of pride and distrust; by being sensible and believing that we truly love you, that we will never change; and by putting full faith in all Julian's promises. His word is sacred, Ernest, and in him you will always have a father, in me a sister.
SCENE IV
Teodora, Ernest, Doña Mercedes, and Don Severo. The latter remain standing behind as they enter. The room is quite dark, save for a glimmer of light shed from the balcony, whither Ernest and Teodora have moved.
Ernest. How good you are!
Teodora. And you, what a boy! After to-day I hope you have done with sadness—eh?
Ernest. Quite.
Mercedes. [Outside, speaking low.] How dark it is!
Severo. [In same tone.] Come away, Mercedes.
Mercedes. [Crossing the threshold.] There is nobody here.
Severo. [Detaining her.] Yes, there is. [Both stand a while peering.]
Ernest. Teodora, my whole life, a thousand lives would still not be enough to offer you in return for your kindness. Don't judge me by my morose temper. I cannot lend a showy front to my affections, but, believe me, I do know how to love—and hate as well. My heart can beat to bursting under the lash of either sentiment.
Mercedes. [To Severo.] What are they saying?
Severo. Something odd, but I hear imperfectly. [Teodora and Ernest go out on the balcony, speaking low.]
Mercedes. 'Tis Ernest.
Severo. And she—I suppose—is——
Mercedes. Teodora.
​Severo. Their eternal tricks—always together. I can stand no more of this. And their words? I mustn't put it off any longer——
Mercedes. True, Severo. Come away. It is certainly your duty, since everybody is talking.
Severo. Yes, I must open Julian's eyes—to-day, at once.
Mercedes. The fellow has impudence enough, and to spare.
Severo. By all that's holy—so has she.
Mercedes. Poor girl! She's but a child. Leave her to me.
Teodora. Another house? Surely no. You wouldn't leave us? What an idea! Julian would never consent.
Severo. [To Doña Mercedes.] I should think not indeed, neither would I. [Aloud.] Ah, Teodora, you didn't see me? This is how you receive your guests.
Teodora. [Coming from the balcony.] Don Severo! I am delighted.
Mercedes. Is there no dinner this evening? It's near the hour.
Teodora. Mercedes too!
Mercedes. Yes, Teodora.
Severo. [Aside.] She is a capital actress. What a creature!
Teodora. I must ring for lights. [Touches the bell on the table.]
Severo. Quite so. Every one likes plenty of light.
Servant. Madam?
Teodora. Bring the lamps, Genaro. [Exit servant.]
​Severo. He who follows the narrow path of loyalty and duty, and is always that which he appears to be, need never fear the light, nor blush in its glare.
[The servant enters with lamps, the stage is brilliantly illuminated. After a pause.]
Teodora. [Laughing naturally.] So I should think, and such, I imagine, is the general opinion. [Looks at Mercedes.]
Mercedes. I suppose so.
Severo. Hulloa, Don Ernest! what were you doing out there? Were you with Teodora when we came in! [Speaks with marked intention.]
Ernest. [Coldly.] I was here as you see.
Severo. The deuce you were! It is rather dark to see. [Approaches him with outstretched hand, looking fixedly at him. Teodora and Mercedes converse apart. Aside.] His face is flushed, and he appears to have been crying. In this world only children and lovers weep. [Aloud.] And Julian?
Teodora. He went away to write a letter.
Ernest. [Aside.] Though I have patience to spare, this man tries me hard.
Severo. [To Teodora.] I am going to see him. There is still time before dinner?
Teodora. Plenty.
Severo. Good. Then to work. [Aside, rubbing his hands, and looking back at Ernest and Teodora. Aloud.] Goodbye.
Teodora. Goodbye.
Severo. [Rancorously, from the door.] My faith!
SCENE V
Teodora, Doña Mercedes, and Ernest. The ladies occupy the sofa, and Ernest stands near them.
Mercedes. [To Ernest.] We did not see you to-day.
Ernest. No, madam.
Mercedes. Nor Pepito?
Ernest. No.
Mercedes. He is upstairs alone.
Ernest. [Aside.] Let him stop there.
Mercedes. [Gravely and mysteriously to Teodora.] I wish he would go. I want to speak to you.
Teodora. Indeed?
Mercedes. [In same tone.] Yes, it is something very serious.
Teodora. Well, begin!
Mercedes. Why doesn't he go?
Teodora. [In a low voice.] I don't understand you.
Mercedes. Courage! [Takes her hand and clasps it affectionately. Teodora looks at her in sombre question.] Send him about his business.
Teodora. If you insist. Ernest, will you do me a favour?
Ernest. Gladly—with a thousand wills.
Mercedes. [Aside.] One were still too many.
Teodora. Then go upstairs—to Pepito——But it might bore you to carry a message.
Ernest. By no means.
Mercedes. [Aside.] In what a sweet, soft voice he speaks to her!
​Teodora. Tell him—ask him if he has renewed our subscription at the Opera as I told him. He knows about it.
Ernest. With pleasure—this very moment.
Teodora. Thanks, Ernest, I am sorry——
Ernest. Nonsense. [Exit.]
Teodora. Adieu!
SCENE VI
Teodora and Doña Mercedes.
Teodora. Something serious? You alarm me, Mercedes. Such mystery! What can it mean?
Mercedes. It is indeed very serious.
Teodora. Concerning whom?
Mercedes. All of you.
Teodora. All of us?
Mercedes. Julian, Ernest, and you.
Teodora. All three?
Mercedes. Yes, all three. [Short pause. Both women stare at each other.]
Teodora. Then make haste.
Mercedes. [Aside.] I should like to——but, no; I must go gently in this unsavoury affair. [Aloud.] Listen, Teodora. My husband is, after all, your husband's brother, and in life and death our fortunes are one. So that we owe one another in all things protection, help, and advice,—is it not so? To-day it may be I who offer assistance, and to-morrow, should I need it, I unblushingly claim it of you.
​Teodora. You may count upon it, Mercedes. But come to the end of the matter now.
Mercedes. Up to to-day, Teodora, I shrank from this step, but Severo urges me. 'It can't go on,' he insists. 'My brother's honour and my own self-esteem forbid me to witness that which fills me with shame and sorrow. On all sides am I assailed with innuendoes, with the smiles, the covert glances and the reproaches of my friends. There must be an end to this low gossip about us.'
Teodora. Continue, pray.
Mercedes. Then heed me. [They exchange a prolonged gaze.]
Teodora. Tell me, what is the gossip?
Mercedes. The murmuring of the river tells us that its waters are swollen.
Teodora. I understand nothing of your river and its swollen waters, but do not drive me wild.
Mercedes. [Aside.] Poor child! My heart grieves for her. [Aloud.] So you do not understand me?
Teodora. I? not in the least.
Mercedes. [Aside.] How stupid she is! [Aloud, energetically.] You make a laughing-stock of him.
Teodora. Of whom?
Mercedes. Why, of your husband, of course.
Teodora. [Impetuously, rising.] Julian! what a falsehood! What wretch could say so? Julian would strike him!
Mercedes. [Endeavouring to soothe her and make her sit down.] He would need a good many hands, then; for, if report speak truly, he would have to strike the entire town.
​Teodora. But what does it all mean? What is the mystery, and what is this talk of the town?
Mercedes. So you're sorry?
Teodora. I am sorry. But what is it?
Mercedes. You see, Teodora, you are quite a child. At your age one is so often thoughtless and light, and then such bitter tears are afterwards shed. You still don't understand me?
Teodora. No, what has such a case to do with me?
Mercedes. It is the story of a scoundrel and the story of a lady——
Teodora. [Eagerly.] Whose name——?
Mercedes. Her name——
Teodora. Oh, what does it matter?
[Teodora moves away from Mercedes, who shifts her seat on the sofa to follow her. The double movement of repugnance and aloofness on Teodora's part, and of insistence and protection on Mercedes', is very marked.]
Mercedes. The man is a shabby-hearted betrayer, who, for one hour of pleasure, would thrust upon the woman a life of sorrow: the husband's dishonour, the ruin of a family, and she left shamed and condemned to social penitence in the world's disdain, and to keener punishment still at the whip of her own conscience.
[Here Teodora, avoiding Mercedes, reaches the edge of the sofa, bows her head and covers her face with both hands. At last she understands.]
Mercedes. [Aside.] Poor little thing! She touches me. [Aloud.] This man is not worthy of you, Teodora.
Teodora. But, madam, what is the drift of all this blind emotion? Do not imagine that my eyes are dimmed with fear or horror or tears. They burn with the flame of anger. To whom can such words be addressed? What man do you mean? Is it, perchance——?
​Mercedes. Ernest.
Teodora. Ah! [Pause.] And the woman I? Not so? [Mercedes nods and Teodora rises again.] Then listen to me, though I may offend you. I know not who is the viler, the inventor of this tale or you who repeat it. Shame upon the meanness that formed the idea, and shame upon the villainy that spreads it! It is so abominable, so fatal, that I almost feel myself criminal because I cannot instantly reject the thought and forget it. Heavens! could I suppose or credit such baseness? Because of his misfortunes I loved him. He was like a brother to me, and Julian was his providence. And he so noble and thorough a gentleman! [Stands staring at Mercedes, then turns away her face. Aside.] How she inspects me! I scarcely like to say a good word for him to her. My God! I am compelled already to act a part.
Mercedes. Be calm, child.
Teodora. [Raising her voice.] Oh, what anguish! I feel cold and inconsolable. Stained in this way by public opinion! Oh, my dearest mother, and you, Julian, my heart's beloved. [She falls sobbing into a chair on the left, and Mercedes strives to console her.]
Mercedes. I did not imagine—forgive me—don't cry. There, I didn't really believe it was serious. I knew your past exonerated you. But as the case stands, you must admit that out of every hundred a hundred would accuse you and Julian of excessive rashness, or say you had led the world to conclude the worst. You a girl of twenty, Julian a man of forty, and Ernest between you, with his head full of romantic thoughts. On the one hand, a husband given up to business, on the other a youth to dreams, every day bringing its opportunity, and you there, unoccupied, in the flush of romance. It was wrong for people to conclude the worst because they saw you walking with him, and saw him so often at the theatre with you. But, Teodora, in reason and justice ​I think that, if the world was bent on seeing evil, you furnished the occasion. Permit me to point out to you that the fault which society most fiercely chastises, pursues most relentlessly and cruelly, and in every varied imaginable way, both in man and woman is—don't frown so, Teodora—is temerity.
Teodora. [Turning to Mercedes without having heard her.] And you say that Julian——
Mercedes. Is the laughing-stock of the town, and you——
Teodora. Oh, I! That's no matter. But Julian!—Oh, oh, so good, so chivalrous! If he only knew——
Mercedes. He will know, for at this very moment Severo is telling him.
Teodora. What!
Julian. [Inside.] That will do.
Teodora. Oh, goodness!
Julian. Let me alone.
Teodora. Come away, quickly.
Mercedes. [Rushing with Teodora towards first door on the right.] Yes, yes, quickly. What folly! [Teodora and Mercedes go to the right.]
Teodora. [Stopping suddenly.] But wherefore, since I am not guilty? Not only does miserable calumny stain us, but it degrades us. It is so steeped in evil, that, against all evidence, its very breath takes the bloom off our consciences. Why should an idle terror cast its mean influence over me? [At this moment Don Julian appears on the threshold of the first door on the right hand side, and behind him stands Don Severo.]
Teodora. Julian!
D. Julian. Teodora! [She runs over to him, and he folds her in a passionate embrace.] Here in my arms, dearest. It is the home of your honour.
SCENE VII
Teodora, Doña Mercedes, Don Julian, and Don Severo. Don Julian and Doña Mercedes form the centre group.
D. Julian. Let it pass for this once, but, please God! there's an end of it. Whoever in future shall stain this face with tears [pointing to Teodora], I swear, and mean it, will never again cross the threshold of my house—though he should be my own brother. [Pause. Don Julian soothes and comforts Teodora.]
D. Severo. I only mentioned common report.
D. Julian. Infamous!
D. Severo. It may be so.
D. Julian. It is.
D. Severo. Well, let me tell you what every one says.
D. Julian. Filth! abominable lies.
D. Severo. Then repeating them——
D. Julian. 'Tis not the way to put an end to them. [Pause.]
D. Severo. You are wrong.
D. Julian. Right—more than right. A fine thing it would be if I let you carry the mire of the street into my drawing-room!
D. Severo. But I will do so.
D. Julian. You shall not.
D. Severo. You bear my name.
D. Julian. Enough.
D. Severo. And your honour——
​D. Julian. Remember that you are in my wife's presence. [Pause.]
D. Severo. [In a low voice to Don Julian.] If our father saw you——
D. Julian. What do you mean, Severo?
Mercedes. Hush! Here is Ernest.
Teodora. [Aside.] How dreadful! If he should know——
[Teodora turns away her face, and holds her head bent. Don Julian looks at her questioningly]
SCENE VIII
Teodora, Doña Mercedes, Don Julian, Don Severo, Ernest and Pepito grouped from left to right. On entering, Pepito stands on Don Julian's side and Ernest walks over to Teodora.
Ernest. [Looking at Don Julian and Teodora. Aside.] He and she! It is no illusion. Can it be what I feared? what that fool told me. [Referring to Pepito, who at that moment enters behind.] It was not his invention.
Pepito. [Staring strangely about.] My salutations to all, and good appetite—as it is dinner-time. Here are the tickets, Teodora. Don Julian——
Teodora. Thanks, Pepito. [Accepts them mechanically.]
Ernest. [To Don Julian in a low voice.] What's the matter with Teodora?
D. Julian. Nothing.
Ernest. [In same tone.] She is pale, and has been crying.
D. Julian. [Angrily.] Don't busy yourself about my wife. [Pause. Don Julian and Ernest exchange glances.]
Ernest. [Aside.] The wretches! They've completed their work.
​Pepito. [In a low voice to his mother, pointing to Ernest.] He ought to have a strait-jacket. I quizzed him about Teodora. Poof! 'Pon my word, I thought he'd kill me.
Ernest. [Aloud, with resolution and sadness.] Don Julian, I have thought over your generous offer, and much as I've already abused your kindness, it goes sorely against me to refuse it now. But, sir, I feel that I ought to reject this post you offer me.
D. Julian. Why?
Ernest. Because I am so fashioned,—a poet and a dreamer. My father, sir, trained me for no career. I want to travel; I am restless and liable to revolt. I am not capable of settling down like another. Like a new Columbus, I am bitten by the spirit of adventure. But we will appeal to Don Severo. He will decide if I am right.
D. Severo. You speak like the book of wisdom and like a man of sense. I have been thinking as you do for a long while.
D. Julian. Since when have you felt this itch for new worlds and travel? When did you make up your mind to leave us? And the means?—where are they?
D. Severo. He wants to go away—to some place more to his taste than here. To be just, Julian, the rest is your affair. Give him as much as he wants, too, for this is no time for economy.
Ernest. [To Don Severo.] I don't traffic with dishonour, nor receive alms. [Pause.] Well, it must be so; and as our parting would be a sad one—for in this life, who knows? I may never come back, and may not see them again—it is better that we should shake hands now, here, Don Julian, and have it over. Thus we snap the tie, and you forgive my selfishness. [Deeply moved.]
​D. Severo. [Aside.] How they stare at one another!
Teodora. [Aside.] What a noble fellow!
Ernest. [To Don Julian.] Why do you withhold your hand? It is our last adieu, Don Julian. [Goes toward him with outstretched hands. Don Julian embraces him.]
D. Julian. No, lad. The question well considered, this is neither the first nor the last. It is the cordial embrace of two honourable men. You must not mention your mad project again.
D. Severo. Then he is not going away?
D. Julian. Never. I have not the habit of changing my mind or the plans I have matured because of a boy's caprice or a madman's folly. And I have still less intention of weakly subjecting my actions to the town's idle gossip.
D. Severo. Julian!
D. Julian. Enough. Dinner is served.
Ernest. Father, I cannot——
D. Julian. But what if I believe you can? Or does my authority begin to bore you?
Ernest. I beg you——
D. Julian. Come, dinner is ready. Give your arm to Teodora, and take her in.
Ernest. [Looking at her, but holding back.] To Teodora!
Teodora. [With a similar emotion.] Ernest!
D. Julian. Yes, as usual.
[There is a movement of uncertainty on both sides; finally Ernest approaches and Teodora takes his arm, but neither dares to look at the other; and both are abrupt and violently agitated.]
​D. Julian. [To Pepito.] And you! The deuce, why don't you offer your arm to your mother? My good brother Severo will take mine. So, quite a family party, and now let pleasure flow with the wine in our glasses. So there are gossips about? Well, let them chatter and scream. A farthing for all they can say. I shouldn't object to a glass house, that they might have the pleasure of staring in at Teodora and Ernest together, and learn how little I care for their spite and their calumnies. Each man to his fancy.
[Enter servant in black suit and white tie.]
Servant. Dinner is served.
[The dining-room door opens and displays a well-appointed table.]
D. Julian. Let us look after our life, since it will be the affair of others to look after our death. Come. [Invites the others to pass.]
Teodora. Mercedes.
Mercedes. Teodora.
Teodora. I pray you, Mercedes.
[Doña Mercedes passes in with Pepito and takes her place at the table. Ernest and Teodora stand plunged in thought, Ernest looking anxiously at her.]
D. Julian. [Aside.] He is looking at her, and there are tears in her eyes. [Teodora, walking unsteadily and struggling with emotion, slowly follows the others inside.]
D. Julian. [To Severo.] Are they talking together?
D. Severo. I don't know, but I think it very probable.
D. Julian. Why are they looking back at us? Both! Did you notice? I wonder why.
D. Severo. You see, you are growing reasonable at last!
D. Julian. No, I've caught your madness. Ah, how sure a thing is calumny! It pierces straight to the heart.