# 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 II

Scene represents a small room almost poorly furnished. Door at the end, on the right another door, and on the left a balcony. A book-case, a table, an arm-chair. On the table Don Julian's portrait in a frame, beside it an empty frame; both small and alike. On the table an unlighted lamp, the 'Divina Commedia,' open at the Francesca episode, and close to it a morsel of burnt paper. Papers scattered about, and the MS. of a play. A few chairs. Time, day.
SCENE I
Enter Don Julian. Don Severo and servant below.
D. Severo. Don Ernest is out?
Servant. Yes, sir. He went out early.
D. Severo. No matter. We'll wait. I suppose he will be in sooner or later.
Servant. I should think so. Nobody could be more punctual than he.
D. Severo. That will do.
Servant. Certainly, sir. If you want anything, you'll find me downstairs. [Exit servant.]
SCENE II
Don Julian and Don Severo.
D. Severo. [Looking round.] How modest!
D. Julian. Poor is a better word.
D. Severo. What a lodging! [Opens the door and peeps in.] An alcove, this study, and an outer room—and that's all.
D. Julian. And thereby hangs the devil's own tale of human ingratitude, of bastard sentiment, of miserable passions, and of blackguard calumny. And whether you tell it quickly or at length, there's never an end to it.
D. Severo. It is the work of chance.
D. Julian. Not so, my dear fellow. It was the work of—well, I know whom.
D. Severo. Meaning me?
D. Julian. Yes, you as well. And before you the empty-pated idlers whom it behoved to busy themselves shamelessly about my honour and my wife's. And I, coward, mean, and jealous, I let the poor fellow go, despite my evidence of his upright nature. I responded to his nobler conduct by black ingratitude. Yes, ingratitude. You see my ostentatious wealth, the luxury of my surroundings and equipages, and the credit of my firm. Well, do you know where all that comes from?
D. Severo. I have quite forgotten.
D. Julian. Justly said,—forgotten! Such is the natural reward of every generous action, of every unusual impulse that prompts one man to help another quietly, without a flourish of trumpet or self-advertisement—just for friendship's or for honesty's sake.
D. Severo. You are unjust to yourself. To such an excess have you pushed gratitude, that you have almost sacrificed ​honour and fortune to it. What more could be expected—even of a saint? There's a limit to all things, good and evil. He is proud and obstinate, and, however much you may oppose him, 'tis none the less a fact that he's his own master. If he chooses to leave your palace in a fit of despair, for this shanty—'tis his right. I admit, my dear boy, that it's very sad—but then, who could have prevented it?
D. Julian. The world in general, if it would mind its own business instead of tearing and rending reputations by the movement of its tongue and the sign of its hand. What did it matter to the public if we, fulfilling a sacred duty, treated Ernest, I as a son, and Teodora as a brother? Is it reason enough to assume the worst, and trumpet scandal because a fine lad sits at my table, walks out with my wife, and has his seat in my opera-box? Is by chance impure love the sole supreme bond between man and woman in this world of clay? Is there no friendship, gratitude, sympathy, esteem, that youth and beauty should only meet in the mire? And even supposing that the conclusion of the fools was the right one, is it their business to avenge me? I have my own eyes to look after my own affairs, and to avenge my wrongs have I not courage, steel, and my own right hand?
D. Severo. Well, accepting that outsiders were wrong to talk, did you expect me, who am of your blood and bear your name, to hold my tongue?
D. Julian. By heavens, no! But you should have been more careful. You might have told me alone of this sorry business, and not have set flame to a conflagration under my very roof.
D. Severo. I erred through excess of affection, I admit. But while I confess that the world and I have done the mischief—it by inventing the situation, and I by weakly crediting, and by giving voice to the shabby innuendoes—you, Julian [approaches him and speaks with ​tender interest], have nothing to reproach yourself with. You have the consolation of having acted throughout as a gentleman.
D. Julian. I cannot so easily console myself, while my heart gives shelter to that same story which my lips and my intelligence reject. I indignantly turn away from the world's calumny, and to myself I say: 'What if it should be no lie: if perchance the world should be right?' So I stand in strife between two impulses, sometimes judge, sometimes accomplice. This inward battle wears me out, Severo. Doubt increases and expands, and my heart groans, while before my bloodshot vision stretches a reddened field.
D. Severo. Delirium!
D. Julian. No, 'tis not raving. You see, I bare myself to you as a brother. Think you Ernest would have left my house if I had firmly stood in his way and opposed his crossing the threshold? If so, why does a traitorous voice keep muttering in my disturbed consciousness: ''twere wise to leave the door open to his exit, and lock it well afterwards, for the confiding man is but a poor guardian of honour's fortress.' In my heart I wish what my lips deny. 'Come back, Ernest,' aloud, and to myself 'do not come back,' and while I show him a frank front, I am a hypocrite and a coward, watchful and worn with mistrust. No, Severo, this is not to act like an honest man. [He drops into the arm-chair beside the table in deep dejection.]
D. Severo. It is how any husband would act who had a beautiful young wife to look after, especially one with a romantic temperament.
D. Julian. Don't speak so of Teodora. She is a mirror that our breath tarnishes by any imprudent effort to bring it to our level. It gave back the sun's pure light before the million vipers of the earth gathered to stare ​at it. To-day they crawl within the glass in its divine frame, but they are insubstantial shadows. My hand can wave them away, and once more you will see the clear blue of heaven.
D. Severo. All the better.
D. Julian. No, not so.
D. Severo. Then what the deuce do you want?
D. Julian. Oh, so much. I told you that this inward struggle of which I spoke is changing me to another man. Now my wife finds me always sad, always distant. I am not the man I was, and no effort will ever make me so again. Seeing me so changed, she must ask, 'Where is Julian? this is not my dear husband; what have I done to forfeit his confidence, and what shabby feeling causes this aloofness?' a shadow lies between us, ever deepening, and slowly, step by step, we move more apart. None of the old dear confidence, none of the old delightful talks; smiles frozen, tones embittered, in me through unjust resentment, in her through tearful grief,—I wounded in my love, and she, by my hand, wounded in her woman's dignity. There's how we stand.
D. Severo. Then you stand upon the verge of perdition. If you see your position so plainly, why don't you remedy it?
D. Julian. 'Tis of no use. I know I am unjust to doubt her, nay, worse still. I don't doubt her now. But who will say that, I losing little by little, and he gaining as steadily, the lie of to-day will not to-morrow be truth? [He seizes Don Severo by the arm, and speaks with voluble earnestness and increasing bitterness.] I, jealous, sombre, unjust and hard, he noble and generous, resigned and inalterably sweet-natured, with that halo of martyrdom which, in the eyes of women, sits so becomingly on the brow of a brave and handsome youth. Is it not clear that his is the better part, and that my loss is his ​gain? while I can do nothing to alter the injustice of it. You see it, too? And if the ignoble talk of the town should compel those two to treason, though they may now truthfully assert: 'we are not lovers,' the force of repetition of the word may eventually drive them to the fact.
D. Severo. If that's how you feel about it, Julian, I think the safest thing would be to let Ernest carry out his project.
D. Julian. That I've come to prevent.
D. Severo. Then you are insane. He purposes to go to Buenos Ayres. Nothing could be better. Let him go—in a sailing vessel, fresh wind to his sail, and good speed.
D. Julian. Do you wish me to show myself so miserably ungrateful and jealous before Teodora? Don't you know, Severo, that a woman may despise a lover and love him still, but not so a husband? Contempt is his dishonour. You would not have my wife follow the unhappy exile across the ocean with sad regrets? And I, should I see the trace of a tear upon her cheek, the mere thought that it might be for Ernest would drive me to strangle her in my arms. [Speaks with rancour and rage.]
D. Severo. What is it then you do want?
D. Julian. I must suffer. The care of unravelling the knot belongs to the world that conceived the drama solely by looking at us,—so fertile is its glance for good and ill.
D. Severo. [Moving back.] I think somebody is coming.
Servant. [From without, not seen on the stage.] Don Ernest cannot be much later. [Enter Pepito.]
SCENE III
Don Julian, Don Severo, and Pepito.
D. Severo. You here?
Pepito [Aside.] By Jove, I see they know all about it. [Aloud.] We are all here. How do you do, uncle? How do, father? [Aside.] Easy. They know what's in the wind. [Aloud.] What brings you?—but I suppose you are looking for Ernest.
D. Severo. What else could bring us here?
D. Julian. I daresay you know what this madman is up to?
Pepito. What he's up to! Well, yes—rather. I know as much as another.
D. Severo. And it's to-morrow?
Pepito. No, to-morrow he is going away, so it must be to-day.
D. Julian. [Surprised.] What do you say?
Pepito. That's what Pepe Uceda told me last night at the club. He is Nebreda's second, so he ought to know. But why do you stare so oddly? Didn't you know——
D. Julian. [Hastily covering his brother's movement.] Everything.
D. Severo. We——
D. Julian. [Aside.] Hold your tongue, Severo.—He starts to-morrow, and to-day he stakes his life—and we are here, of course, to prevent both, the duel and the departure. [Don Julian makes it evident that he is only sounding Pepito's knowledge of facts, and that he is only aware of the pending departure.]
​D. Severo. What duel?
D. Julian. [Aside to Severo.] I know nothing about it, but I shall presently.
Pepito. [Aside.] Come, I haven't been such a duffer after all.
D. Julian. [Speaking with an air of certainty.] We know there is a viscount——
Pepito. Yes.
D. Julian. With whom Ernest proposes to fight—a certain trustworthy person has informed us, who was at once apprised of it. They say 'tis a serious matter [Pepito nods], a disgraceful quarrel in the presence of several witnesses [Pepito nods again]—the lie direct, and a deluge of bad language——
Pepito. [Interrupts excitedly, glad of his more accurate information.] Language indeed!—a blow bigger than a monument
D. Severo. On which side?
Pepito. Ernest struck the viscount.
D. Julian. Of course Ernest struck the viscount. I thought you knew that, Severo. The viscount insulted him. Patience is not the lad's strong point—hence the blow.
Pepito. Exactly.
D. Julian. [Confidently.] I told you we knew the whole story. [Then anxiously.] The affair is serious?
Pepito. Most serious. I don't like discussing it, but since you know so much, there is no need for further mystery.
D. Julian. None whatever. [He approaches Pepito eagerly.]
Pepito. [After a pause, adopts an ominous air to announce bad news.] It is a matter of life and death. [Looks round ​triumphantly. Don Julian and Don Severo start.] The viscount is neither a chicken nor a skulk. He can handle a sword.
D. Julian. And the quarrel? What was it? Nebreda is supposed to be——
Pepito. It was hardly a quarrel. I'll tell you the facts. [Both men draw near eagerly.] Ernest, you know, means to leave Madrid to-morrow, and take passage in the Cid lying in Cadiz. Luiz Alcaráz had promised him a letter of introduction, and the poor fellow went off to meet him at the café and get it, with the best of intentions. Luiz wasn't there, so he waited. Some of the frequenters of Alcaráz's table, who did not know him, were in the full swing of glorious slander, and did not notice his clenched teeth. A name mentioned meant a reputation blasted. Broad-handed, ready-tongued, every living soul passed in their review. In this asylum of charity, in the midst of more smoke than an express train emits, between lifted glass and dropped cigarette ashes, with here and there a lump of sugar, the marble was converted for the nonce into a dissecting-table: each woman dishonoured, another glass of the old tap: a shout of laughter for each tippler's cut. In four clippings these lads left reputations ragged and the ladies rent to tatters. Yet what did it all come to? They but echoed society at a café-table. I don't say all this for myself, nor think it, but 'twas how Ernest spoke when he recounted the quarrel to me.
D. Julian. Well, make an end of it.
Pepito. The end of it is, that between name and name, there was mention of one that Ernest could not endure. 'Who dares to ridicule an honourable man?' he shouts. Somebody retorts: 'a lady,' and names a woman. His head was instantly on fire, and he flings himself upon Nebreda. The poor viscount fell like a ninepin, and there you have an Agramante's camp. The day's ​business is now a duel—in a room somewhere—I don't know where.
D. Julian. [Seizing his arms.] The man was I!
Pepito. Sir?
D. Julian. And Teodora the woman? How have we fallen—she, myself, our love? [Sits down and covers his face with both hands.]
Severo. What have you done, you blockhead!
Pepito. Didn't he say he knew all about it? and I naturally believed him.
D. Julian. Dishonoured, dishonoured!
Severo. [Approaching him.] Julian, my dear fellow.
D. Julian. It is true. I ought to be calm, I know. But what heart can I have when faith is gone? [Seizes his brother's hand.] Just heaven! Why are we so disgraced? What reason have they to turn and throw mud at us? No matter. I know my duty as a gentleman. I can count on you, Severo?
Severo. On me? Till death, Julian. [They shake hands cordially.]
Julian. [To Pepito.] The duel?
Pepito. For three o'clock.
Julian. [Aside.] I'll kill him—yes, kill him. Come. [To Severo.]
Severo. Whither?
D. Julian. To look for this viscount.
Severo. Do you mean——?
D. Julian. I mean to do what I ought and can to avenge myself and save Don Juan of Acedo's son. Who are the seconds? [To Pepito.]
​Pepito. Alcaráz and Rueda.
D. Julian. I know them both. Let him stay here [pointing to Pepito], so that in the event of Ernest's return——
Severo. Of course.
D. Julian. [To Pepito.] Without arousing his suspicion, find out where the duel takes place.
Severo. You hear.
D. Julian. [To his brother.] Come.
Severo. What's the matter with you, Julian?
D. Julian. 'Tis a long while since I've felt so overjoyed. [Catches Severo's arm feverishly.]
Severo. The deuce! overjoyed! You're beside yourself.
D. Julian. I shall meet that fellow.
Severo. Nebreda?
D. Julian. Yes. Observe, until to-day calumny was impalpable. There was no seizing its shape. I have now discovered it, and it has taken a human form. There it is at hand, in the person of a viscount. Swallowing blood and gall for the past three months—the devil!—and now—fancy, face to face—he and I! [Exeunt Don Julian and Don Severo.]
SCENE IV
Pepito. Well, here we are in a nice fix, and all for nothing! However, in spite of my uncle's belief, it was little short of madness to leave a resplendent creature under the same roof and in continual contact with a handsome fellow like Ernest, with a soul on fire, or given to romanticism. He swears there's nothing in it, and that his feeling for her is pure affection, that ​he loves her like a sister, and that my uncle is a father to him. But I am a sly fox, and, young as I am, I know a thing or two of this world. I've no faith in this sort of relations, when the brother is young and the sister is beautiful, and brotherhood between them a fiction. But suppose it were as he says, all square. What do outsiders know about that? Nobody is under any obligation to think the best of his fellows. The pair are seen everywhere together, and, seeing them, haven't their neighbours a right to talk? No, swears Ernest. We hardly ever went out alone. Once, perhaps? That's enough. If a hundred persons saw them on that occasion, it is quite the same as if they had been seen in public a hundred times. Good Lord! How are you going to confront all the witnesses to prove whether it was once or often they chose to give an airing to this pure sympathy and brotherly love? 'Tis absurd—neither just nor reasonable. What we see we may mention—'tis no lie to say it. 'I saw them once,' says one, 'and I,' another. One and one make two. 'And I also'—that makes three. And then a fourth, and a fifth, and so, summing which, you soon enough reach infinity. We see because we look, and our senses are there to help us to pass the time, without any thought of our neighbour. He must look out for himself, and remember that, if he shuns the occasion, calumny and peril will shun him. [Pause.] And take notice that I admit the purity of the affection, and this makes it so serious a matter. Now, in my opinion, the man who could be near Teodora, and not fall in love with her, must be a stone. He may be learned and philosophical, and know physics and mathematics, but he has a body like another, and she's there with a divine one, and, body of Bacchus! that's sufficient to found an accusation on. Ah! if these walls could speak. If Ernest's private thoughts, scattered here, could take tangible form! By Jove! what's this? An empty frame, and beside it Don Julian's likeness in its fellow. Teodora was there, ​the pendant of my respected uncle. Why has she disappeared? To avoid temptation? [Sits down at the table.] If that's the reason—it's bad. And still worse if the portrait has left its frame for a more honourable place near his heart. Come forth, suspected imps that float about, and weave invisible meshes. Ruthlessly denounce this mystic philosopher. [Looks about the table and sees the open Dante.] Here's another. I never come here but I find this divine book open on Ernest's table. The Divine Comedy! His favourite poem, and I note that he seems never to get beyond the Francesca page. I conceive two explanations of the fact. Either the fellow never reads it, or he never reads any other. But there's a stain, like a tear-drop. My faith! what mysteries and abysses! And what a difficult thing it is to be married and live tranquilly. A paper half burnt—[picks it up]—there's still a morsel left. [Goes over to the balcony trying to read it. At this moment Ernest enters, and stands watching him.]
SCENE V
Pepito and Ernest.
Ernest. What are you looking at?
Pepito. Hulloa! Ernest. Only a paper I caught on the wing. The wind blew it away.
Ernest. [Takes it and returns it after a short inspection.] I don't remember what it is.
Pepito. Verses. You may remember [reads with difficulty] 'The flame that consumes me.' [Aside.] Devora rhymes with Teodora.
Ernest. It is nothing important.
Pepito. No, nothing. [Throws away the paper.]
​Ernest. That worthless bit of paper is a symbol of our life—a few sobs of sorrow, and a little flake of ashes.
Pepito. Then they were verses?
Ernest. Yes. When I've nothing better to do, sometimes—my pen runs away with me—I write them at night.
Pepito. And to prick enthusiasm, and get into harness, you seek inspiration in the master's book.
Ernest. It would seem——
Pepito. Say no more. 'Tis truly a gigantic work. The episode of Francesca. [Pointing to the page.]
Ernest. [Ironically and impatiently.] You can't guess wrong to-day.
Pepito. Not entirely, by Jove. Here, where the book is open, I find something I can't guess, and you must explain it to me. Reading a love-tale together to pass the time, we are told that Francesca and Paolo reached that part where the gallant author, proving himself no amateur in the business, sings the loves of Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. The match fell pat. The kiss in the book was repeated by the passionate youth on the girl's mouth. And at this point of the story, with rare skill and sublime truth, the Florentine poet tells us what happens. [Points to the line.] But this is what I do not understand. Galeoto was the book they were reading, and they read no more. They stopped reading? That's easy enough to understand. But this Galeoto, tell me where he comes in, and who was he? You ought to know, since he has given his name to the play that is to make you famous. Let me see. [Takes up the MS. and examines it.]
Ernest. Galeoto was the go-between for the Queen and Launcelot and in all loves the third may be truthfully ​nicknamed Galeoto, above all when we wish to suggest an ugly word without shocking an audience.
Pepito. I see, but have we no Spanish word to express it?
Ernest. We have one, quite suitable and expressive enough. 'Tis an office that converts desires into ducats, overcomes scruples, and is fed upon the affections. It has a name, but to use it would be putting a fetter upon myself, forcing myself to express what, after all, I would leave unsaid. [Takes the MS. from Pepito and flings it upon the table.] Each especial case, I have remarked, has its own especial go-between. Sometimes it is the entire social mass that is Galeoto. It then unconsciously exercises the office under the influence of a vice of quite another aspect, but so dexterously does it work against honour and modesty that no greater Galeoto can ever be found. Let a man and woman live happily, in tranquil and earnest fulfilment of their separate duties. Nobody minds them, and they float along at ease. But God be praised, this is a state of things that does not last long in Madrid. One morning somebody takes the trouble to notice them, and from that moment, behold society engaged in the business, without aim or object, on the hunt for hidden frailty and impurity. Then it pronounces and judges, and there is no logic that can convince it, nor living man who can hope to persuade it, and the honestest has not a rag of honour left. And the terrible thing is, that while it begins in error it generally ends in truth. The atmosphere is so dense, misery so envelops the pair, such is the press and torrent of slander, that they unconsciously seek one another, unite lovelessly, drift toward their fall, and adore each other until death. The world was the stumbling-stone of virtue, and made clear the way for shame—was Galeoto and—[aside] stay! what mad thought inflames me!
Pepito. [Aside.] If that's the way he discourses to Teodora, heaven help poor Don Julian. [Aloud.] I suppose last night's verses dealt with the subject.
​Ernest. Yes, they did.
Pepito. How can you waste your time so coolly, and sit there so calm, doing nothing, when in another hour you will be measuring swords with Nebreda, who, for all his dandy's cane, is a man when put upon his mettle? Wouldn't it be saner and wiser to practise fencing instead of expounding questions of verse and rhyme? You look so mighty cool that I almost doubt if you regard your meeting with the viscount as serious.
Ernest. No,—for a good reason. If I kill him, the world gains; if he kill me, I gain.
Pepito. Well, that's good.
Ernest. Don't say any more about it.
Pepito. [Aside.] Now I must warily find out. [Approaches him and speaks in a low voice.] Is it for to-day?
Ernest. Yes, to-day.
Pepito. Outside the town?
Ernest, No, there's no time for that. Besides, we wish to keep it quiet.
Pepito. In a house, then?
Ernest. So I proposed.
Pepito. Where?
Ernest. Upstairs. [Speaks with cold indifference.] There's a room unlet upstairs, with a side window, through which nobody can look. Under the circumstances it's better than a field, and will be had for a handful of silver.
Pepito. And now all you need——
Ernest. The swords!
Pepito. I hear voices outside. Somebody is coming—the seconds?
​Ernest. May be.
Pepito. It sounds like a woman's voice. [Approaches the door.]
Ernest. [Approaching also.] But who's keeping them?
SCENE VI.
Ernest, Pepito, and Servant.
Servant. [Mysteriously.] Somebody wants to see you, sir.
Ernest. Who?
Servant. A lady.
Ernest. How extraordinary!
Pepito. [Aside to servant.] What does she want?
Servant. [To Pepito.] She is crying.
Pepito. [Aloud.] Is she young?
Servant. Really, sir, I can't say. It's very dark outside, and the lady's face is so thickly veiled that the devil himself couldn't tell what she's like, and she speaks so low you can't even hear her.
Ernest. Who can she be?
Pepito. Who could want to see you?
Ernest. I cannot think.
Pepito. [Aside.] This is startling. [Takes up his hat and holds out his hand.] Well, I'll leave you in peace. Good-bye and good luck. [To the servant.] What are you waiting for, you booby?
Servant. For orders to show the lady in.
Pepito. In such a case 'tis your business to anticipate ​them. And afterwards, until the veiled one has departed, you mustn't let any one in unless the sky were falling.
Servant. Then I am to show her in?
Ernest. Yes. [To Pepito at the door.] Good-bye.
Pepito. Good-bye, Ernest. [Exeunt servant and Pepito.]
Ernest. A lady? on what pretext? What does this mean? [Enter Teodora, thickly veiled; she stands without approaching.] Ah, there she is!
SCENE VII
Teodora and Ernest, she behind not daring to advance, he turned toward her.
Ernest. You desire to speak to me, madam? Kindly be seated. [Offers her a chair.]
Teodora. [Unveiling.] Forgive me, Ernest.
Ernest. Teodora!
Teodora. I am wrong to come—am I not?
Ernest. [Abruptly and stammering.] I can't say—since I don't know to what I owe this honour. But what am I saying? Alas! Here, in my rooms, madam, reverence attends you, than which you cannot find a greater [with devotion]. But what wrong can you possibly fear here, lady?
Teodora. None—and there was a time—but that once is for ever past. No thought of doubt or fear was then. I might have crossed any room on your arm without blush or fluttering pulse. But now! They tell me that you are starting for America to-morrow—and I—yes—like those who go away perhaps not to return—it is so sad to lose a friend!—before Julian—before the whole world—thinking only of our affection—I myself, Ernest, would have held out my arms to you—in farewell.
​Ernest. [Starts and quickly restrains himself.] Oh, Teodora!
Teodora. But now I suppose it is not the same thing. There is a gulf between us.
Ernest. You are right, madam. We may no longer care for one another, be no longer brother and sister. The mutual touch of palm would leave our hands unclean. 'Tis all for ever past. What we have now to learn is to hate one another.
Teodora. [In naïve consternation.] Hate! surely not!
Ernest. Have I used that word—and to you! poor child!
Teodora. Yes.
Ernest. Don't heed me. If you needed my life, and the occasion offered itself, claim it, Teodora, for, to give my life for you would be—— [with passion] it would be my duty. [With a sudden change of voice. Pause.] Hate! if my lips pronounced the word, I was thinking of the misery,—I was thinking of the injury I have unwittingly wrought one to whom I owe so much. Yes, you, Teodora, must hate me—but I—ah, no!
Teodora. [Sadly.] They have made me shed tears enough; yes, you are right in that, Ernest [with tenderness], but you I do not accuse. Who could condemn or blame you for all this talk? You have nothing to do with the venomous solicitude with which evil minds honour us, nor with poor Julian's clouded temper. It is sorrow that makes him restive, and his suffering wounds me, for I know that it springs from doubt of my devotion.
Ernest. That is what I cannot understand [angrily], and in him less than in another. It is what drives me wild: by the living God, I protest it is not worthy of pity, and there is no excuse for it. That the man should exist who could doubt a woman like you!
​Teodora. Poor fellow, he pays a heavy price for his savage distrust.
Ernest. [Horrified to find he has been blaming Don Julian to Teodora.] What have I said? I don't accuse him—no—I meant—— [He hastens to exculpate Don Julian and modify his former words.] Anybody might feel the same, that is, if he were very much in love. In our earthly egoism, don't we doubt the very God in heaven? And the owner of a treasure jealously watches it as gold, and cannot but fear for it. I, too, in his place, would be full of doubt,—yes—even of my own brother. [Speaks with increasing fervour, and again restrains himself, perceiving that he is on the brink of a peril he would avoid. Teodora hears voices outside and rushes to the door.]
Ernest. Whither are you leading me, rebel heart? What depth have I stirred? I accuse the world of calumny, and would now prove it right.
Teodora. Do you hear? Somebody is coming.
Ernest. [Following her.] It is hardly two o'clock. Can it be——?
Teodora. [With terror.] It is Julian's voice.—He is coming in!
Ernest. No, they have prevented him.
Teodora. [Turns to Ernest, still frightened.] If it were Julian? [Moves towards the bedroom door. Ernest detains her respectfully.]
Ernest. Should it be he, stay here. Loyalty is our shield. Were it one of those who distrust us—then there, Teodora. [Points to the door.] Ah, nobody. [Listening.]
Teodora. How my heart throbs!
Ernest. You need not be afraid. The person who ​wanted to come in has gone away—or it was an illusion. For God's sake, Teodora——! [Advances up the stage.]
Teodora. I had so much to say to you, Ernest, and the time has passed so quickly.
Ernest. The time has flown.
Teodora. I wanted——
Ernest. Teodora, pray forgive me—but is it prudent? If any one came in—and, indeed, I fear some one will.
Teodora. That is why I came—to prevent it.
Ernest. So that——?
Teodora. I know everything, and I am stricken with horror at the thought that blood should be shed on my account. My head is on fire, my heart is bursting. [Strikes her breast.]
Ernest. It is the affront that burns and shames you until my hand has struck at Nebreda's life. He wanted mud! Well, let him have it stained with blood.
Teodora. You would kill him?
Ernest. Certainly. [Represses Teodora's movement of supplication.] You can dispose of me in all else but in this one thing. Do not ask me to feel compassion for a man whose insult I remember.
Teodora. [Prayerfully, with a sob.] For my sake!
Ernest. For your sake?
Teodora. It would be such a horrible scandal.
Ernest. That is possible.
Teodora. You can say it so coolly, and not endeavour to avoid it, not even when it is I who implore you!
Ernest. I cannot avoid it, but I can chastise it: so I ​think and say, and this is my business. Others will look for the insult, I for the punishment.
Teodora. [Coming nearer and speaking softly, as if afraid of her own voice.] And Julian?
Ernest. Well?
Teodora. If he were to know about it?
Ernest. He will know about it.
Teodora. What will he say?
Ernest. What?
Teodora. That only my husband, the man who loves me, has a right to defend me.
Ernest. Every honourable man has the right to defend a lady. He may not even know her, be neither a friend, nor a relative, nor a lover. It is enough for him to hear a woman insulted. Why do I fight this duel? Why do I defend her? Because I heard the calumny. Because I am myself. Who is so base as to give his protection by scale and measure? Was I not there? Then whoever it was—I or another—who was first on the scene——
Teodora. [Listens eagerly, dominated by him, and holds out her hand to him.] This is noble and honourable, and worthy of you, Ernest [then restrains herself and moves backward]. But it leaves Julian humiliated [with conviction].
Ernest. He? humiliated!
Teodora. Most surely.
Ernest. Why?
Teodora. For no reason whatever.
Ernest. Who will say so?
Teodora. Everybody.
​Ernest. But wherefore?
Teodora. When the world hears of the affront, and learns that it was not my husband who avenged me, and above all [drops her eyes ashamed] that it was you who took his place—have we not then a new scandal topping the old?
Ernest. [Convinced but protests.] If one had always to think of what people will say, by Heaven there would be no manner or means of living then!
Teodora. It is so, nevertheless.
Ernest. Just so. 'Tis horrible.
Teodora. Then yield.
Ernest. Impossible.
Teodora. I beseech you.
Ernest. No. Looking into the matter, as nobody can know what will happen, it is better that I should face Nebreda. For, after all, if the fellow lack a sense of honour, he can use a sword.
Teodora. [Wounded and humiliated in the protection Ernest seems to offer Don Julian.] My husband is not lacking in courage.
Ernest. Fatality again! Either I have expressed myself ill, or you do not understand me. I know his worth. But when a desperate injury lies between men of courage, who knows what may happen? which of them may fall, and which may kill? And if this man's sword must strike Don Julian or Ernest, can you doubt which it ought to be? [Questions her with sad sincerity.]
Teodora. [In anguish.] You!—oh, no—not that either.
Ernest. Why? If it is my fate? Nobody loses by my death, and I lose still less.
Teodora. For Heaven's sake, do not say that [Barely able to repress her sobs.]
Ernest. What do I leave behind me? Neither friendship ​nor strong love. What woman is there to follow my corpse shedding a lover's tears?
Teodora. Last night I prayed for you—and you say that nobody——I could not bear you to die. [Vehemently.]
Ernest. Ah, we pray for any one; we only weep for one. [With passion.]
Teodora. [Startled.] Ernest!
Ernest. [Terrified by his own words.] What!
Teodora. [Moving further away.] Nothing.
Ernest. [Also moving away and looking nervously down.] I told you a little while ago I was half mad. Do not heed me. [Pause. Both remain silent and pensive, at some distance, not looking at each other.]
Teodora. [Starting and glancing anxiously down the stage.] Again!
Ernest. [Following her movement.] Somebody has come.
Teodora. They are trying to get in.
Ernest. [Listening.] There can be no doubt of it. There, Teodora. [Points to the bedroom door.]
Teodora. My honour is my shield.
Ernest. But it is not your husband.
Teodora. Not Julian?
Ernest. [Leading her to the door.] No.
Teodora. I hoped—— [Detains him with an air of supplication] Will you give up this duel?
Ernest. Give it up? When I've struck him!
Teodora. I didn't know that. [Despairingly, but understands that nothing can be done.] Then fly.
Ernest. I fly!
​Teodora. For my sake, for his sake—for God's sake!
Ernest. [Despairingly.] You must loathe me to propose such a thing to me. Never!
Teodora. One word only. Are they coming for you now?
Ernest. It is not yet time.
Teodora. Swear it to me.
Ernest. Yes, Teodora. And you—say you don't hate me.
Teodora. Never.
Pepito. [Outside.] Nothing. I must see him.
Ernest. Quickly.
Teodora. Yes. [Hides in the bedroom.]
Pepito. Why do you prevent me?
Ernest. Ah, calumny is working to make the lie truth.
SCENE VIII
Ernest and Pepito, without his hat, exhibiting strong excitement.
Pepito. Go to the devil—I will go in—Ernest.
Ernest. What has happened?
Pepito. I hardly know how to tell you—yet I must——
Ernest. Speak.
Pepito. My head is in a whirl. Christ above, who would think——
Ernest. Quickly. A clear account of what has happened.
Pepito. What has happened? A great misfortune. Don Julian heard of the duel. He came here to look for you, ​and you were out. He went away to find the seconds, and marched them off to Nebreda's house.
Ernest. Nebreda's! How?
Pepito. The Lord send you sense. Don Julian's way, of course, who makes short work of convention and the will of others.
Ernest. Go on——
Pepito. [Going to the door.] They're coming, I believe.
Ernest. Who?
Pepito. They—they're carrying Don Julian.
Ernest. You terrify me. Explain at once. [Catches his arm violently, and drags him forward.]
Pepito. He compelled him to fight. There was no way out of it. The viscount cried: 'Very well, between us two.' It was settled it should take place here. Don Julian came upstairs. Your servant sent him away, protesting you were engaged with a lady, and swearing nobody could enter.
Ernest. And then?
Pepito. Don Julian went downstairs muttering 'better so. I have the day's work for myself.' And he, my father, Nebreda and the seconds came back together, and went upstairs.
Ernest. They fought?
Pepito. Furiously, as men fight when their intent is deadly, and their enemy's heart is within reach of the sword's point.
Ernest. And Don Julian! No—it must be a lie.
Pepito. Here they are.
Ernest. Silence. Tell me who it is, but speak softly.
​Pepito. There. [Enter Don Julian, Don Severo, and Rueda. The two men support Don Julian, who is badly wounded.]
Ernest. Heaven preserve us!
SCENE IX
Ernest, Pepito, Don Julian, Don Severo, and Rueda.
Ernest. Don Julian! my friend, my father, my benefactor! [Hurries excitedly toward him, and speaks brokenly.]
D. Julian. [Weakly.] Ernest!
Ernest. Oh, wretched I!
Severo. Quick, come away.
Ernest. Father!
Severo. He is fainting with pain.
Ernest. For my sake!
Julian. It is not so.
Ernest. Through me—pardon! [Takes Don Julian's hand and bends on one knee before him.]
Julian. No need to ask it, lad. You did your duty, and I did mine.
Severo. A couch. [Loosens his hold of Don Julian, and Pepito takes his place.]
Pepito. [Pointing to the bedroom.] Let us carry him in there.
Ernest. [Shouting terribly.] Nebreda!
Severo. Let there be an end to folly. Is it your intention to kill him outright?
Ernest. [With frenzy.] Folly, oh, we'll see. I have two to avenge now. It is my right. [Rushes down the stage.]
Severo. [Moving to the right.] We'll take him into your ​room and lay him on the bed. [Ernest wheels round in terror.]
Ernest. Where?
Severo. In here.
Pepito. Yes.
Ernest. No. [Strides back, and stands before the door. The group are on the point of lifting Don Julian, desist, and stare at Ernest in indignant surprise.]
Severo. You forbid it?
Pepito. Are you mad?
Severo. Back: can't you see he is dying?
D. Julian. What is it? He doesn't wish it? [Raises himself and looks at Ernest in distrust and fear.]
Rueda. I don't understand it.
Pepito. Nor I.
Ernest. He is dying—and implores me—and doubts me—father!
Severo. Come, we must. [Pushes open the door above Ernest's shoulder. Teodora is discovered.]
Ernest. My God!
Severo and Pepito. She!
Rueda. A woman!
Teodora. [Coming forward to her husband and embracing him] Julian!
D. Julian. Who is it? [Pushes her away to stare at her, drags himself to his feet with a violent effort, and shakes himself free of all aid.] Teodora! [Falls lifeless to the ground.]