MASTERPIECES OF 
 MODERN SPANISH DRAMA
 
 MASTERPIECES OF 
 MODERN SPANISH DRAMA 
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 
 
 DANIELA 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH AND CATALAN 
 
 EDITED, WITH A PREFACE BY 
 
 BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 1917
 
 Copyright. 1917, by 
 DUFFIELO & Co.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE by BARRETT H. CLARK e vii 
 
 JOSE ECHEGARAY 1 
 
 Chronological List of the Plays of JOSE ECHEGARAY ... 2 
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO, translated by ELEANOR BONTECOU . . 5 
 
 BENITO PEREZ-GALo6s 91 
 
 Chronological List of the Plays of BENITO PEREZ-GALDOS . . 92 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN, translated by PHILIP M. 
 
 HAYDEN 93 
 
 ANGEL GUIMER! 183 
 
 Chronological List of the Plays of ANGEL GuiMERA . . . 185 
 
 DANIELA, translated from the original Catalan by JOHN GAB- 
 
 RETT UNDERBILL 187
 
 PREFACE 
 
 THE drama of Spain, early and modern, has in English- 
 speaking countries been sadly neglected. It is a regrettable 
 fact that one of the most gorgeous and passionate outbursts 
 of national dramatic genius has received but scant attention 
 from English readers. Cervantes' name is at least not un- 
 known to the great mass of readers in every language, but 
 to the majority of English and Americans, Lope de Vega, 
 Tirso de Molina, and Calderon to mention only the greatest 
 of dozens of dramatists of the time are a closed book. About 
 fifteen Calderon plays are available in some form in English 
 translation or adaptation, only two or three of Lope and, to 
 my knowledge, not one of Tirso. Of the eighteenth century 
 lesser lights I should venture to say that there is in English 
 no translation. The case is the same with the dramatists 
 of the early nineteenth century, if we except one or two 
 notable translations and studies, like that recently issued by 
 the Hispanic Society (a translation of Un nuevo drama). 
 And yet this period saw a rebirth of the national spirit in 
 the drama unequalled in any other country save France. 
 
 The modern drama in Spain is somewhat better known, 
 and bids fair to receive even better treatment than it has 
 already received. Echegaray is represented by six or seven 
 of liis most typical plays, the translations of wliich range 
 from very bad to excellent; Galdos by three; Guimera by 
 two; Benavente by two though a volume of five has been 
 announced. 1 There remains, however, a vast field as yet 
 
 translated by John Garrett Underbill and published by Charles Scribner'g 
 Sons,
 
 PREFACE 
 
 untouched. Surely there are many plays of the dramatists 
 already mentioned which ought to be translated, while 
 Dicenta, Linares Rivas, Martinez Sierra, and Rusinol, 
 cannot be neglected. 
 
 The present volume will, it is hoped, encourage the pub- 
 lication of further contemporary Spanish plays. The work 
 is as yet scarcely begun. Of the plays here presented to 
 English readers, two have never before been translated, and 
 the other El gran galeoto in a literal and rather stiff ver- 
 sion, in a free adaptation and modernization, and in a good 
 translation recently published but little known. No excuse 
 is therefore needed for the inclusion of this masterpiece in a 
 volume whose function it is to present three varied aspects 
 of the dramatic genius of modern Spain. 
 
 The three dramatists whose work is here represented 
 exemplify three widely different branches of recent Spanish 
 drama. Echegaray, who is in spirit a typical Spaniard in his 
 fondness for melodramatic and, to the Anglo-Saxon mind, ex- 
 aggerated situations, is by far the most European, I had al- 
 most said, eclectic, of the group. His wide education and 
 many-sided interests and activities, his acquaintance with 
 foreign languages and literatures, have resulted at times in 
 an unhappy fusion of many manners. As has been pointed 
 out by Miss Elizabeth Wallace in her article on Modern 
 Spanish Drama, the main currents of contemporary drama 
 have for the most part failed to interest the Spaniards. 
 She says: "The northern realistic drama has also been doomed 
 to unsuccess in Spain. Aside from the enigmatical character 
 of some episodes and the puerility of some of the allegories, 
 the dramas of Ibsen have interested the reading classes be- 
 cause of the vitality, not so much passional as intellectual, 
 of their subjects. But the harsh individualism, the intimate 
 and subtle sentiments of self-centered men cannot be under- 
 stood by the Spanish public. Such types as are found in.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Ibsen, Bjornson, and Sudermann are unknown in Spain." 
 Attempts were made Echegaray's own El Hijo de Don Juan 
 is a case in question to treat subjects that were basically 
 foreign to the Spanish temperament, but these seem to lack 
 the spontaneity of the true indigenous play. It is a curious 
 fact that Spain is the only country whose drama is funda- 
 mentally at its best when it follows the best traditions of 
 its Golden Age. This does not mean that Galdos writes 
 like Lope de Vega. Galdos has ideas of his own on the sub- 
 ject of technic, but it is incontestable that El Abuelo is part 
 and parcel of the spirit that produced La Esirclla de Sevilla, 
 and that Terra Baixa (Maria of the Lowlands) thrills with the 
 passion of Calderon. Giacosa in Italy, Hauptmann in Ger- 
 many, Becque in France, were each of them able to adopt the 
 new manner and produce works of significance and value; 
 Echegaray and Galdos at best could only assimilate a few 
 technical points. It is their glory that they remained truly 
 Spanish. 
 
 Galdos won international fame with his novels, but not 
 until the nineties did he return to the drama, from the 
 pursuit of which an early failure had discouraged him. It 
 would be matter for surprise if an author, after writing 
 novels for twenty years, should turn to the drama, and find 
 himself endowed with a dramatic technic ready to hand. 
 Galdos' technic is not the technic of Echegaray, nor of Scribe, 
 nor of Ibsen; it is rather a technic derived from the earlier 
 Spanish drama, and partly evolved out of the author's own 
 novelistic methods. He says: "There are some who aver 
 that there is a natural antagonism between the means and 
 ends of these two forms [the novel and the drama]; they 
 start, however, at the same source, and are two fraternal 
 rivers, each intermingling with the other." Electra, and more 
 especially Realidad, are novelistic; El Abuelo combines 
 many of the excellences of the novel, but not one of these
 
 PREFACE 
 
 plays is primarily important for its inherent dramatic or 
 theatrical qualities. It may well be doubted whether El 
 Abuelo, strong and beautiful as it is, would not have been 
 stronger and still more beautiful 'had it been written as a 
 novel. The canvas is too large, the ideas too general. The 
 play-form requires a rigid adherence to a set of tested rules, 
 and while these rules may be, and are questioned, and once 
 in a while found wanting and changed, it seems rather a 
 pity that men with great ideas should sacrifice themselves 
 to the work of pure technical innovation. 
 
 Guimerd is the central figure in the rebirth of Catalan 
 nationalism in literature, art, and politics. His native 
 language is the Catalan, which, according to John Garrett 
 Underbill, is "one of the Romance family to wlu'ch the 
 neighboring French and Spanish also belong. Like them it 
 derives from the Latin, but its closest affinity is with the 
 Provencal. The medieval troubadours overran Catalonia 
 and Valencia quite as they did their own Provence, and 
 Catalan attained its greatest development shortly after- 
 ward." All his plays are written in Catalan and acted at 
 the Teatre Catala. Guimcra, in his best plays is a dramatist 
 of the front rank; he has studied, imitated the technic of 
 others, but has finally adopted one of his own, which is 
 economical, tense, and compelling. 
 
 And yet, despite their differences, Echegaray, Galdos, 
 and Guimerd are essentially Spanish. The first exemplifies 
 nationalism and internationalism, nationalism in subject- 
 matter, and internationalism in the manner of its presenta- 
 tion; the second, the tendency to depict soberly, skilfully, 
 deeply, the life of the Spaniard of today; the third, national- 
 ism of a particular section. As may be seen after a cursory 
 reading of the three plays contained in this little collection, 
 the Spanish drama of today cannot easily be summed up in 
 a few words; the attempt here made is largely with a view
 
 PREFACE 
 
 to showing something of the genius of a nation whose dra- 
 matic products have as yet scarcely begun to receive the 
 attention they so well deserve. 
 
 BAKBETT H. CLARK.
 
 NOTE 
 
 Thanks to the courtesy and interest of Mr. John Garrett 
 Underbill, I am able to furnish information regarding the 
 life of Guimerd and publish authoritative references and lists 
 of plays of all the dramatists represented in this volume, 
 which would otherwise have been either very difficult or 
 else impossible to obtain.
 
 ECHEGARAY 
 
 JOSE ECHEGARAY was born at Madrid in 1832. Always 
 an apt pupil, at an early age he showed marked propensities 
 for mathematics and the exact sciences, but although he 
 has never lost his interest in these pursuits, he became inter- 
 ested in literature and the theater, and in later years made an 
 extensive study of the drama of modern Europe. He was 
 graduated in 1853 from the Escuela de Caminos, with high 
 honors, and became a tutor in mathematics. Not long after- 
 ward, he was appointed to a professorship in that subject in 
 the same school from which he graduated. From that time 
 on, his interests widened; he studied political economy, phi- 
 losophy, geology, and politics. He was likewise engaged in 
 engineering and chemical work, and became a recognized 
 authority. At the age of thirty-two he wrote a play, but laid 
 it aside, deeming it unworthy; but his interest in the theater 
 was rapidly increasing. He was appointed Minister for the 
 Colonies under the government following the Revolution of 
 18C8, and his political duties prevented further development 
 of his dramatic talent. Five years later he was proscribed, 
 forced to leave the country and go to France, where he wrote 
 his first play to be produced, "El Libro Talonario." On 
 his return to Spain in 1874, it was presented, but did not 
 attract widespread attention. His first success was "En 
 el Pufio de la Espada" (1875), which was followed by a 
 long series of tragedies, comedies, and thesis plays. 
 
 Echegaray died hi the summer of 1916.
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OP THE 
 PLAYS OF JOSE ECHEGARAY 
 
 El libro talonario (1 act) 1874 
 
 La esposa del vengador 1874 
 
 La ultima noche 1875 
 
 En el pufio de la espada 1875 
 
 Un sol que nace y un sol que muere (1 act) .... 1875 
 
 C6mo empieza y c6mo acaba (part I of a Trilogy). . 1876 
 
 O locura 6 santidad 1877 
 
 Para tal culpa tal pena 1877 
 
 Lo que no puede decirse (part II of the Trilogy) . . 1877 
 
 En el pilar y en la cruz 1878 
 
 Correr en pos de un ideal 1878 
 
 Algunas veces aqut 1878 
 
 Morir por no despertar (1 act) 1879 
 
 En el seno de la muerte 1879 
 
 Mar sin orillas 1879 
 
 La Muerte en los labios 1880 
 
 El gran Galeoto 1881 
 
 Haroldo el Normando 1881 
 
 Los dos curiosos impertinentes (part III of the Trilogy) 1882 
 
 Conflicto entre dos deberes 1882 
 
 Un milagro en Egipto 1883 
 
 Piensa mal . . . y acertaras? 1884 
 
 La Peste de Otranto 1884 
 
 Vida alegre y muerte triste 1885 
 
 El bandido Lisandro 1886 
 
 De mala raza 1886 
 
 El conde Lotario (1 act) 1887 
 
 Dos fanatismos 1887 
 
 La realidad y el delirio 1887
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL LIST 3 
 
 El hijo de hierro y el hijo de carne 1888 
 
 Lo sublime en lo vulgar 1888 
 
 Manantial que no se agota 1889 
 
 Los rigidos 1889 
 
 Siempre en ridiculo 1890 
 
 El prologo de un drama (1 act) 1890 
 
 Irene de Otranto 1891 
 
 Un critico Incipiente 1891 
 
 Comedia sin desenlace 1891 
 
 El hijo de Don Juan 1892 
 
 Sic vos non vobis, 6 La ultima Limosna 1892 
 
 Mariana 1892 
 
 El poder de la impotencia 1893 
 
 A la orilla del mar 1893 
 
 La rencorosa 1894 
 
 Mancha que limpia 1895 
 
 El primer acto de un drama (1 act) 1895 
 
 El Estigma 1895 
 
 Amor salvage 1896 
 
 La calumnia por castigo 1897 
 
 Laduda 1898 
 
 El hombre negro 1898 
 
 Silencio de muerte 1898 
 
 El loco Dios 1900 
 
 Malas herencias 1902 
 
 La escalinata de un trono 1903 
 
 La desequilibrada 1903 
 
 A fuerza de arrastrarse 1905 
 
 El preferido y los cenicientos 1908 
 
 locura 6 santidad is translated as Folly or Saintliness by 
 
 Hannah Lynch (John Lane Co.)> London, 1895, and as Mad- 
 man or Saint, by Ruth Lansing (Poet Lore, 1912); El gran 
 
 Galeoto as The Great Galeoto, by Hannah Lynch (John Lane
 
 4 CHRONOLOGICAL LIST 
 
 Co., 1895), and later reprinted by Doubleday, Page & Co. 
 in the Drama League Series of Plays); also as The Great 
 Galeoto, translated by Jacob S. Fassett (Badger, Boston, 
 1914); El Hijo de Don Juan as The Son of Don Juan by 
 James Graham (Roberts Bros., Boston, 1895); Mariana by 
 the same, and by Fredico Sarda and Carlos D. S. Wupper- 
 mann (Moods, New York, 1909), El hombre negro as The 
 Man in Black by Ellen Watson (Universal Anthology) ; and 
 El loco Dios as The Madman Divine, by Elizabeth Howard 
 West (Poet Lore, 1908); Siempre en Ridiculo as Always 
 Ridiculous, by T. Walter Gilkyson (Poet Lore, 1916). 
 
 References: The introductions to the Lynch and Graham 
 translations above referred to; Bernard Shaw, Dramatic 
 Opinions and Essays (Brentano); C. F. Nirdlinger, Masks 
 and Mummers (De Witt, New York); Manuel Bueno, 
 Teatro Espanol contempordneo (Madrid, 1909); Luis Anton 
 del Olmet y Arturo Garcfa Carraffa, Ecfiegaray (Madrid, 
 1912); Barrett H. Clark, The Continental Drama of Today 
 (Henry Holt & Co.) ; Atlantic Monthly, vol. cii, p. 357; Poet 
 Lore, vol. xii, p. 405; Contemporary Review, vol. Ixiv, p. 576; 
 Review of Reviews, vol. xxxi, p. 613.
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 (El Gran Galeoto) 
 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS AND A PROLOGUE 
 BY JOSfi ECHEGAEAY 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY 
 ELEANOR BONTECOU 
 
 Produced, for the first time, in Madrid, at the Teatro Espafiol, March 19, 18*"
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 TEODORA 
 
 DON JULIAN, her husband 
 
 DONA MERCEDES 
 
 DON SEVERO, her husband 
 
 PEPITO, her son 
 
 ERNESTO 
 
 A BYSTANDER 
 
 A SERVANT 
 
 ANOTHER SERVANT
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 ERNESTO'S study. To the left, a French window; to the right, 
 a door. Nearly in the center, a table on which are books, 
 papers, and a lighted lamp. To the rigid is a sofa. It 
 is evening. ERNESTO is seated at the table, as though about 
 to write. 
 
 ERN. There's no use. I can't do it. It is impossible. I 
 am simply contending with the impossible. The idea is here; 
 it is stirring in my brain; I can feel it. Sometimes a light 
 from within illumines it and I see it with its shifting form and 
 vague contours, and suddenly there sound in the hidden 
 depths voices that give it life; cries of grief, sighs of love, 
 sardonic, mocking laughter a whole world of living, strug- 
 gling passions. They break from me, and spread out, and fill 
 the air all about me! Then, then, I say to myself, the mo- 
 ment has come, and I take up my pen, and with eyes gazing 
 into space, with straining ears, with fast-beating heart, I bend 
 over my paper. But oh, the irony of impotence! The con- 
 tours become blurred, the vision disappears, the shouts and 
 sighs die away, and nothingness, nothingness surrounds me! 
 The desolation of empty space, of meaningless thought, of 
 deadly weariness! More than all that, the desolation of an 
 idle pen and a barren page a page bereft of all life-giving 
 thought. Ah, how many forms has nothingness, and how it 
 mocks, dark and silent, at creatures of my sort! Many, many 
 
 7
 
 8 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 forms: the colorless canvas, the shapeless piece of marble, 
 the discordant sound, but none more irritating, more mock- 
 ing, more blighting than this worthless pen and this blank 
 paper. Ah, I cannot cover you, but I can destroy you, vile 
 accomplice in my wrecked ambitions and my everlasting 
 humiliation! So, so, smaller, still smaller. [Tearing the 
 paper then, a pause] Well, it's fortunate that no one saw 
 me, for at best such ranting is foolish, and it's all wrong. 
 No I will not give in; I will think harder, harder, until I 
 conquer or blow up in a thousand pieces. No, I will never 
 admit I am beaten. Come, let's see whether now 
 
 Enter DON JULIAN, right, wearing a {rock coat and 
 carrying his overcoat on his arm. He looks in at the 
 door bid doesn't come in. 
 
 JUL. Hello, Ernesto! 
 
 ERN. Don Julian! 
 
 JUL. Still working? Am I disturbing you? 
 
 ERN. Disturbing me? Indeed, no. Come in, come in, 
 Don Julian. Where's Teodora? 
 
 JUL. We've just come from the opera. She went up to the 
 third floor with my brother and his wife to see some pur- 
 chases of Mercedes, and I was on my way to my own 
 room, when I saw a light in yours and looked in to say 
 good-night. 
 
 ERN. Were there many people there? 
 
 JUL. A good many as usual. All my friends were asking 
 for you. They were surprised at your not going. 
 
 ERN. How kind of them! 
 
 JUL. Not so very, considering all that you deserve. But 
 how about you? Have you made good use of these three 
 hours of solitude and inspiration? 
 
 ERN. Solitude, yes; inspiration, no. That would not come 
 to me, though I called upon it desperately and with passion. 
 
 JUL. It wouldn't obey the summons?
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO 9 
 
 ERST. No, and this was not the first time. But I did make 
 a profitable discovery, though I accomplished nothing. 
 
 JUL. What? 
 
 ERN. Simply this that I am a poor good-for-nothing. 
 
 JUL. Good-for-nothing! Well, that's a profitable discov- 
 ery, indeed. 
 
 ERN. Precisely. 
 
 JUL. And why so disgusted with yourself? Isn't the play 
 you told about the other day going well? . 
 
 ERN. I'm the one who is going out of my mind! 
 
 JUL. And what is all this trouble that inspiration and the 
 play together are making for my Ernesto? 
 
 ERN. The trouble is this; when I conceived it I thought 
 the idea a good one; but when I give it form and dress it 
 out in the proper stage trappings the result is extraordinary; 
 contrary to all laws of the drama; utterly impossible. 
 
 JUL. But why impossible? Come, tell me about it. I am 
 curious. 
 
 ERN. Imagine, then, that the principal character, the one 
 who creates the drama, who develops, who animates it, 
 who brings about the catastrophe, and who thrives upon that 
 catastrophe and revels in it that person cannot appear on 
 the stage. 
 
 JUL. Is he so ugly? Or so repulsive? Or so wicked? 
 
 ERN. It's not that. He is no uglier than any one else 
 than you or I. Nor is he bad. Neither bad nor good. 
 Repulsive? No indeed. I am not such a sceptic, nor such 
 a misanthrope, nor so at odds with the world that I would 
 say such a thing or commit such an injustice. 
 
 JUL. Well, then, what is the reason? 
 
 ERN. Don Julian, the reason is that there probably wouldn't 
 be room on the stage for the character in question. 
 
 JUL. Good heavens, listen to the man! Is this a mytho- 
 logical play, then, and do Titans appear on the stage?
 
 10 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 ERN. They are Titans; but a modern variety. 
 
 JUL. In short? 
 
 ERN. In short this character is Everybody. 
 
 JUL. Everybody! Well, you are right! There's not room 
 in the theater for everybody. That is an indisputable fact 
 that has often been demonstrated. 
 
 ERN. Now you see how right I was. 
 
 JUL. Not altogether. Everybody can be condensed into 
 a certain number of types, or characters. I don't understand 
 these things myself, but I have heard that authors have done 
 it more than once. 
 
 ERN. Yes, but in my case, that is, in my play, it can't be 
 done. 
 
 JUL. Why not? 
 
 ERN. For many reasons that it would take too long to 
 explain; especially at this time of night. 
 
 JUL. Never mind, let's have some of them. 
 
 ERN. Well then, each part of this vast whole, each head 
 of this thousand-headed monster, of this Titan of today 
 whom I call Everybody, takes part in my play only for the 
 briefest instant, speaks one word and no more, gives one 
 glance; perhaps his entire action consists in the suggestion 
 of one smile; he appears for a moment and goes away 
 again; he works without passion, without guile, without 
 malice, indifferently, and absently often by his very ab- 
 straction. 
 
 JUL. And what then? 
 
 ERN. From those words, from those fleeting glances, from 
 those indifferent smiles, from all those little whispers, from 
 all those peccadilloes; from all these things that we might call 
 insignificant rays of dramatic light, when brought to a focus 
 in one family, result the spark and the explosion, the struggle 
 and the victims. If I represent the whole of mankind by a 
 given number of types or symbolic characters, I have to
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO 11 
 
 ascribe to each one that which is really distributed among 
 many, with the result that a certain number of characters 
 must appear who are made repulsive by vices that lack 
 verisimilitude, whose crimes have no object. And, as an 
 additional result, there is the danger that people will believe 
 I am trying to paint society as evil, corrupt, and cruel, when 
 I only want to show that not even the most insignificant acts 
 are really insignificant or impotent for good or evil; for, 
 gathered together by the mysterious agencies of modern 
 life, they may succeed in producing tremendous results. 
 
 JUL. Come, stop, stop! That is all dreadfully meta- 
 physical. I get a glimmering, but the clouds are pretty 
 thick. In fact, you understand more than I do about 
 these things. Now, if it were a question of drafts, of 
 notes, of letters of credit, of discount, it would be another 
 matter. 
 
 ERN. Oh, no, you have common-sense, which is the main 
 thing. 
 
 JUL. Thanks, Ernesto, you are very kind. 
 
 ERN. But are you convinced? 
 
 JUL. -No, I'm not. There must be some way of getting 
 round the difficulty. 
 
 ERN. If only there were! 
 
 JUL. Is there something more? 
 
 ERN. I should say so! Tell me, what is the moving force 
 of the drama? 
 
 JUL. I don't know exactly what you mean by the moving 
 force of the drama, but I will say that I don't find any 
 pleasure in plays in which there are no love-affairs; prefer- 
 ably unhappy love-affairs,' for I have plenty of happy love- 
 making in my own house with my Teodora. 
 
 ERN. Good. Splendid! Well, in my play there is hardly 
 any love-making at all. 
 
 JUL. Bad, very bad indeed, I say. Listen, I don't know
 
 12 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 what your play is about, but I am afraid that it won't interest 
 anybody. 
 
 ERN. That's just what I told you. Still, love-making 
 might be put in, and even a little jealousy. 
 
 JUL. Well, with that, with an interesting and well- 
 developed intrigue, with some really striking situation. . . . 
 
 EBN. No, senor, certainly not that. Everything must be 
 quite commonplace, almost vulgar. This drama can have no 
 outward manifestation. It goes on in the hearts and minds 
 of the characters; it progresses slowly; today it is a ques- 
 tion of a thought; tomorrow of a heartbeat; gradually the 
 will is undermined. . . . 
 
 JUL. But how is all this shown? How are these inner 
 struggles expressed? Who tells the audience about them? 
 Where are they seen? Are we to spend the whole evening in 
 pursuit of a glance, a sigh, a gesture, a word? My dear boy, 
 that is no sort of amusement. When a man wants to meddle 
 with such abstractions he studies philosophy. 
 
 EBN. That's it, exactly. You repeat my thoughts like an 
 echo. 
 
 JUL. I don't want to discourage you, however. You 
 probably know what you are doing. And, even though the 
 play may be a little colorless, even though it may seem a bit 
 heavy and uninteresting, so long as it lias a fine climax ami 
 the catastrophe. ... eh? 
 
 ERN. Catastrophe climax! They have hardly come when 
 the curtain falls. 
 
 JUL. You mean that the play begins when the play ends? 
 
 ERN. I'm afraid so though, of course, I shall try to put a 
 little warmth into it. 
 
 JUL. Come now, what you ought to do is write the second 
 play, the one that begins when the first ends; for the first, 
 judging by what you say, isn't worth the trouble and plenty 
 of trouble it's bound to give you.
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO 13 
 
 ERN. I was convinced of that. 
 
 JUL. And now we both are thanks to your cleverness and 
 the force of your logic. What is the title? 
 
 ERN. Title! Why, that's another thing. It has no title. 
 
 JUL. What! What did you say? No title, either? 
 
 ERN. No, senor. 
 
 JUL. Well, Ernesto, you must have been asleep when I 
 came in you were having a nightmare and now you are 
 telling me your dreams. 
 
 ERN. Dreaming? Yes. A nightmare? Perhaps. And 
 I am telling you my dreams, good and bad. You have 
 common - sense, and you always guess right in every- 
 thing. 
 
 JUL. It didn't take much penetration to guess right in 
 this case. A play in which the principal character doesn't 
 appear, in which there is almost no love-making, in which 
 nothing happens that doesn't happen every day, which begins 
 as the curtain falls on the last act, and which has no title. 
 Well, I don't see how it can be written, how it can be acted, 
 or how any one can be found to listen to it, or, indeed, how 
 it is a play at all. 
 
 ERN. Ah, but it is a play. The only trouble is that I 
 must give it form, and that I don't know how to do. 
 
 JUL. Do you want my advice? 
 
 ERN. Your advice? The advice of my friend, my bene- 
 factor, my second father! Oh, Don Julian! 
 
 JUL. Come, come, Ernesto, let us not have a little senti- 
 mental play of our own here in place of yours which we have 
 pronounced impossible. I only asked you whether you wanted 
 to know my advice. 
 
 ERN. And I said, Yes. 
 
 JUL. Well, forget all about plays go to bed go to sleep 
 go shooting with me tomorrow, kill any number of par- 
 tridges instead of killing two characters, and perhaps hav-
 
 14 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 ing the audience kill you and when all is said and done, 
 you'll be thankful to me. 
 
 ERN. That can't be: I must write the play. 
 
 JUL. But, my dear fellow, you must have thought of it 
 by way of penance for your sins. 
 
 ERN. I don't know why it happened, but think of it I did. 
 I feel it stirring in my mind, it begs for life La the outer world, 
 and I am bound to give it that. 
 
 JUL. Can't you find some other plot? 
 
 ERN. But what about this idea? 
 
 JUL. Let the devil take care of it. 
 
 ERN. Ah, Don Julian, do you think that when an idea 
 has been hammered out in our minds, we can destroy it and 
 bring it. to naught whenever we choose? I should like to 
 think of another play, but this accursed one won't let me 
 until it has been born into the world. 
 
 JUL. There's no use talking, then. I only hope you get 
 some light on the subject. 
 
 ERN. That is the question, as Hamlet says. 
 
 JUL. [In a low voice, vrith mock mystery] Couldn't you put 
 it in the literary orphanage for anonymous works? 
 
 ERN. Don Julian, I am a man of conscience. My children, 
 good or bad, are legitimate, and shall bear my name. 
 
 JUL. I'll say no more. It must be it is written. 
 
 ERN. I only wish it were. Unfortunately it is not written ; 
 but no matter, if I don't write it, someone else will. 
 
 JUL. Well, to work! Good luck, and don't let any one get 
 ahead of you. 
 
 TEO. [Without] Julian! Julian! 
 
 JUL. There's Teodora! 
 
 TEO. Are you here, Julian? 
 
 JUL. Yes, here I am. Come in! 
 Enter TEODORA. 
 
 TEO. Good-evening, Ernesto.
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO 15 
 
 ERN. Good-evening, Teodora. Did they sing well? 
 
 TEO. As usual. Have you done a lot of work? 
 
 ERN. As usual; nothing. 
 
 TEO. Why, you might better have gone with us. All my 
 friends were asking for you. 
 
 ERN. It seems that everybody is taking an interest in me. 
 
 JUL. I should say so; since you are going to make Every- 
 body the principal character in your play, naturally it is to 
 his interest to have you for his friend. 
 
 TEO. A play? 
 
 JtJiu Hush, it's a great mystery; you mustn't ask any- 
 thing about it. It has no title, no actors, no action, no 
 catastrophe! Oh, how sublime! Good-night, Ernesto. 
 Come, Teodora. 
 
 ERN. Good-bye, Julian. 
 
 TEO. Until tomorrow. 
 
 ERN. Good-night. 
 
 TEO. [To JULIAN] How preoccupied Mercedes seemed! 
 
 JUL. And Severo .v^as in a rage. 
 
 TEO. I wonder why. 
 
 JUL. I'm sure I don't know. Pepito, on the other hand, 
 was lively enough for both. 
 
 TEO. He always is, and speaking ill of every one. 
 
 JUL. A character for Ernesto's play. 
 
 TEODORA and JULIAN go out, right. 
 
 ERN. Let Julian say what he likes, I am not going to give 
 up my undertaking. It would be rank cowardice. No, 
 I will not retreat. Forward! [He rises and walks up and 
 down in agitation. Then he goes over to the French window] 
 Night, lend me your protection, for against your blackness 
 the luminous outlines of my inspiration are defined more 
 clearly than against the blue cloak of day. Lift up your 
 roofs, ye thousands of houses in this mighty city; for surely 
 you should do as much for a poet in distress as for that
 
 16 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 crooked devil who mischievously lifted your tops off. Let 
 me see the men and women coming back to your rooms to 
 rest after the busy hours of pleasure-seeking. As my ears 
 become more sensitive, let them distinguish the many words 
 of those who were asking Julian and Teodora about me; 
 and as a great light is made from scattered rays when they 
 are gathered into a crystal lens, as the mountains are formed 
 from grains of sand and the sea from drops of water, so from 
 your chance words, your stray smiles, your idle glances, from 
 a thousand trivial thoughts which you have left scattered 
 in cafes, in theaters, in ball-rooms, and which are now float- 
 ing in the air, I shall shape my drama, and the crystal of my 
 mind shall be the lens that brings to a focus the lights and 
 shadows, so that from them shall result the dramatic spark 
 and the tragic explosion. My drama is taking shape. Now 
 it has a title, for there in the lamplight I see the work of 
 the immortal Florentine poet, and in Italian it has given me 
 the name which it would be madness or folly to write or 
 speak in plain Spanish. Paolo and Francesca, may your love 
 help me! [Sitting down at the table and beginning to write] The 
 play! the play begins! The first page is no longer blank 
 [uniting]. Now it has a title. [Writes madly] The Great 
 Galeoto! 
 
 Curtain.
 
 ACT I 
 
 A room in DON JULIAN'S house. At the back a large door. 
 Beyond it, a little passage, at the very end of which is the 
 dining-room door. 'This door is closed until the end of the 
 act. To the left of the audience, towards the front, a 
 French ivindow. To the right, two doors. In front, at the 
 right, a sofa. To the left a small table and an arm-chair. 
 Everything is expensive and luxurious. It is late after- 
 noon. TEODORA is looking out of the French window. 
 JULIAN sits on the sofa, lost in thought. 
 
 TEO. What a beautiful sunset! Such glorious colors, such 
 clouds! If the futi"-~ is printed on those azure pages, as poets 
 say and our fathers believed; if the mysterious secret of 
 human destiny is written on the sapphire sphere in stars of 
 fire, and if this glorious sky is the page that tells of our fate, 
 what joys await us, how the future smiles upon us! But 
 what are you thinking of? Come, Julian, look out here. 
 Why don't you say something? 
 
 JUL. [Absent-mindedly] What is it? 
 
 TEO. [Going to him] Weren't you listening to me? 
 
 JUL. My heart is always with you, for you are its goal and 
 its loadstone; but sometimes my mind is distracted by im- 
 portunate cares, by business affairs 
 
 TEO. Which I detest, since they rob me of my husband's 
 attention, if not of his affection. But what is it, Julian? 
 Something is worrying you, and it must be serious, because 
 you have been sitting there for a long time, sadly, without 
 speaking. Are you in trouble, Julian dear? Then my heart 
 
 17
 
 18 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 demands a share in it, for if my joys are yours I want your 
 sorrows to be mine. 
 
 JUL. In trouble? When you are happy! Sorrows? When 
 in my Teodora I have the sum of all joys? While your cheeks 
 show those two roses and your eyes that fire which is the 
 light of the soul, shining in twin heavens, while I know that 
 I alone am master of your heart, what sorrows or troubles or 
 afflictions could keep me from being the happiest man in 
 the whole world? 
 
 TEO. And you have no business worries, either? 
 
 JUL. Money has never yet made me lose sleep or appetite. 
 Though I have no aversion to it, I've always been perfectly 
 indifferent, so it has always come running into my coffers as 
 meek as a lamb. I've always been rich and I am rich now, 
 and until I die of old age, thanks to God and his own good 
 fortune, Don Julian de Garagarza will have the best credit, 
 though perhaps not the largest fortune, of any banker in 
 Madrid, Cadiz, or El Puerto. 
 
 TEO. Well, then, why were you so preoccupied a few 
 minutes ago? 
 
 JUL. I was thinking thinking of something nice. 
 
 TEO. That's not strange, Julian, since the thought was 
 yours. 
 
 JUL. Flatterer, don't try to wheedle me! 
 
 TEO. But tell me what it was. 
 
 JUL. I wanted to close up a promising little deal. 
 
 TEO. Something about the new works? 
 
 JUL. Oh, it's not a question of works of stone and iron. 
 
 TEO. Of what, then? 
 
 JUL. Of works of charity and good-will in connection with 
 a sacred debt of long standing. 
 
 TEO. [With natural and spontaneous joy] Oh, I know! 
 
 JUL. Really? 
 
 TEO. You were thinking of Ernesto.
 
 ACTI THE GREAT GALEOTO 19 
 
 JUL. You have guessed right. 
 
 TEO. Poor lad, you do well to think of him. He is so good, 
 so noble, so generous! 
 
 JUL. Exactly like his father, the very pattern of honor and 
 chivalry! 
 
 TEO. So he is! And so talented! Twenty -six years old . . . 
 and so scholarly! He knows everything! Why, he is an ab- 
 solute prodigy! 
 
 JUL. A scholar, you say? Well, that doesn't help much. 
 Indeed, that's just the trouble, for I'm afraid that as he goes 
 about with his head in the clouds, he'll never learn to get on 
 in this world, which is prosaic and treacherous, and never 
 pays any tribute to genius until some three hundred years after 
 it has hounded it to death. 
 
 TEO. But with you for a guide . . . for surely, Julian, you 
 are not thinking of deserting him? 
 
 JUL. Desert hin> '. I should be ungrateful indeed if I could 
 forget what I owe his father. For my sake Don Juan de 
 Acedo risked name, fortune, even honor. If this young man 
 wants the blood in my veins he need only ask for it, for it 
 is ever ready to pay my debt of honor. 
 
 TEO. Bravo, Julian! Spoken like yourself! 
 
 JUL. You yourself saw how it was. When they told me 
 about a year ago that Don Juan was dead and that his son 
 was left in poverty, I couldn't take the Gerona train fast 
 enough. I fairly dragged him away by main force, brought 
 him here with me, led him into the middle of the room, and 
 said to him, "Everything I own is at your disposal, for it is 
 really yours. I owe it all to your father. If you like, you 
 shall be master of this house. At least, look upon me as a 
 second father. Though I can't equal the first in goodness, I 
 shall strive to be a close second, and as for loving you. . . . 
 Well, we shall see who is best at that!" 
 
 TEO. It's true! . . . Those were your very words; and the
 
 20 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 poor boy he is so good burst out crying like a child, and 
 threw his arms about your neck. 
 
 JUL. You're right, he is a child. And we must think of 
 him and of his future. And now you know why you saw me 
 looking grave and preoccupied a while ago. I was trying to 
 think of some way to do for him all I should like to, while 
 you were chattering to me about a beautiful view and a glo- 
 rious sky and a red sun, for which I have no use at all, since 
 two far brighter suns shine for me in our own heaven. 
 
 TEO. But I don't understand? What would you like to do 
 for Ernesto? 
 
 JUL. That's what I said. 
 
 TEO. But how can you possibly do more than you have 
 done? For a year now he has been living here with us like 
 one of the family. Why, if he were your own son you couldn't 
 show greater love for him, nor could I feel more affection for 
 him if he were my own brother. 
 
 JUL. That's all very well, but it's not enough. 
 
 TEO. Not enough? Why, I believe . . . 
 
 JUL. You are thinking of the present, and I of the future. 
 
 TEO. The future. Oh, I can arrange that very easily. 
 Listen! He will live in this house as long as he likes oh, 
 for years just as though it were his own. That's quite 
 simple. Then, in due course, as is right and natural, he will 
 fall in love and marry. Then, honorably discharging your 
 debts, you will hand over to him a large part of your fortune. 
 From the church, he and she will go to his own house for, 
 as the saying goes, "To be head of a household one needs a 
 house." But we shall not forget him, nor shall we love him 
 any the less because he doesn't live here. And now every- 
 thing is quite clear. Of course, they are happy; we are more 
 so. They have children undoubtedly we have more. At 
 any rate we have a daughter. She and Ernesto's son fall in 
 love with each other. They get married. . . .
 
 ACTI THE GREAT GALEOTO 21 
 
 JUL. [Laughing] But, good heavens, where does all this end? 
 
 TEO. You were talking about the future, and this is the 
 future that I offer you. If you have any other, Julian, I 
 don't like it, and I won't accept it. 
 
 JUL. Oh, mine is like yours, Teodora, but . . . 
 
 TEO. Mercy on us, here's a but already . . . 
 
 JUL. Listen, Teodora; in taking care of this unfortunate 
 young man we are paying our debts as we should and to 
 the duty we owe the son of Acedo are added the demands of 
 the affection we feel for him for his own sake. But complica- 
 tions enter into every act of man. There are always two 
 points of view; the shield always has a reverse. By which I 
 mean, Teodora, that in this case, giving help and receiving 
 it are not simply opposites, but are entirely different things, 
 and that I am af- aid in the end he may consider my gifts a 
 humiliation. He is high-minded, and he is extremely proud. 
 We must find some way out of the situation for him, Teodora. 
 We must do still more for him and pretend that we are doing 
 less. 
 
 TEO. How? 
 
 JUL. You shall see. But here he comes. 
 
 TEO. Not a word! 
 
 ERNESTO enters and stands at the back. 
 
 JUL. Welcome! 
 
 ERN. Don Julian Teodora. 
 
 He greets them absent-mindedly and sits down by the 
 table, lost in thought. 
 
 JUL. [Going up to him] What's the matter? 
 
 ERN. Nothing. 
 
 JUL. I see something hi your eyes, and your uneasiness 
 betrays you. Are you unhappy? 
 
 ERN. Nonsense. 
 
 JUL. Are you worried about something? 
 
 ERN. Not at all.
 
 22 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 JUL. Perhaps I am importunate? 
 
 ERN. You importunate! Good gracious! [Rising and 
 going up to him. Effusively] No indeed, your affection moves 
 you, your friendship gives you the right, and you read my 
 very heart when you look into my eyes. Yes, sefior, there is 
 something wrong. But I will tell you all about it. Don 
 Julian, forgive me, and you, too, I beg of you [to TEODORA]. 
 I'm foolish and childish and ungrateful. Indeed, I don't 
 deserve your kindness, I don't deserve your affection. I 
 ought to be happy with such a father and such a sister, and 
 not think of the morrow and yet I must think of it. This 
 explanation makes me blush; but don't you both understand? 
 Yes, yes, you must understand that my position here is a 
 false one [Vehemently], that I am living here on charity. 
 
 TEO. That word . . . 
 
 ERN. Teodora! 
 
 TEO. Is displeasing to us. 
 
 ERN. Yes, senora, I have spoken awkwardly, but it is the 
 truth. 
 
 JUL. And I tell you, it is not true. If any one in this house 
 lives on charity, and no mean charity at that, it is not you, 
 but I. 
 
 ERN. I know, senor, the story of two loyal friends, and of 
 a great fortune of which I have no recollection. That noble 
 act did honor to my father, but I should stain that honor if I 
 demanded payment for his kindness. I am a young man, 
 Don Julian, and although I am not good for much, I can cer- 
 tainly do something to earn my bread. Is this pride or mad- 
 ness? I don't know, and I have lost the ability to judge 
 but I have not forgotten that my father used to say to me, 
 "What you can do yourself, entrust to no man; for what 
 you can earn yourself, be indebted to no one." 
 
 JUL. So my favors humiliate you and are a burden to 
 you your friends seem importunate creditors?
 
 ACT i THE GREAT GALEOTO 23 
 
 TEO. Your argument is fallacious. You know a great deal, 
 Ernesto, but in this case the heart knows more. 
 
 JUL. My father didn't show any such haughty disdain for 
 yours. . . . 
 
 TEO. Friendship, it seems, was a different thing in those 
 days. 
 
 EBN. Teodora! 
 
 TEO. [To JULIAN] It's his idealism. 
 
 ERN. It's true. I am ungracious. ... I know it. And 
 foolish, too. Forgive me, Don Julian. [Deeply moved] 
 
 JUL. [To TEODORA] He's raving mad. 
 
 TEO. Why, he doesn't live on this earth at all. 
 
 JUL. You're right, wise man and philosopher though he 
 may be. ... A"'I he is drowning himself in a puddle of 
 water. 
 
 ERN. You say I know nothing of the world and can't make 
 my way in it. It's true. But I can see that way dimly, and 
 I tremble, I know not why. I'm drowning in the puddles of 
 life as though in the deep sea! They frighten me more, I 
 don't deny it, much more than the vast ocean. The sea 
 stretches out to the boundaries set for it by the wide sands; 
 the puddle sends its emanations throughout all space. Strong 
 arms may struggle against the waves of the sea; there is no 
 way to struggle against treacherous infections. And if I 
 am destined to be defeated, I pray only that in the end, de- 
 feat may not dishonor me. I ask only to see before me 
 and this shall suffice the sea that is waiting to engulf me, 
 the sword that shall pierce me, or the rock that shall crush 
 me; to recognize my enemy, to realize his strength and his 
 fury, and to scorn him as I fall, to scorn him as I die. Let 
 me not gradually breathe in from the atmosphere all about 
 me the poison that shall slowly destroy me. 
 
 JUL. Didn't I tell you? He's out of his senses. 
 
 TEO. But, Ernesto, what does all this mean?
 
 24 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 JUL. What has all this to do with the subject we were 
 discussing? 
 
 EKN. It means, senor, that I believe that when people 
 see me living here under your protection, they think the same 
 things about me that I have been thinking about myself, 
 when I ride with you in the park, when I go out with Teo- 
 dora or Mercedes in the morning, when I sit in your box 
 at the opera, when I hunt in your coverts, when, day after 
 day, I take the same place at your table. The fact is, senor 
 though your goodness may not let you believe it that 
 people say to each other, "Who is this man? Some relation 
 of his? Not at all. His secretary, then? No, not that, 
 either. His companion He doesn't add much to the com- 
 pany." That is what they are whispering. 
 
 JUL. Nobody thinks that. You are dreaming. 
 
 EBN. Pardon me . . . 
 
 JUL. Well, let's have a name, then. 
 
 EBN. Senor . . . 
 
 JUL. I'll be satisfied with just one. 
 
 ERN. Then there is some one near at hand. The man lives 
 in the third floor. 
 
 JUL. And his name is? 
 
 ERN. Don Severo. 
 
 JUL. My brother? 
 
 ERN. Exactly, your brother. If that isn't enough, Dona 
 Mercedes, his wife. Another? Pepito. And now what have 
 you to say? 
 
 JUL. Then I say and I stick to it, and make no mis- 
 take about it that Severo is a martinet; that she doesn't 
 know what she is talking about; and that the boy is a 
 puppy. 
 
 ERN. They only repeat what they hear. 
 
 JUL. Enough, these are foolish scruples. Where there are 
 honest intentions, upright people need pay little heed to
 
 ACT i THE GREAT GALEOTO 25 
 
 what the world may say. The louder the whispering the 
 more deep-seated the scorn. 
 
 ERN. That is honorable, and that is how every generous 
 man would feel. But I have learned that what people say, 
 either with or without malice, begins by being false and 
 ends by being true. Does spreading gossip reveal to us 
 hidden 'sin, and is it a reflection of the past, or does it invent 
 the evil and lay a foundation for it? Does it brand with the 
 seal of shame the fault which already exists, or does it en- 
 gender vice and give opportunity for crime? Are gossiping 
 tongues infamous, or avenging? Are they accomplices, or 
 heralds? Executioners, or tempters? Do they strike down, 
 or do they cause us to stumble? Do they wound in malice, 
 or in sorrow? Do they condemn justly, or wantonly? I 
 don't know, Don Julian. Perhaps they are two-edged. But 
 time and opportunity and the event will show. 
 
 JUL. See here, I don't understand a word of that. It's all 
 philosophy, or madness rather, with which you smother your 
 natural good sense. But, to be brief, I don't want to dis- 
 tress or annoy you. You want, Ernesto, to earn for yourself, 
 independently and by your own efforts, an honorable posi- 
 tion. Isn't that it? 
 
 ERN. Don Julian 
 
 JUL. Answer me. 
 
 ERN [Joyfully] Yes. 
 
 JUL. Then you have succeeded already. I happen to be 
 without a secretary. I have been negotiating for one from 
 London, [in a tone of affectionate reproach] but I don't want 
 any one but an eccentric person who would rather have pov- 
 erty, hard work, and a fixed salary like every one else, than 
 be the son of a man who loves him as if he were his own 
 child. 
 
 ERN. Don Julian . . . 
 
 JUL. [In a tone of mock seventy] But I am exacting and
 
 26 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 very business-like, and I don't pay good wages to people for 
 nothing. I shall get all I can out of you, and in my house 
 you will have to earn your salt. You will be at your desk 
 ten hours a day. I wake up at daybreak, and I am going to 
 be sterner with you than Severo. [Unable to control himself 
 any longer, and changing his tone and opening his arms] That's 
 how we shall be before the world, you the victim of my self- 
 ishness. But, Ernesto, in the bottom of my heart, I shall 
 feel the same love for you! 
 
 EBN. Don Julian 
 
 JUL. Do you accept the offer? 
 
 ERN. Yes. Do what you like with me. 
 
 TEO. At last you have tamed the wild beast. 
 
 ERN. I will do anything for you. 
 
 JUL. That's right. That's the way I like to see you. Now 
 I shall write to my kind correspondent. I shall thank him 
 and tell him that I realize the unusual merits of the English- 
 man he recommends, but that he is too late, as I already have 
 a secretary. [Turning towards the first door to the right] This 
 will do for the present later we shall see! [Turning around 
 and pretending to be very mysterious] Perhaps a companion 
 then! 
 
 TEO. For pity's sake, be still. Don't you see that you are 
 frightening him! 
 
 Exit DON JULIAN, right, laughing and looking good- 
 naturedly at ERNESTO. During the scene, daylight 
 has been gradually dying away, so that by now tlie 
 room is quite dark. 
 
 ERN. His kindness overwhelms me! How can I ever re- 
 pay him? 
 
 He sinks down on the sofa, deeply moved. TEODORA 
 goes and stands beside him. 
 
 TEO. By resolutely putting aside all waywardness and 
 distrust; by being reasonable and realizing that we really
 
 ACT i THE GREAT GALEOTO 27 
 
 love you, and that we are not going to change. In short, 
 Ernesto, by understanding that Julian does not make empty 
 promises, but that he "keeps his word, with the result that you 
 have in him a father, and in me a sister. 
 
 DONA MERCEDES and DON SEVERO appear in the 
 background, and remain there. The room is quite 
 dark, except for a little light from the French window, 
 to which TEODORA and ERNESTO go. 
 ERN. Ah, how good you both are! 
 
 TEO. And what a child you are! After today you must 
 never be unhappy again. 
 ERN. Never. 
 
 MER. [In low tone] How dark it is! 
 SEV. Come, Mercedes. 
 
 MER. There is no one here. [Coming forward] 
 SEV. [Stopping her] There is some one there. 
 
 They both stand at the back, watching. 
 
 ERN. Teodora, I would gladly give my life, and more, 
 too, in return for the benefits I have received from you. 
 You must think that I am unfeeling. I don't like to make 
 protestations of affection, but I can love, and I can hate, too. 
 Every one may find in my heart a reflection of the emotion 
 he chooses to arouse there. 
 MER. What are they saying? 
 SEV. Strange things. I can't hear very well. 
 
 TEODORA and ERNESTO remain at the window, talking 
 
 in low tones. 
 
 MER. It certainly is Ernesto. 
 SEV. And she! It is she, of course. 
 MER. Teodora! 
 
 SEV. The same tricks, and always together! I have no 
 patience with it! And those words . . . Why do I wait? 
 
 MER. You're right. Come, Severe, it has become a mat- 
 ter of duty. Everybody is saying . . .
 
 28 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 SEV. [Coming forward] I must speak plainly to Julian today. 
 
 MII:. Poor girl, she is such a child. I'll speak to her 
 myself. 
 
 TEO. Go to some other house? No! Leave us? A fine 
 idea, indeed ! Julian would never consent to it. 
 
 SEV. Nor I, by heaven. [To MERCEDES aloud] Oh, 
 Teodora, didn't you see me? Is this the way you receive 
 people? 
 
 TEO. [Coming away from the window] Don Severo, how glad 
 I am to see you! 
 
 MER. Not at dinner? Isn't it time yet? 
 
 TEO. Ah, Mercedes. 
 
 SEV. [Aside] How well she acts. 
 
 TEO. I'll ring for lights. [Touching a bell on the table] 
 
 SEV. Good, one likes to be able to see something. 
 
 SERVANT [Appearing in the doorway] Seftora. 
 
 TEO. Lights, Genero. [The servant goes out. 
 
 SEV. Those who tread the narrow path of duty and honor, 
 and are always what they seem, need never be afraid or 
 ashamed of any amount of light. 
 
 Servants come in with lights; the room is brilliantly 
 illuminated. 
 
 TEO. [After a little pause, laughs and speaks quite naturally] 
 That applies to me and to some one else. [Going to MERCEDES] 
 
 MER. Of course. 
 
 SEV. Hello, hello, Don Ernesto. [Meaningly] So you were 
 here with Teodora when I came in? 
 
 ERN. [Coldly] As you see apparently. 
 
 SEV. No, indeed, not apparently, for in the darkness one 
 couldn't see you. [Going up to him, taking hit hand, and look- 
 ing at him fixedly. TEODORA and MERCEDES talk aside. 
 SEVERO says to himself] He is flushed and seems to have been 
 weeping. Only children and lovers weep in this world, 
 And where is Julian?
 
 ACT i THE GREAT GALEOTO 29 
 
 TEO. He went off to write a letter. 
 
 SEV. [Aside] Be as patient as I may, this man upsets me. 
 [,4&nZ] I am going to speak to him. [To TEODOEA] Is there 
 time before dinner? 
 
 TEO. Plenty of time. 
 
 SEV. [Aside, rubbing his hands and looking at ERNESTO and 
 TEODORA] Good. To work, then. [Aloud] Au revoir. 
 
 TEO. Au revoir. 
 
 SEV. [Aside, looking at them angrily as he goes out the door] 
 Upon my word! 
 
 MERCEDES awfl TEODORA remain. They are seated on 
 the sofa. ERNESTO is standing. 
 
 MER. [To ERNESTO] You haven't been to see us today. 
 
 ERN. No. 
 
 MER. Nor Pepito, either. 
 
 ERN. No, seftora. 
 
 MER. He is all alone up there. 
 
 ERN. [Aside] Let him stay so! 
 
 MER. [To TEODORA, gravely and mysteriously] I wish he'd 
 go away. I want to speak to you. 
 
 TEO. You? 
 
 MER. [In the same tone] Yes, on a very grave matter. 
 
 TEO. Speak then. 
 
 MER. If this man doesn't go ... 
 
 TEO. [In a low tone] I don't understand? 
 
 MER. Courage! [Takes her hand and strokes it affection- 
 ately. TEODORA looks at her in astonishment, not under- 
 standing at aU\ Get rid of him quickly. 
 
 TEO. Since you insist. [Aloud] Ernesto, will you do me a 
 favor? 
 
 ERN. I'd love to. 
 
 MER. [,4ffick] Ah, there's too much love about it. 
 
 TEO. Then go upstairs to Pepito but perhaps I am 
 bothering you with this errand?
 
 30 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 ERN. Indeed, no. 
 
 MER. How affectionate they are! 
 
 TEO. Ask him ... if he renewed the subscription for our 
 box at the opera as I told him to. He knows about it. 
 
 ERN. With pleasure. I'll go at once. 
 
 TEO. Thanks, Ernesto. I appreciate 
 
 ERN. Not at all. 
 
 TEO. Good-bye. [ERNESTO goes out] A grave matter? 
 You frighten me, Mercedes. This tone, this mysterious air! 
 What is it? 
 
 MER. Something very serious. 
 
 TEO. But whom is it about? 
 
 MER. About all of you. 
 
 TEO. About us? 
 
 MEB. About Julian and Ernesto and you. Now you under- 
 stand. 
 
 TEO. About all three? 
 
 MER. Yes, you three. 
 
 TEO. [Looks at MERCEDES in astonishment. A short 
 pause] But tell me quickly. 
 
 MER. [Aside] I dislike doing it, but I mustn't falter. It's 
 an ugly business. [Aloud] Listen, Teodora: after all, my 
 husband and yours are brothers, and we have all become one 
 family, so that in life and in death, for better, for worse, we 
 ought to support and aid and advise each other. So I gladly 
 offer you my protection, and tomorrow, if need should arise, 
 I should not be ashamed to ask help of you. 
 
 TEO. And you might count upon us, Mercedes. But, 
 quick, tell me 
 
 MER. Until now I was unwilling to take this step, Teodora, 
 but today Severe said to me, "I cannot suffer this any longer. 
 I value my brother's honor as highly as any one, and when 
 I see certain things, I groan with shame and sorrow. Always 
 making sly allusions, always watching for meaningful smiles,
 
 31 
 
 always lowering their eyes, always shunning other people! 
 These disgraceful actions must end, for I cannot endure the 
 things that are being said in Madrid." 
 
 TEO. Go on, go on. 
 
 MEK. Listen, then. 
 
 A pause. MERCEDES looks fixedly at TEODORA. 
 
 TEO. Tell us; what do they say? 
 
 MER. Where there is smoke, there is fire 
 
 TEO. I don't know anything about smoke or anything 
 about fire. I only v :.ow that I am going mad. 
 
 MER. [.4fftfe] Poor child, it grieves me! [Aloud] But don't 
 you understand, then? 
 
 TEO. I? No. 
 
 MER. [Aside] She's dull, too. [Aloud emphatically] He is 
 a laughing-stock ! 
 
 TEO. Who? 
 
 MER. Who would it be? Your husband. 
 
 TEO. [Rising, impetuously] Julian? It's a lie. The person 
 who said that was a scoundrel. Ah, if only Julian were face 
 to face with him! 
 
 MER. [Soothing her and making her sit down beside her 
 again] He would have to face a great many people, for unless 
 rumor is mistaken, every one is of the same opinion. 
 
 TEO. But tell me, then, what is this scandal? This great 
 mystery? What is the world saying? 
 
 MER. So it makes you angry? 
 
 TEO. Makes me angry! But what is it? 
 
 MEH. Listen, Teodora. You are very young. At your 
 age one does many thoughtless things, without meaning any 
 harm. . . and then later come many tears. Come, don't you 
 understand me yet? 
 
 TEO. No. Why should I understand you, unless this story 
 is about me? 
 
 MER. It is the story of a wretch, and it is the story of a lady.
 
 32 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 TEO. [Anxiously] And her name? 
 
 MER. Her name is ... 
 
 TEO. [Stopping her] What difference does it make what 
 her name is? 
 
 TEODORA moves away from MERCEDES without getting 
 up from the sofa. MERCEDES draws nearer to her as 
 she speaks. The contrast between TEODORA'S move- 
 ment of repulsion and MERCEDES' of protection and 
 insistence is very marked. 
 
 MER. Some men are worthless and treacherous, and in 
 return for one hour of pleasure they condemn a woman to a 
 life of sorrow. To her are left only the dishonor of her 
 husband, the destruction of her family, and the seal of shame 
 beneath which her head is bowed; the scorn of others is the 
 penance imposed by society, and God's still greater punish- 
 ment: the voice of conscience. [Now they are at opposite 
 ends of the sofa. TEODORA leans back and covers her face 
 with her hands, understanding at last] Come to me, Teodora. 
 [Aside] Poor little girl, I pity her! [Aloud] This man 
 doesn't deserve you. 
 
 TEO. Where is your blind folly leading you, senora? I 
 feel neither fear nor horror. There are no tears in my eyes, 
 only blazing anger. About whom did you hear what I have 
 just heard? Who is this man? He is ? It is ? 
 
 MER. Ernesto. 
 
 TEO. Ah! [A pause] And I am the woman? [MERCEDES 
 makes a sign of assent, and TEODORA rises] Then listen to me, 
 even though I make you angry. I don't know which is more 
 vile, the world that invented this story, or you who repeat 
 it to me. A curse on the slanderous tongue that first gave 
 form to such a thought, and a curse on the knave or the fool 
 who believes it! So vile, so deadly is it that whether I blot 
 it from my memory, or whether I keep it there, I become 
 guilty. Good heavens, I wouldn't have thought it! I never
 
 ACT i THE GREAT GALEOTO 33 
 
 would have believed it! I saw him so unhappy that I loved 
 him as a brother. Julian played Providence to him. And 
 he is so generous, so noble . . . [Checking herself, watching 
 MERCEDES, and turning her head Aside] How she looks 
 at me! I mustn't praise him before her. So now I must 
 play a part! [Visibly trying to control herself] 
 
 MER. Come, be calm. 
 
 TEO. [Aloud] I feel such anguish, such sorrow, such cold- 
 ness in my very soul. To think that my honor should be 
 stained by public gossip. Oh, mother, dear mother! Oh, 
 Julian, dearest. 
 
 She sinks, sobbing, into the chair at the left. MER- 
 CEDES tries to console her. 
 
 MER. I didn't suppose . . . Oh, forgive me . . . don't cry! 
 I didn't believe there was anything serious. Of course, I 
 knew your past exonerated you. But even so, you yourself 
 must admit that every one might say with justice that you 
 and Julian are very imprudent in letting people think the 
 worst. You, a young girl of twenty, and Julian hi the forties, 
 and Ernesto with his head full of fantastic ideas; your hus- 
 band wrapped up in his business, and the other man in his 
 dreams. You with nothing to occupy your mind; every day 
 a thousand opportunities for meeting. . . . The people who 
 see you in the park, in the theater, have evil minds to think 
 such evil, but, Teodora, to be just, I believe that in all that 
 has happened, the world is in the wrong, but you have given 
 it the opportunity. Let me tell you that the sin that modern 
 society punishes most relentlessly and cruelly and with the 
 greatest ingenuity in man or in woman is don't be 
 frightened, Teodora rash confidence indiscretion. 
 
 TEO [Turning to MERCEDES, but paying no attention to 
 what she is saying] And you say that Julian 
 
 MEB. Yes, he is the laughing-stock of the city. And 
 you
 
 34 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 TEO. Oh, never mind about me. But Julian ... he is so 
 good, and so sensitive! When he knows 
 
 MER. He probably does know. Severo is doubtless talking 
 to him this very minute. 
 
 TEO. What! 
 
 JUL. [Without] Enough! 
 
 TEO. Good heavens! 
 
 JUL. Leave me alone! 
 
 TEO. Oh, dear, let's go out quickly. 
 
 MER. [After looking out through the first door to the right] 
 Yes, quickly! He's beside himself. 
 
 TEODORA and MERCEDES go toward the left. 
 
 TEO. [Stopping] But what for? It will seem as though 
 I am guilty. This vile slander does more than soil, it debases 
 one. So deadly, so treacherous is it, that in spite of all evi- 
 dence against it, it works its way into one's consciousness 
 with its tang of guilt. Why should I be paralyzed in the 
 deadly bonds of a senseless terror? [At this moment, DON 
 JULIAN appears in the doorway to the right, with DON SEVERO 
 behind him] Julian! 
 
 JUL. Teodora! [She runs to him and lie presses her to his 
 heart, passionately] Come to me! . . . This is your post of 
 honor. [To SEVERO] Come in; but, by heaven, be careful 
 not to go too far. I swear, and I mean it, that if any one 
 stains this cheek with tears again, he shall never more cross 
 my threshold, even if he is my own brother! 
 
 A pause. DON JULIAN caresses and comforts TEODORA. 
 
 SEV. I only repeat what people are saying about you, 
 Julian. 
 
 JUL. Libel! 
 
 SEV. Maybe 
 
 JUL. It is! 
 
 SEV. But at least let me tell you what every one knows. 
 
 JUL. Slanders, lies, filth!
 
 ACT i THE GREAT GALEOTO 35 
 
 SEV. I simply wanted to tell you. 
 
 JUL. There can be no need for doing so. [A sliort pause. 
 
 SEV. You are wrong. 
 
 JUL. Right, and to spare! Would you track the mud of 
 the streets into my salon? 
 
 SEV. It may be necessary. 
 
 JUL. Well, then, it must not be necessary. 
 
 SEV. My name is the same as yours. 
 
 JUL. No more! 
 
 SEV. And your honor 
 
 JUL. Remember that you are in the presence of my wife. 
 A pause. 
 
 SEV. [To JULIAN, in an undertone] If our father could see 
 you! 
 
 JUL. What! Severo, what do you mean? 
 
 MER. Hush! Ernesto is coming. 
 
 TEO. [Aside] How dreadful! If he should know. 
 
 TEODORA turns away and hangs her head. JULIAN 
 looks at her fixedly. 
 
 ERN. [Looking at TEODORA and DON JULIAN for a minute. 
 Aside] He and she. This can't be all imagination! If what 
 I feared should happen? Then what I have just heard from 
 this fool [Looking at PEPITO, who enters at this moment] 
 wasn't all made up by him. 
 
 PEP. [Looking in surprise from one side to the other] Greet- 
 ing, and a good appetite to you. It's almost dinner-time. 
 Here's the ticket, Teodora Don Julian! 
 
 TEO. [Mechanically talcing the ticket} Thanks, Pepito. 
 
 ERN. [In an undertone to DON JULIAN] What's the matter 
 with Teodora? 
 
 JUL. Nothing. 
 
 ERN. [As before] She's pale, and she's been crying. 
 
 JUL. [Unable to control himself] Don't worry about my 
 wife.
 
 36 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 A pause. DON JULIAN and ERNESTO look at each 
 other. 
 
 ERN. [Aside] Poor souls, this has quite upset them. 
 
 PEP. [To his mother, aside, pointing to ERNESTO] Mad as a 
 hatter just because I joked about Teodora with him. My! 
 My! He wanted to kill me on the spot! 
 
 ERN. [Aloud. Sadly, but resolutely] Don Julian, I have 
 been thinking over your generous offer, and although I have 
 an awkward tongue that stumbles and blunders, and I know 
 that I am imposing upon your kindness. In short, senor, I 
 must refuse the position you offered me. 
 
 JUL. Why? 
 
 ERN. Because I am made that way. I am a poet, a dream- 
 er. My father never could make a success of me, senor. I 
 must travel. I am restless and rebellious. I can't settle 
 down like other people to vegetate in one spot. I am filled 
 with the spirit of adventure; I see myself as some new 
 Columbus. In short, let Don Severe say whether I am right 
 or not. 
 
 SEV. You speak like a man of understanding, like the very 
 fount of wisdom. I have been thinking the same thing for 
 a long, long time. 
 
 JUL. And so you feel a craving for travel, seeing the world? 
 So you want to leave us? But how about the necessary funds? 
 
 SEV. He is going away to some place that will be more 
 to his liking. Of course, for the rest he must depend upon 
 you. Anything that he wants. I don't suppose he has saved 
 any money at all? 
 
 ERN. [To DON SEVERO] I neither spread scandal nor re- 
 ceive alms! [A pause] But indeed this must be. And as the 
 parting must be sad since perhaps I may never see you 
 again we had better embrace now . . . and break this bond 
 . . . and forgive my selfishness. [Deeply moved] 
 
 SEV. [Aside] How strangely they both look at me!
 
 ACT i THE GREAT GALEOTO 37 
 
 TEO. [Aside] How fine he is! 
 
 ERN. Don Julian, why hesitate? This is a last farewell. 
 He goes to DON JULIAN with open arms. DON JULIAN 
 takes him in his arms and they embrace tenderly. 
 
 JUL. No, all things considered, it is neither the last nor 
 the first. It is simply the sincere embrace of two honorable 
 men. I don't want to hear anything more about this foolish 
 plan. 
 
 SEV. But isn't he going away? 
 
 JUL. Never. I don't change with every wind, nor do I 
 give up my cherished plans for the whim of a boy or the rav- 
 ings of a madman. It would be a still greater blot on my 
 honor to regulate my conduct by the foolish gossip of this 
 most high-minded city! 
 
 SEV. Julian! 
 
 JUL. Enough. Dinner is ready 
 
 ERN. My dear father! I can't 
 
 JUL. But I trust that you can. Or is my authority burden- 
 some to you? 
 
 ERN. I beg you! 
 
 JUL. Come, then, it is time to go. Give Teodora your arm 
 and take her in to dinner. 
 
 ERN. Teodora! [Looking at her and drawing back] 
 
 JUL. Yes as usual. [A movement of doubt and hesitation 
 from both. Finally ERNESTO goes up to TEODORA and she 
 leans on his arm, but they do not look at each other, and seem 
 agitated. To PEPITO] Give your mother your arm. [PEPITO 
 tfrs his arm to MERCEDES] And, Severo, my dear brother, 
 you come with me [Leaning on his arm for a minute] Now we 
 shall dine en famille, and our cup of happiness will overflow. 
 You say people are whispering about us? All right. Let them 
 whisper, or let them shout. I don't care a fig what they say. 
 I wish I lived in a palace with glass walls, so that all those 
 who are making free with our names might look in and see
 
 38 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT i 
 
 Ernesto and Teodora, so that they might realize how much 
 importance I attach to their vile calumnies. Let every man 
 go his own way. 
 
 A servant appears in conventional dress. 
 SERVANT. Dinner is served. 
 
 He opens the dining-room door. One can see the table, 
 chairs, chandeliers, etc. Everything is very luxurious. 
 JUL. Well, let's attend to the things of this life and leave 
 them to see to our funeral. Come. [Urging them to go in] 
 TEO. Mercedes. 
 MEK. Teodora. 
 TEO. You 
 MER. You first. 
 TEO. No, go first, Mercedes. 
 
 MERCEDES and PEPITO go ahead and walk slowly 
 toward the dining-room. TEODORA and ERNESTO 
 stand still, as though lost in thought. ERNESTO fixes 
 his eyes on her. 
 
 JUL. [Aside] He is looking at her, and she is weeping. 
 [They slowly follow MERCEDES. TEODORA hesitates, tries to 
 pull herself together and control her tears. Aside to SEVERO] 
 Are they whispering to each other? 
 SEV. I don't know; I suppose so. 
 
 ERNESTO and TEODORA stop and look around fur- 
 tively, then proceed. 
 
 JUL. Why do they both look back? Why ? 
 SEV. Now you are coming to your senses. 
 JUL. Say, rather, I am catching your madness. Ah, 
 scandal has a sure aim! It goes straight to the heart. 
 He and SEVERO go into the dining-room. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 ACT II 
 
 A small room furnished with extreme simplicity; it is almost 
 poverty-stricken. At the back, a door; to the right of the 
 audience, another door; to the left, a French window. 
 A little pine bookcase with a few books in it, a table, an 
 arm-chair. The table is at the left. On it is a framed 
 picture of DON JULIAN. On the other end, a frame, like 
 the first, but without a picture. Both are rather small. 
 There are also on the table, an unlighted lamp, a copy of 
 Dante's "Divine Comedy," opened at the incident of 
 Francesca, and a half-burned piece of paper; in addition, 
 some loose papers and the manuscript of a play. A few 
 chairs. This is all the furniture. DON JULIAN, DON 
 SEVEKO, and a servant enter at the back. 
 
 SEV. Isn't your master in? 
 
 SERVANT. No, senor. He went out very early. 
 
 SEV. Never mind, we'll wait. I suppose Don Ernesto is 
 sure to return soon? 
 
 SERVANT. Probably. The master is most punctual and 
 exact. 
 
 SEV. Good. You may go. 
 
 SERVANT. Yes, senor. If you want anything, I'll be at 
 hand. [The servant goes out at the back. 
 
 SEV. [Looking about the room] What simplicity! 
 
 JUL. What poverty, you'd better say! 
 
 SEV. [Looking through the door at the right, then through the 
 one at the back] Well, this is a splendid apartment! A little 
 alcove, the anteroom, this study, and there you have it all. 
 
 39
 
 40 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT n 
 
 JUL. And the devil has all he wants of human ingratitude 
 and unworthy thoughts, of despicable passion, of base cal- 
 umny. A nice little pile it is. 
 
 SEV. It was simply chance that brought it about. 
 
 JUL. That's not the right name, brother. It was brought 
 about by ... Well, I know whom 
 
 SEV. Who was it, then? I, perhaps? 
 
 JUL. Partly you. And before you, the idle fools who gos- 
 siped shamelessly about my honor and my wife. And then 
 I myself who, like a coward, a jealous fool, a low scoundrel, 
 let tliis young man leave my house after he had proved him- 
 self as noble as I was base base and ungrateful ! Think of 
 the splendor and luxury in which I live, the magnificence of 
 my salon, my stable, the credit of my firm, the wealth I 
 enjoy. Well, do you know where every bit of it came from? 
 
 SEV. I have quite forgotten. 
 
 JUL. There you have it. Forgetfulness the reward of 
 mankind for every generous act, for every great sacrifice that 
 one man makes for another, if he do it modestly, with no 
 blare of trumpets and shouting of heralds simply out of love 
 and respect. 
 
 SEV. You are unjust to yourself. Your gratitude carried 
 you to such lengths that you almost sacrificed honor, and 
 even happiness to it. What more could any one ask? What 
 more could a saint do? There is a limit to all things, good 
 and bad. He is proud; he insisted, though you opposed him. 
 Of course, he is his own master. He controls his own person 
 and his own acts; and one fine morning he left the palace 
 in which you live because he wanted to; and in despair he 
 betook himself to this garret. It is all very sad; but, my 
 dear fellow, who could help it? 
 
 JUL. Everybody, if everybody had attended to his own 
 affairs instead of throwing mud at other people, wagging his 
 tongue, and gossiping about them, and pointing at them! Tell
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT GALEOTO 41 
 
 me, what business of theirs was it that, performing a sacred 
 duty, I looked upon Ernesto as a son, and she regarded him as 
 a brother? If they once see a beautiful girl and a handsome 
 young man together at my table, or out walking, or at the 
 opera, do they immediately think vile thoughts and imagine 
 scandals? Are we to suppose that in this world an impure 
 love is the one sure bond between men and women? Are 
 there no such things as friendship, gratitude, sympathy, 
 and are we so made that youth and beauty can meet 
 only in the mud? And suppose even that what they 
 thought were true, why should the fools feel called upon 
 to avenge my wrongs? I have eyes to see with, and 
 I have a sword, a heart, and hands to guard my own 
 interests, and to avenge insults. 
 
 SEV. Well, granted that perhaps the people who went 
 about gossiping were in the wrong, should I, who am your 
 own flesh and blood, who bear your name should I have 
 been silent? 
 
 JUL. No, by heaven! but you should have been careful. 
 You should have spoken cautiously to me alone, and not have 
 kindled a volcano in my household. 
 
 SEV. I sinned through excess of affection. But if I acknowl- 
 edge my guilt; if I admit that the world and I have done the 
 harm it, by inventing the slander, I, by stupidly lending 
 ear to the thousand echoes of gossip, you, at least, Julian, 
 are pure and free from sin. So dismiss your scruples and 
 be light-hearted. 
 
 JUL. I can't be light-hearted, for in my heart I have shel- 
 tered the very thing that my reason and my lips repudiate. 
 I reject indignantly the slanders of the world. "They lie," 
 I cry aloud, and under my breath I repeat, "But what if 
 they do not lie, but are right, after all!" So, in the struggle 
 between two conflicting impulses, I am at the same time judge 
 and accomplice. And so I am distracted; I am fighting with
 
 42 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT 11 
 
 myself. Suspicion grows and spreads; my wounded heart 
 cries out in anger; a blood-red mist spreads about me. 
 
 SEV. You are raving. 
 
 JUL. No, I am not raving. I am laying bare my soul to 
 you, brother. Do you by any chance think that Ernesto 
 would have left my house if I had stood in his way with the 
 firm intention of intervening and preventing him? He went 
 away because in the depths of my troubled soul a treacherous 
 voice was sounding, saying to me: "Leave the door open 
 that he may pass out freely, and then close it tightly after 
 him. In the fortress of honor the trusting man is a poor 
 steward." One wish was in my heart and another on my 
 lips. Aloud, I said, "Come back, Ernesto," and under 
 my breath, "Don't come back." When I seemed to be 
 frank with him, I was a hypocrite and a coward, a 
 knave and an ingrate. No, Severe, that was not the 
 action of an honorable man. 
 
 He sinks into the arm-chair, near the table, greatly 
 moved. 
 
 SEV. It was the action of a man who was protecting a 
 young, high-spirited, and radiantly beautiful wife. 
 
 JUL. Don't speak so of Teodora. She is a mirror that we 
 sully with our breath when we rashly try to come too near it. 
 She reflected the sunlight, until the thousand viper-heads of 
 the angry world came near to look at her. Now they seem 
 to be swarming in the crystal inside the divine frame. But 
 they are fleshless spectres. A wave of my hand will surely 
 drive them away and you will see again the clear-blue sky. 
 
 SEV. So much the better. 
 
 JUL. No. 
 
 SEV. What's the trouble? 
 
 JUL. Trouble enough. I tell you, this inner struggle I 
 described to you has warped my character. Now my wife 
 always finds me sad and morose. I am not as I used to be.
 
 ACTII THE GREAT GALEOTO 43 
 
 I try in vain to seem so. And as she notices this change she 
 is bound to ask herself, "Where is Julian? Where is my dear 
 husband? What have I done to lose his confidence? What 
 evil thoughts preoccupy him and keep him from my arms? 
 And so, a shadow is coming between us which divides us and, 
 slowly, step by step, drives us farther apart. We have no 
 more sweet confidences, no more quiet talks. Our smiles are 
 frozen; our tones bitter. I harbor unjust suspicion; she is 
 in tears. I am wounded in my love; she is wounded and 
 by me in her womanly dignity and her affection. That's 
 how we stand. 
 
 SEV. Then you're on the road to destruction. If you see 
 so clearly what's wrong, why don't you find a remedy? 
 
 JUL. I've tried in vain. I know I am wrong to doubt her. 
 More than that, I don't doubt her for the present. But in 
 the end as, little by little I lose ground, and little by little 
 he gains, who can be sure that what we call a lie today may 
 not be true tomorrow? [Seizing DON SEVERO by the arm and 
 speaking to him with restrained 'passion and ill-concealed 
 eagerness} I, jealous, morose, unjust; I, the tyrant; and he, 
 noble, great-hearted, always gentle and resigned! With the 
 halo of martyrdom which in every woman's eyes becomes so 
 well a handsome and gallant young man, it's clear that he 
 gets the better part in this unjust assignment of roles; that 
 he gains what I lose, while I am powerless to help. This is 
 the truth; and the result is that meanwhile the world with 
 its idle talk plays traitor to them both, while now they are 
 saying quite truthfully, "But indeed, we're not in love with 
 each other," and as the latter words re-echo they may be- 
 come reality. 
 
 SEV. Look here, Julian, if you feel this way, I think the 
 wisest thing to do is to let Ernesto carry out his plans. 
 
 JUL. But that's what I've come here to prevent. 
 
 SEV. Then you're mad. Isn't he thinking of going to
 
 44 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT n 
 
 Buenos Ayres? Then why worry about it? Just wish him 
 fair winds and a full sail. 
 
 JUL. Do you want me to seem cruel and mean and jealous 
 in Teodora's eyes? Don't you know, my dear brother, that 
 a woman may despise a man and still want him for a lover; 
 but never for a husband? Do you want my wife to follow 
 this unhappy exile across the seas. with sad memories? Don't 
 you know that if I saw so much as the trace of a tear on her 
 cheek, and thought that it was a tear for Ernesto, I would 
 strangle her with my own hands? [With concentrated fury] 
 
 SEV. What are we to do then? 
 
 JUL. Suffer. The world must find a denouement for this 
 drama, which it created simply by looking at us so potent 
 is its glance for good and evil. 
 
 SEV. [Going back] I think some one is coming. 
 
 SERVANT [Without] My master can't be long now. 
 Enter PEPITO. 
 
 SEV. You here? 
 
 PEP. [Aside] Phew, they've found it out already. I've 
 overreached myself. [Aloud] So we're all here. Good-day, 
 Uncle. Good-day, Papa. [/Iswfe] There's no use. They 
 know what's up. [Aloud] And so you I suppose, of course, 
 you've come to look for Ernesto? 
 
 SEV. For whom else in this house? 
 
 JUL. And I suppose you know all that this madman is 
 planning? 
 
 PEP. All what? Oh, of course, a little I know what 
 every one knows. 
 
 SEV. And is it tomorrow that ? 
 
 PEP. No. Tomorrow he's going away, so he has to settle 
 this today. 
 
 JUL. [With amazement] What did you say? 
 
 PEP. I? What Pepe Ucedo told me last night at the 
 casino door. And he is the Viscount Nebreda's second, so if
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT GALEOTO 45 
 
 he doesn't know But how queer you look! Is it possible 
 you don't know? 
 
 JUL. We know everything. [Resolutely forestalling a move- 
 ment on his brother's part] 
 
 SEV. We 
 
 JUL. [^Iswfe] Be quiet, Severe. [Aloud] We heard that he 
 is going away tomorrow and that today he stakes his life. 
 And we came, naturally, to prevent the duel and the de- 
 parture. 
 
 Throughout this scene DON JULIAN pretends that he has 
 been informed of the affair, so as to learn tlie facts 
 from PEPITO, though it is evident that lie came only 
 on account of ERNESTO'S voyage. 
 
 SEV. [Aside to JULIAN] What is this duel? 
 
 JUL. [Aside to SEVEBO] I don't know, but we'll find 
 out. 
 
 PEP. [Aside] Come, I wasn't such a fool after all. 
 
 JUL. I know that a viscount 
 
 PEP. Exactly. 
 
 JUL. Is to fight a duel with Ernesto. Some one who 
 knew about it at the time told us. They say it's a very 
 serious affair [Sign of assent from PEPITO] a scandalous 
 quarrel; a great many people .standing about. "You lie!" 
 "You say that I lie!" Then words, thick and fast. 
 
 PEP. [Interrupting with the eagerness and pleasure of one 
 who knows more] Words! A blow that would fell an ox. 
 
 SEV. Who struck whom? 
 
 PEP. Ernesto struck the other man. 
 
 JUL. Ernesto. Didn't you hear about it? This viscount 
 exhausted his patience completely put him in a perfect 
 passion. Well, the poor boy broke loose 
 
 PEP. Exactly. 
 
 JUL. I told you we knew all about it. And is the affair 
 very serious?
 
 46 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT n 
 
 PEP. Very serious. I'm sorry to have to say so, but I 
 might as well be frank with you. 
 
 JUL What are the conditions? 
 
 PEP. It's to the death. And the viscount isn't afraid, and 
 doesn't shrink. He's a wonderful swordsman. 
 
 JUL. And the quarrel? What was it about? They blame 
 it on Nebreda? 
 
 PEP. Why, it wasn't exactly a quarrel. I'll tell you how 
 it happened. Ernesto was planning to leave Madrid to- 
 morrow so as to reach Cadiz in time to sail in the "Cid," 
 and Luis Alcaraz had promised him a letter of introduction, 
 which he said would serve as a good recommendation. So 
 the poor boy went to the cafe 1 to get it, with the best intentions 
 in the world. The other man wasn't there; he waited for 
 him. No one then recognized him and they go on with their 
 pleasant game of tearing people to pieces, without noticing 
 his threatening face and set teeth. One by one people are 
 mentioned, and one by one they fall. A heavy hand and 
 a sharp tongue. Every poor dog in the city passes in re- 
 view. And right there in that miserable tavern, belching 
 out more smoke than a train, in the midst of wine-glasses 
 and cigar ashes, and scattered lumps of sugar, they set up a 
 dissecting-table. With each draught of fine old wine, a wo- 
 man's reputation gone. At every cutting lash, a roar of 
 laughter. With four slashes of the scissors those fellows left 
 reputations in tatters, women torn to pieces. But, after all, 
 what does that sort of thing amount to? Echoes of society 
 at the cafe" table. I don't say this myself, and of course I 
 don't think so, but that's what Ernesto said when he told 
 me about it all. 
 
 JUL. Go on. Will you never get to the point? 
 
 PEP. Finally, in the midst of all these names, some one 
 mentioned a certain man, and Ernesto couldn't control him- 
 self any longer. "Who dares besmirch the name of an lion-
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT GALEOTO 47 
 
 orable man?" he cries out, and they answer, "The lady." 
 With flashing eyes he throws himself upon Nebreda. The 
 poor viscount is completely bowled over; the public room be- 
 comes a field of argument. There you have a synopsis of 
 the first act. Today comes the duel with swords in some 
 salon I don't know where. 
 
 JUL. [Furiously seizing his arm] And the man was I? 
 
 PEP. Senor 
 
 JUL. And Teodora the woman? And they have dragged 
 her and my name and my love to such depths? 
 
 SEV. [Aside to PEPITO] Fool, what have you done? 
 
 PEP. Didn't he say he knew about it? Why I Of 
 course I thought. 
 
 JUL. Disgraced, disgraced! 
 
 SEV. [Going up to him, affectionately] Julian! 
 
 JUL. True. I know I must be calm. But oh, if I lose 
 faith, I lose heart. Great heavens! why should they slander 
 us so? What right have they to turn upon us and throw 
 mud at us? No matter. I know how to act as befits a gentle- 
 man. Can I count on you, Severe? 
 
 SEV. Count on me? To the death! [They clasp hands. 
 
 JUL. [To PEPITO] The duel? 
 
 PEP. At three. 
 
 JUL. [Aside] I'm going to kill him. Yes, I shall kill him. 
 [To SEVERO] Let's be going. 
 
 SEV. Where? 
 
 JUL. To find this viscount. 
 
 SEV. Are you going to ? 
 
 JUL. I am going to do what I can to avenge the insult 
 to my honor and to save the life of Juan Acedo's son. [To 
 PEPITO] Who are the seconds? 
 
 PEP. Two Alcaras and Ruedo. 
 
 JUL. I know them. [Pointing to PEPITO] He can stay here 
 in case of emergency. And if Ernesto should come back
 
 48 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT n 
 
 SEV. I understand. 
 
 JTJL. Try, without arousing suspicion, to find out where the 
 duel is to be. 
 
 SEV. You hear? 
 
 JUL. Come! 
 
 SEV. Julian, what possesses you? 
 
 JTJL. Joy such as I have not known for a long time. 
 
 SEV. What the devil, are you mad? Joy? 
 
 JUL. At the prospect of meeting this young man. 
 
 SEV. Nebreda? 
 
 JUL. Yes. Remember. Until now, calumny was intan- 
 gible and I could not see its face. And now at last I know 
 where it is hiding. At last it has taken human form, and 
 is visibly before me in the guise of a viscount. For three 
 months I have been eating gall and wormwood. And now, 
 just think, I am face to face with him. 
 
 [SEVERO and JULIAN go out. 
 
 PEP. Well, here's a mess; and a useless mess, too. Just 
 the same, no matter what my uncle may say, it was sheer 
 madness to have a young girl as beautiful as the sun under 
 the same roof, in almost continual contact with Ernesto, 
 who is a handsome fellow with a soul all of fire, and a head 
 full of romance. He swears there is nothing between them 
 but the purest sort of friendship, that he loves her like a sis- 
 ter, and that my uncle is a father to him. But I'm pretty 
 sharp, and though I am young, I know a thing or two about 
 this world, and I don't put much faith in this brother-and- 
 sister business; particularly where the brother is so young, 
 and the relationship fictitious. But suppose this affection 
 is all they say it is, how are other people to know that? 
 Have they signed any pledge always to think well of every 
 one? Don't they see them together all the time in the 
 theater in the park? Well, the person who saw them, saw 
 them, and when he saw them, he told about it. Ernesto swore
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT jGALEOTO 49 
 
 to me, "No" They had almost never gone about in that way. 
 Did he go once? Well, that's enough. If a hundred people 
 saw them that day, they might as well have appeared in 
 public not once, but a hundred different times. Are people 
 bound to examine their witnesses and compare their dates 
 to find out whether it was many times or only once that they 
 went out together, she with her innocent sympathy, and he 
 with his brotherly affection? Such a demand would be un- 
 dignified and unjust altogether ridiculous. They all tell 
 what they've seen, and they're not lying when they tell it. 
 "I saw them once. I saw them as well." One and one make 
 two. There's no way out. "And I saw them, too." There 
 you have three already. And this man, four; and that one, 
 five. And so, adding up in all good faith, you go on indefi- 
 nitely. And they saw because they looked. In short, be- 
 cause naturally one uses one's senses and doesn't stop to ask 
 permission. So let him look after himself and remember 
 that nowadays he who avoids the appearance of evil, avoids 
 the slander and the danger. [A little pause] And notice, I 
 am admitting the purity of their affection; and that is a very 
 important point; for, between ourselves, I must admit that 
 to be near Teodora and not to love her, one must be as 
 steady as a rock. He may be a scholar, and a philosopher, 
 and a mathematician, and a physicist; but he's human, 
 and she's divine; and that's enough. If only these 
 walls could speak. If Ernesto's private thought scattered 
 about here could only take visible form! Let's see. 
 That frame, for example, is empty, while in the other is 
 Don Julian's face. Teodora used to be there as a mate to 
 my 'uncle. I wonder why her photograph has disappeared? 
 To avoid temptation? If that's the reason, it's pretty bad! 
 But it's still worse if she's left the frame for a better place; 
 to find shelter near his heart! Let's see, make out your 
 case against him, little devils who fly through the air,
 
 50 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT n 
 
 spinning invisible webs! Have no pity on this mystic, 
 this philosopher! [Looking at the table and seeing Dante's 
 "Inferno"} And here's another sign. I've never been to see 
 Ernesto that I haven't found this beautiful book open on 
 his table. [Reading] Dante's "Divine Comedy" his favorite 
 poem. And apparently he never gets beyond this passage 
 about Franceses. There are two possible explanations for 
 this. Either Ernesto never reads, or else he always reads 
 the same thing. But here's a spot; just as if a tear had fallen. 
 What mystery, what deep secret have we here! How hard 
 it must be for a married man to live in peace A paper 
 burned to ashes? [Taking it up from the table] No, there are 
 still some traces of writing left. 
 
 Gets up and goes to the window, trying to read what is 
 written on the paper. At this moment EKNESTO en- 
 ters and, seeing him, stops. 
 
 ERN. What are you looking at? 
 
 PEP. Ah, Ernesto. Why, a piece of paper that was lying 
 here. The breeze was blowing it about. 
 
 ERN. [Taking it and returning it to him after a minute's 
 inspection] I don't remember what this is. 
 
 PEP. They were verses. You probably know about it. 
 [Reading with difficulty] "I am prey to a consuming fire." 
 [Aside] Ah, the next line rhymes with Teodora. 
 
 ERN. Oh, some trifle. 
 
 PEP. [Stops reading] Yes, that's all. 
 
 ERN. This worthless paper is symbolic of our lives. A few 
 cries of pain, a few flakes of ash. 
 
 PEP. Then they were verses? 
 
 ERN. Yes, sometimes I don't know what I'm doing; I let 
 my pen run on. And last night I wrote those. 
 
 PEP. And to help this divine afflatus, and to get yourself 
 in the right spirit you were seeking inspiration in the book 
 of the Master?
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT GALEOTO 51 
 
 EBN. It seems to me 
 
 PEP. Oh, you needn't say anything. It's a marvelous 
 work. [Pointing at the book] The episode of Francesca 
 
 ERN. [Ironically and impatiently] It seems you've turned 
 detective today? 
 
 PEP. Oh, I'm not entirely successful at it. Here, where the 
 book's open, it says something I don't understand and that 
 you must explain to me. It says that, reading a tale of 
 love by way of pastime, Paolo and Francesca came to the 
 place where the author, showing himself no fool, tells so 
 freely of the love of Lancelot and Queen Guinevere. That 
 was like flint striking fire. He pressed a kiss upon the book, 
 and she, mad with love, kissed him upon the lips. And at 
 this point the Florentine poet says, oddly enough, but with 
 masterly conciseness, these words which are written here, 
 and which I cannot understand: "The book they read was 
 Galeoto,and they read nothing else." They read nothing else? 
 Of course, that's simple enough. But this Galeoto, tell me, 
 where did he come from and who was he? [Pointing at some 
 papers that are supposedly the play] You certainly ought to 
 know. It's the title of the play you've written that is to 
 make you so famous. Come, let's see. 
 
 [Takes up the play and examines it. 
 
 ERN. Galeoto was the go-between for Lancelot and the 
 queen. And in all love-affairs the third person may be called 
 Galeoto by way of pseudonym. Especially if it is desirable 
 to avoid a more unpleasant name that brings trouble hi its 
 wake. 
 
 PEP. All right. I see that. But isn't there any appropri- 
 ate and convenient Spanish name? 
 
 ERN. Very appropriate and very expressive. This business 
 which turns men's lusts into ready money, which plays upon 
 men's passions and grows fat on their amours has a name and 
 I know it; but I would shackle myself if I were to say in so
 
 52 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT n 
 
 many words what, after all, I am not going to say. [He 
 snatches the book from PEPITO and scatters its pages over the 
 table] In each particular case I find a particular person, but 
 sometimes Galeoto is all society. Then he works without 
 any realization of the office he is fulfilling, but such cunning 
 has he in undermining honor and virtue, that a greater 
 Galeoto never has been seen, and never will be. A man and 
 woman are living happily and peacefully, doing then- duty 
 with all their hearts. No one pays any attention to them 
 and everything is as it should be. But, by heaven, in this 
 great city such a state of affairs doesn't last long. Some 
 fine morning some one looks squarely at them, anil from that 
 time, either through stupidity or through malice, all men 
 cling to the belief that they are concealing an impure love. 
 Then there is nothing more to say; the matter is settled. 
 No reasoning can convince them, nor does the man exist 
 who can make them waver. The most upright man finds 
 his reputation of no avail. And the most horrible part of it 
 all is that in the beginning, people had no just grounds, and 
 in the end perhaps they have. So impenetrable an atmos- 
 phere surrounds the poor victims, such a torrent sweeps in 
 upon them, such pressure is brought to bear, that without 
 realizing it, they are forced upon one another, against their 
 will. They are drawn together, in their fall they become one 
 and, dying, they adore each other. The world has been the 
 battering-ram that breaks down virtue; it has prepared the 
 way for sin; it has been Galeoto and [aside] Away, away, 
 devilish thought your fire consumes me! 
 
 PEP. [/l*irfe] If Teodora reasons this way, heaven help 
 Don Julian! [Aloud] And perhaps your verses last night 
 were on this subject? 
 
 ERN. Exactly. 
 
 PEP. Is it .possible that any man can calmly waste his 
 time and be like this so serene, so unconcerned, when he is
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT GALEOTO 53 
 
 about to cross swords with Nebreda, who, with a foil in his 
 hand, is a match for any man? Wouldn't it be more sensible 
 and more profitable for you to be practising a straight thrust 
 or a parry, instead of wearing out your brain with halting 
 verses of rebel heroics? Now, really, don't you think it rather 
 a serious matter to be meeting the viscount? 
 
 ERN. No; and I have good grounds for my opinion. If 
 I kill him, the world profits; if he kills me, the profit is mine. 
 
 PEP. Good. That's better. 
 
 ERN. Let us not talk any more about it. 
 
 PEP. [Aside] Now, I'll be very clever about pumping him. 
 [Going up to him, in a lower tone] Will it take place today? 
 
 ERN. Yes, today. 
 
 PEP. Will it be out of doors? 
 
 ERN. No. That wouldn't be possible at such an hour. An 
 affair that every one knows about. 
 
 PEP. In some house? 
 
 ERN. That's what I proposed. 
 
 PEP. Where? 
 
 ERN. Upstairs. [Coldly and indifferently] There's an empty 
 apartment with a large salon, where the light comes in from 
 the side. For a handful of silver we get a far better place 
 for this business than any mountain-side, and no one will be 
 any the wiser. 
 
 PEP. So now the only thing necessary ? 
 
 ERN. A sword. 
 
 PEP. [Going back] There are voices outside. Some one is 
 coming. The seconds? 
 
 ERN. Perhaps. 
 
 PEP. It sounds like a woman's voice. [Looking out of the 
 door] 
 
 ERN. But why doesn't he show them in? [A servant enters. 
 
 SERVANT. [Mysteriously] Some one wants to see the master. 
 
 PEP. Who is it?
 
 54 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT 11 
 
 SERVANT. A lady. 
 
 ERN. That's strange. 
 
 PEP. [In a low voice, to the servant] Is she very insistent? 
 
 SERVANT. She's crying. 
 
 PEP. Is she young? 
 
 SERVANT. Well, I can't exactly say. The anteroom is 
 very dark, and the lady is trying to cover her face, so that 
 it certainly is hard to see her. And she speaks so softly, oh, 
 so softly, I can hardly hear her. 
 
 ERN. Who can it be? 
 
 PEP. Some one who wants to see you. 
 
 ERN. I can't imagine 
 
 PEP. [Aside] He seems perplexed. [Aloud] See here; I'll 
 go and leave you to yourself. Good-bye, and good luck to 
 you. [Kissing him, and taking his hat. To the SERVANT] 
 What are you waiting for, stupid? 
 
 SERVANT. For the master to tell me to show her in. 
 
 PEP. In affairs of this sort you should divine his intentions; 
 then, until the mysterious lady has gone, don't dare to open 
 the door for any one, though the heavens fall. 
 
 SERVANT. Shall I tell her to come in, then? 
 
 ERN. [To PEPITO, who is still in the doorway] Good-bye. 
 
 PEP. Good-bye, Ernesto. 
 
 [PEPITO and the servant go out at the back, 
 
 ERN. A lady? Upon what pretext or for what reason? 
 [A pause. TEODORA appears in the doorway, and stops, 
 covering her face with her veil] Here she is. [TEODORA remains 
 at the back, not daring to come forward. He is in front, facing 
 her] You wished to speak to me? If you will be so kind, 
 senora? [Inviting her to come in] 
 
 TEO. [Raising her veil\ Forgive me, Ernesto. 
 
 ERN. Teodora! 
 
 TEO. I am doing wrong, I suppose. 
 
 ERN. [Abruptly, stammering] I don't know. For I don't
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT GALEOTO 55 
 
 know to what I owe so great an honor. But what am I 
 saying? Why, in my house you are bound to meet with 
 such respect as could be surpassed nowhere. Why, senora, 
 should you fear there might be any harm in it? 
 
 TEO. There's no reason why. And there was a time, 
 Ernesto, it has gone forever, when I would neither have 
 doubted nor feared; when any woman you know might 
 have come into your room without a blush, without fear; 
 when, if you were going away from here, as they say 
 you are going to America tomorrow I myself yes, since 
 those who go away may never come back, and since it is so 
 sad to lose a friend before Julian before all the world- 
 would have given you a parting embrace without any thought 
 of harm. 
 
 ERN. [Makes a movement,, then checks himself} Ah, Teodora! 
 
 TEO. But now I suppose it is not the same. There is a 
 gulf between us. 
 
 ERN. You're right, senora. Now we cannot love each 
 other, not even as brother and sister. Now our hands are 
 stained if they touch when we meet. The past is over. We 
 must conquer ourselves; we must hate each other. 
 
 TEO. [Ingenuously] Hate each other? Why? 
 
 ERN. I hate you? Did I say that to you, poor child? 
 
 TEO. Yes. 
 
 ERN. Never mind what I say. If the occasion arises, if 
 you need my life, ask for it, Teodora, [Passionately] To give 
 my life for you would be [Controlling himself and changing 
 his tone] simply to do my duty. [A slight pause] Hate! If 
 my lips spoke such a word it was because I was thinking of 
 the wrong. I was thinking of the injury I have involun- 
 tarily done to one who has been so good to me. You, Teo- 
 dora, ought to hate me I no , 
 
 TEO. [Sadly] Ah, they have made me weep much. You 
 are right about that. [Very sweetly] But you you, Ernesto.
 
 56 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT n 
 
 I cannot accuse you. Nor would any one blame you .who 
 was not blinded by passion. How are you to blame for the 
 whisperings and spite of an evil-minded world, or for poor 
 Julian's black mood; for the anger that tortures him, for 
 his tones that wound me, for the agony that is killing him 
 because he doubts my love? 
 
 EBN. That I cannot understand; hi him, least of all. 
 [With profound anger] The thing that puts one in a fury, that 
 deserves no mercy, for which there is no possible excuse, is* 
 that any man should doubt a woman like you. 
 
 TEO. My poor Julian is paying dear for his cruel doubt. 
 
 ERN. [Frightened at having accused JULIAN before TEODORA] 
 What am I saying? [Hastening to exculpate JULIAN and to 
 kill the effect of what he has said] Do I blame him? No. He 
 doubted as any one would doubt. As every one who loves, 
 doubts. There is no such tiling as love without jealousy. 
 Why, there are people who even doubt the good God, Teo- 
 dora. It's our earthly egotism. The owner of a treasure 
 guards his gold just because it is gold, and he fears for 
 it. I myself, if by some superhuman effort I succeeded 
 hi making a woman mine, / would be jealous. I would 
 be suspicious even of my own brother! [He speaks with 
 increasing exultation. Suddenly he stops, seeing that he is 
 about to fall again from another side into the abyss from 
 which he has just escaped. TEODORA hears voices in the 
 direction of the door at the back, and goes toward it. Aside] 
 Where are you leading me, my heart? What are my 
 inmost feelings? You say the world speaks base slanders 
 and then you justify them! 
 
 TEO. Listen, some one is coming. 
 
 ERN. Hardly two o'clock. I wonder who it is? 
 
 TEO. [With a certain terror] That's Julian's voice. He's 
 probably coming in. 
 
 ERN. No. He's stopping.
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT GALEOTO 57 
 
 TEO. [All in the same tone, as if questioning ERNESTO] If 
 it is Julian 
 
 Makes a movement in the direction of the door on the 
 right. ERNESTO detains her, respectfully but firmly. 
 
 ERN. If it is he, stay here. Our innocence protects us. 
 If it is those suspicious people, go in there. [Pointing to the 
 door at the right. Listening] It's nothing, nothing. 
 
 TEO. How my heart beats! 
 
 ERN. You needn't be afraid. Whoever wanted to come in 
 has gone away, or else it was an illusion. [Coming forward] 
 Teodora! 
 
 TEO. I had to speak to you, Ernesto, and the time is going 
 so fast! 
 
 ERN. Teodora, forgive me but perhaps it's not wise. 
 If any one should come and some one probably is coming 
 
 TEO. That's just why I came to prevent it. 
 
 ERN. You mean ? 
 
 TEO. I mean that I know all. And the thought of the 
 blood that you want to shed for me terrifies me. It sets 
 my own blood on fire. I feel it rising here. [Putting her hand 
 on her heart] 
 
 ERN. Because it is outraged by the shame and disgrace 
 you must suffer until I have taken the viscount's life with my 
 own hand. He wanted mud. Let him have the mud made 
 by his own blood. 
 
 TEO. [Frightened] Is it to the death? 
 
 ERN. Yes. [Checking a gesture of supplication from TEO- 
 DORA] You can lead me where you will, you can do anything 
 with me, anything with one exception. May the time never 
 come when, remembering that insult, I can have compassion 
 on Nebreda. 
 
 TEO. [Tearful and supplicating] And on me? 
 
 ERN. On you? 
 
 TEO. Yes. It will be a terrible scandal.
 
 58 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT n 
 
 ERN. Perhaps. 
 
 TEO. Perhaps? You say it like that and don't try to 
 prevent it, even when I myself plead with you? 
 
 ERN. I can't prevent it, but I can make him pay for it. 
 This is what I think, and this is what I say; this is what 
 keeps running through my mind. Others have sought the 
 affront, but I shall seek the punishment. 
 
 TEO. [Going up to him, and speaking in an undertone, as if 
 afraid of her words] And Julian? 
 
 ERN. Julian? Well? 
 
 TEO. If he should know? 
 
 ERN. He probably does know. 
 
 TEO. And what will he say? 
 
 ERN. What will he say? 
 
 TEO. That in my defence, who should show his courage ex- 
 cept my husband who loves me? 
 
 ERN. In defence of a woman? Any man of honor, without 
 knowing her, without being relation, friend, or lover! It's 
 enough to hear a woman insulted. You ask why I am going 
 to fight this duel, why I defend her? Because I heard the 
 slander and I am the man I am. Who would refuse to take 
 up the cudgel in such a cause, or who would give up his right 
 to do so? Wasn't I there? Then I was simply the first man 
 on the spot. 
 
 TEO. [Who has listened to him attentively, as though domi- 
 nated by his vigor, approaches him and presses his hand with 
 great emotion] That is honorable, noble, and worthy of you, 
 Ernesto. [Checks herself, goes away from ERNESTO, and says 
 sadly] But this is humiliating to my poor Julian! 
 
 ERN. Humiliating? 
 
 TEO. Yes, indeed. 
 
 ERN. Why? 
 
 TEO. Because . . . 
 
 ERN. Who says so?
 
 ACTII THE GREAT GALEOTO 59 
 
 TEO. Every one will think so. 
 
 ERN. But why? 
 
 TEO. When people hear that I have been insulted, and that 
 it was not my husband who chastised the offender, and that 
 [Lowering her voice, -hanging lier head, and avoiding ERNESTO 's 
 eyes] it was you who took his place, scandal will be heaped 
 upon scandal. 
 
 ERN. [Convinced, but protesting] Good heavens, if we have 
 to think what people are going to say about everything that 
 we do, life isn't worth living at all. 
 
 TEO. But I am right. 
 
 ERN. You're right. But it's horrible. 
 
 TEO. You yield, then? 
 
 ERN. Impossible. 
 
 TEO. I beg you! 
 
 ERN. No. It is more important than ever, Teodora, that 
 I meet Nebreda, come what may. The truth is that the vis- 
 count makes up for his lack of honor by his skill in swords- 
 manship. 
 
 TEO. [Somewhat hurt by the rather humiliating protection 
 that ERNESTO is offering to DON JULIAN] My husband is brave, 
 too. 
 
 ERN. The deuce! Either I don't make myself very clear, 
 or you are very slow of understanding : I realize his courage. 
 But when one man has foully insulted the name or honor of 
 another and satisfaction is sought, no one can guess what will 
 happen: which will kill, which be killed. If this man, there- 
 fore, is to win in the deadly combat there can be no doubt as 
 to whether it is better for him to have Don Julian or Ernesto 
 for an opponent. [Sincerely but sadly] 
 
 TEO. [In real distress] You? Oh, no. Not that. 
 
 ERN. Why not? If that is my fate, my death will be no 
 loss to any one, and I myself will lose but little. 
 
 TEO. [Hardly able to restrain her tears] Don't say that.
 
 60 
 
 ERN. Well, what do I leave behind in the world? What 
 friendship? What love? What woman will follow my body 
 weeping tears of love? 
 
 TEO. [Unable to control her tears] All last night I was pray- 
 ing for you. And you say that no one Oh, I don't want 
 you to die! 
 
 ERN. Ah, a woman may pray for any one [Passionately] 
 but she weeps for one man only! 
 
 TEO. [Strangely] Ernesto! 
 
 ERN. [Frightened at his own words] Yes? 
 
 TEO. [Drawing away from him] Nothing. 
 
 ERN. [Timidly. Hanging his head and avoiding TEODORA'S 
 eyes] If I spoke as I did a little while ago I am beside my- 
 self. Pay no heed to me. 
 
 A pause. They stand, silent, thinking, at a distance 
 from each other, and not daring to look at each other. 
 
 TEO. [Pointing to the back] Again! 
 
 ERN. Some one has come. 
 
 TEO. [Going back and listening] And they want to come in. 
 
 ERN. It must be they. In there, Teodora. [Pointing to 
 the room] 
 
 TEO. My innocence protects me. 
 
 ERN. But this is not your husband. 
 
 TEO. It's not Julian ! 
 
 ERN. No. [Leading her to the right] 
 
 TEO. I hoped [Stopping near the door, beseechingly] Oh, 
 give up this duel. 
 
 ERN. Good heavens! Why, I struck him in the face! 
 
 TEO. [Despairing, but realizing that any settlement is im- 
 possibk] I didn't know that. Then flee 
 
 ERN. I flee? 
 
 TEO. For my sake for his. In heaven's name 
 
 ERN. I can bear to be hated, but not to be despised. 
 
 TEO. Just one more thing. Are they coming for you?
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT GALEOTO 61 
 
 ERN. It's not time yet. 
 
 TEO. You swear it? 
 
 ERN. Yes, Teodora. Do you hate me? 
 
 TEO. Never! 
 
 PEP. [Without] It's no use. I must see him. 
 
 ERN. Quick. 
 
 TEO. Yes. [Goes out, right. 
 
 PEP. No one shall stop me. 
 
 ERN. Ah, slander justifies itself and makes the sin come 
 true! 
 
 Enter PEPITO at the back, hatless, and much excited. 
 
 PEP. To the devil with you! I will go in. Ernesto, 
 Ernesto! 
 
 ERN. What's the matter? 
 
 PEP. I don't know how to tell you about it, but I must. 
 
 ERN. Speak, man! 
 
 PEP. My head's in a whirl. Dear me, dear me! Who 
 would have thought ! 
 
 ERN. Quick! What has happened? 
 
 PEP. What has happened? A terrible calamity. Don 
 Julian found out about the duel. He came here to look for 
 you. You weren't here. He went to see your seconds. They 
 all met at the viscount's house 
 
 ERN. At Nebreda's? But how? 
 
 PEP. Don Julian arranged it. He was like a whirlwind 
 sweeping all before him, plans, conventions, everything, 
 everything. 
 
 ERN. Go on. What happened? 
 
 PEP. They're coming up now. 
 
 ERN. Who? 
 
 PEP. Why, they. They are carrying him in their arms. 
 
 ERN. You frighten me. Go on quick. [Seizing him vio- 
 lently and dragging him forward] 
 
 PEP. He forced Nebreda to fight with him; would listen to
 
 62 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT H 
 
 no excuse. So the viscount said, "With both, then." Don 
 Julian came up here. Your servant barred the door and 
 swore you were engaged with a lady and that no one was to 
 cotne in; no one 
 
 ERN. And then? 
 
 PEP. Don Julian came down, saying, "So much the better. 
 I'll manage the whole affair." And he, Nebreda, the seconds, 
 my father, and I, who arrived after them all. Well, the rest 
 is plain. 
 
 ERN. They fought? 
 
 PEP. Madly, furiously. Like two men striving to fix upon 
 the sword's point a heart that they hated. 
 
 ERN. And Don Julian? No, it's a lie! 
 
 PEP. They're here already. 
 
 ERN. Hush! Hush! Tell me who it is and speak softly. 
 
 PEP. See there. 
 
 DON JULIAN, DON SEVERO, and RUEDA appear at the 
 back. They are carrying DON JULIAN, who is badly 
 wounded. 
 
 ERN. God help me! Don Julian, my benefactor, my friend, 
 my father! [Rushes to him, weeping. 
 
 JUL. [In a weak voice] Ernesto. 
 
 ERN. What a wretch I am! 
 
 SEV. Come, be quick. 
 
 ERN. Father! 
 
 SEV. The pain is killing him. 
 
 ERN. You did this for my sake. Forgive me. 
 
 Taking JULIAN'S right hand, kneeling beside him, and 
 leaning over him. 
 
 JUL. There's no need. You did your duty. I have done 
 mine. 
 
 SEV. A bed! 
 
 He releases JULIAN, and PEPITO takes his place. 
 
 PEP. Let's go in there. [Pointing to tfte door at the right]
 
 ACT ii THE GREAT GALEOTO 63 
 
 ERN. [In a terrible voice] Nebreda 
 
 SEV. No more of this folly. Do you want to finish killing 
 him? 
 
 ERN. [In a frenzy] Folly! We shall see. Oh, let them 
 both come. 
 
 PEP. We'll put him in your bed in the alcove. 
 
 [ERNESTO stops, terrified. 
 ERN. Where? 
 SEV. In there. 
 PEP. Yes! 
 ERN. No. 
 
 He rushes up and stands in front of the door. The 
 group, leading the Jialf-fainting JULIAN, stops in 
 astonishment. 
 
 SEV. You refuse to let him? 
 PEP. You are mad! 
 
 SEV. Stand aside! Don't you see he's dying? 
 JUL. What does he mean? He doesn't want me? 
 
 Pulling himself together and looking at ERNESTO with 
 
 mingled horror and astonishment. 
 RUEDA. I don't understand. 
 PEP. Nor I. 
 
 ERN. He is dying, and he beseeches me and he doubts me. 
 Father! 
 
 SEV. We must. [The door opens. TEODORA appears. 
 
 ERN. Good God! 
 SEV. 
 
 .p , She! 
 PEP. 
 
 RUEDA. A woman! 
 
 TEO. [Rushing up to JULIAN and embracing him] Julian ! 
 JUL. [Drawing away to look at her, rising by a violent effort, 
 rejecting all help} Who is it? Teodora! 
 
 [He falls to tlie floor, unconscious 
 Curtain.
 
 ACT III 
 
 The same setting as Act I, except there is a settle instead of a 
 sofa. It is evening. A lighted lamp is on the table. 
 
 PEP. At last the crisis is over; at least I can't hear any- 
 thing. Poor Don Julian. Very serious, very serious. His 
 life is in the balance. On the one side death awaits him; 
 on the other, another death. Two gulfs deeper than a hope- 
 less love. The devil! With all these tragedies going on in 
 the house I'm turning more romantic than he with his 
 rhymes and his plots. Why, my head's a regular kaleidoscope 
 of scandals, duels, deaths, treachery and infamy! Heavens, 
 what a day and what a night! And the worst is yet to come. 
 [A little pause] It was rank imprudence to pick him up and 
 carry him off in such a condition. But, the deuce! Who 
 can oppose my uncle when he sets his jaws, and frowns like 
 that? And you must admit that he was right. No honor- 
 able man, so long as there was a breath of life in him, would 
 have stayed in that house in such a situation. And he's a 
 proud and sensitive man. [Going back] Who's coming? Why, 
 it's my mother. 
 
 Enter MERCEDES. 
 
 MER. How is Severe? 
 
 PEP. He won't leave his brother for a single instant. I 
 knew he was devoted to him, but I had no idea he loved him 
 as much as all this. I only hope that things won't turn out 
 as I fear. 
 
 MER. And your uncle? 
 
 PEP. He suffers in silence. Sometimes he cries out 
 "Teodora" in a harsh and anguished tone. At other times 
 
 64
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 65 
 
 he cries, "Ernesto," and clutches the sheet between his 
 fingers. Then he lies motionless as a statue, gazing fixedly 
 into empty space, and the cold sweat of death bathes his 
 brow. Suddenly fever gives him strength; he raises himself 
 up in his bed, and listens eagerly, and says that he and she 
 are waiting for him. He gets up and wants to go out, and 
 my father resorts to tears and supplications to calm his 
 anxiety. Calm it? He can't do it. His burning blood is 
 carrying the anger of his heart and the tears of his soul 
 through all his veins. Let's go, mother, it's heart-rending to 
 see the bitter distortion of his mouth, to see his hands drawn 
 up like two claws, his hair all in disorder, and his distended 
 pupils eagerly searching every shadow flickering in the room. 
 
 MEK. And when your father sees him? 
 
 PEP. He groans and swears that he will be avenged; and he, 
 too, says "Teodora"; he, too, cries "Ernesto." Heaven for- 
 bid that he should meet them, for if he does, nothing can 
 appease his anger, nothing can control his fury. 
 
 MER. Your father is very good. 
 
 PEP. Yes, with a temper phew! 
 
 MEK. It's true. He very seldom gets angry; but when 
 he does 
 
 PEP. With all due respect, he is as fierce as a tiger. 
 
 MER. He always has just cause. 
 
 PEP. I don't know about that, but he undoubtedly has 
 plenty of reason this time. But how is Teodora? 
 
 MER. She's upstairs. She wanted to come down. And 
 she was weeping. A veritable Magdalen. 
 
 PEP. Of course. Repentant or sinning? 
 
 MER. Don't talk that way. Why, she's only a child. 
 
 PEP. Who, innocent, spotless, sweet, pure, gentle little 
 thing that she is, has killed Don Julian. If you're right and 
 she is only a child, and she does such things when she's hardly 
 out of the cradle, heaven help us a few years from now!
 
 66 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT in 
 
 MER. She is hardly to blame. Your fine friend with 
 his play the poet, the dreamer has been the cause of all 
 this. 
 
 PEP. Well, I don't deny it. 
 
 MER. What does he gain by it? 
 
 PEP. Well, at present Ernesto is walking the streets, 
 fleeing from his conscience, which he can't escape. 
 
 MER. Has he any? 
 
 PEP. He may have. 
 
 MER. How sad it is! 
 
 PEP. A terrible misfortune. 
 
 MER. How we have been deceived! 
 
 PEP. Cruelly! 
 
 MER. What treachery! 
 
 PEP. Staggering. 
 
 MER. What a scandal! 
 
 PEP. Unequalled! 
 
 MER. Poor Julian! 
 
 PEP. A bitter blow! 
 Enter a SERVANT. 
 
 SERVANT. Don Ernesto. 
 
 MER. How dare he! 
 
 PEP. What audacity! 
 
 SERVANT. I thought 
 
 PEP. You thought wrong. % 
 
 SERVANT. He is just stopping in on his way. He said to 
 the coachman, "I'll be right out. Wait here." So 
 
 PEP. [Consulting his motlicr] What shall we do? 
 
 MER. Let him come in. [The SERVANT goes out. 
 
 PEP. I'll get rid of him. 
 
 MER. Be tactful. 
 
 MERCEDES sits on the settle; PEPITO stands on the other 
 side of the stage. Neither turns to greet ERNESTO, 
 who enters through second wing.
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 67 
 
 ERN. [Aside] Scorn, unfriendly silence! It bodes ill. From 
 now on I shall be a monster of wickedness and insolence, even 
 though I am entirely blameless. Every one thinks so; they 
 all despise me. 
 
 PEP. [Turning to him, and speaking in harsh tones] Look 
 here, Ernesto. 
 
 ERN. What is it? 
 
 PEP. I want to tell you 
 
 ERN. To get out of here? 
 
 PEP. [Changing his tone] Goodness, what an idea! It 
 was I just wanted to ask if it is true [As if hunting for 
 his words] that afterwards, the viscount 
 
 ERN. [Gloomily, hanging his head] Yes. 
 
 PEP. With your own hands? 
 
 ERN. When I went out of the house I was beside myself. 
 They were coming down. I stopped them. We went up 
 again. I shut the door. Two men, two witnesses, two 
 swords, then I don't know how two blades crossing. 
 A cry a blow a sob blood flowing a murderer standing 
 there and a man lying on the ground. 
 
 PEP. The devil! You have a good aim. Did you hear, 
 mother? 
 
 MER. Still more blood! 
 
 PEP. Nebreda deserved it! 
 
 ERN. Mercedes, I beg of you just one word! Don 
 Julian? Don Julian? If you only realized my anxiety, my 
 grief. What do they say? 
 
 MER. That his wound is mortal, and that it grows more 
 dangerous the nearer you come to his bed of death and 
 sorrow. Leave this house. 
 
 ERN. I want to see him. 
 
 MER. Go at once! 
 
 ERN. No! 
 
 PEP. Such insolence!
 
 68 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT in 
 
 ERN. Is quite worthy of me! [To MERCEDES, respectfully] 
 Forgive me, senora, I am what others make me. 
 
 MER. For heaven's sake, Ernesto! 
 
 ERN. Listen, Mercedes. When a man like me is trampled 
 upon and is called infamous without reason, and is forced 
 and dragged into sin, the struggle that results is dangerous 
 for all, but not for me; for in this fierce struggle with in- 
 visible beings, I have lost honor, affection, love, and there is 
 nothing left for me to lose but the sad tatters of an insipid 
 and monotonous existence. I came only to find out if there 
 is any hope that's all. Well, why do you deny me that 
 consolation? [Beseeching MERCEDES] Just one word! 
 
 MER. Well they say that he is better. 
 
 ERN. But the truth? They're not deceiving me? It's 
 true? They're sure of it? Ah, you are compassionate! You 
 are good! Can it be true? Good God! can it be. true? 
 O Lord, save him! Don't let him die! Let him be happy 
 once more! Let him forgive me! Let him embrace me 
 again! Let me live to see it! 
 
 He sinks into the chair nearest to the table and hides his 
 face in his hands, sobbing. MERCEDES and PEPITO 
 go over to ERNESTO. 
 
 MER. If your father hears if your father comes ! [To 
 ERNESTO] Courage! 
 
 PEP. A man crying! [Aside] These nervous people are ter- 
 rible. One minute they weep, and the next they kill some one. 
 
 ERN. If I cry, if my throat is torn by hysterical sobs, if I 
 am as weak as a woman or a child, don't think it's for my own 
 sake. It's for him, for her, for their lost happiness; for their 
 good name, stained forever; for the injury I have done them 
 in return for their love and their favors! I don't weep for 
 my misfortunes, for my dark lot! And, by heaven! if the 
 sad past could be wiped out with tears, I'd turn all my blood 
 into tears and not leave a drop in my veins!
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 69 
 
 MER. Be still, for pity's sake! 
 
 PEP. We'll talk of tears and sorrow later. 
 
 ERN. If every one else is talking now, why shouldn't we 
 talk, too? The whole town is a seething, boiling whirlpool 
 that sucks in and absorbs and devours and utterly destroys 
 the honor, the good name, the very being of three people, 
 and carries them away on the spray of laughter through the 
 canal of human misery to the social abyss of shame, and there 
 drowns forever the future, the fair name, and the memory, 
 of these unhappy beings. 
 
 MER. Speak lower, Ernesto. 
 
 ERN. No; they aren't whispering; they're shouting aloud. 
 Why, the air fairly resounds ! There isn't a person who doesn't 
 know the tragic story, but every one tells it his own way. 
 Wonder of wonders, people always know everything; but, 
 sad to say, never the truth. [ERNESTO is standing up now, 
 and MERCEDES and PEPITO are listening eagerly to hear what 
 is being said in the town} Some say that Teodora was sur- 
 prised by her husband in my house, and that I rushed at 
 him, blind with fury, and plunged my cowardly dagger into 
 his breast; others, my friends apparently, give me a higher 
 rank than that of a vulgar assassin: I killed him, but in an 
 honorable fight, a properly arranged duel. There are some, of 
 course, who know more of the details, and they say that 
 Julian took my place in the affair that had been arranged with 
 Nebreda. ... I arrived too late ... on purpose, or through 
 cowardice, or because I was in the arms of ... No, the vile 
 words burn my lips; my brain is on fire! Think of the 
 filthiest, the lowest, vilest, most infamous thing imaginable: 
 dregs of the heart, ashes of the soul, evil scourings of unclean 
 minds; cast it to the breezes blowing through the streets, 
 salt all lips and tongues with it, and you'll have the story, and 
 you will learn then what remains of two honorable men and a 
 woman, when their reputations are bandied about the town!
 
 70 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT in 
 
 MER. I don't deny that it's all most unfortunate. But 
 perhaps we can't altogether blame these people for the con- 
 clusions they draw. 
 
 PEP. Teodora went to your house . . . she was there 
 
 ERN. To prevent the duel with Nebreda. 
 
 PEP. Then why did she hide? 
 
 ERN. Because we were afraid her presence there would 
 look suspicious. 
 
 PEP. The explanation is easy and simple enough. The 
 difficulty, Ernesto, is to make people believe it. There's 
 another one that is still easier, and simpler 
 
 ERN. And more shameful! so that is the best one. 
 
 PEP. Grant at least that Teodora was indiscreet, though 
 she was not guilty. 
 
 ERN. Guilt is wily and cautious. On the other hand, how 
 rash is innocence! 
 
 PEP. That's all very well for saints and angels, but when 
 you apply that rule to every one 
 
 ERN. Oh, well, you're right. Of what value or importance 
 are such calumnies? Why worry about them? The hor- 
 rible part is that one's very thoughts are tainted by the fatal 
 contact with this fatal idea! If one ever thinks of crime, it 
 becomes familiar to one's consciousness. One looks on it 
 with fear and loathing but one looks on it at night, in the 
 darkness! That's how it is ! [^sitfe] But what's the matter? 
 Why do they look at me so strangely as they listen? [Aloud] 
 You know me; I bear an honorable name! ... If I killed 
 Nebreda simply because he lied, what would I not do if by 
 my own guilt I turned his slanders into truth! 
 
 PEP. [Aside to MERCEDES] And he denied it! It's plain 
 as day! 
 
 MER. This is madness! 
 
 PEP. The one thing that's plain is that he confesses! 
 
 MER. [Aloud] Leave us, Ernesto.
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 71 
 
 ERN. Impossible. If I were far from his bed tonight I 
 should go mad. 
 
 MER. But if Severe comes and sees you? 
 
 ERN. What difference will that make to me? He's an 
 honorable man. All the better! Let him come. He who 
 fears runs away, and he fears who has deceived, so it's not 
 likely that I shall either run from him or fear him. 
 
 PEP. [Listening] Some one is coming. 
 
 MER. It's he. 
 
 PEP. It's not he. Teodora! 
 
 ERN. It's Teodora! . . . Teodora! ... I want to see her! 
 
 MER. [Sternly] Ernesto! 
 
 PEP. Ernesto! 
 
 ERN. Yes, to ask her to forgive me. 
 
 MER. You don't realize 
 
 ERN. I realize everything, and I understand. We two 
 together? Oh, no Enough! You needn't be afraid. I 
 may give my blood for her, give my life, my future, my 
 honor, and my conscience. . . . But see each other! Never . . . 
 It's no longer possible a blood -red cloud separates us! 
 
 [He goes out, left. 
 
 MER. Leave me alone with her. Go in with your father. 
 I want to search the very bottom of her heart. I know too 
 well that my words will be like daggers to her. 
 
 PEP. Well, I leave you together. 
 
 MER. Good-bye. 
 
 PEP. Good-bye. [He goes out, right. 
 
 MER. Now, to work! [TEODORA enters timidly, and stops by 
 JULIAN'S door. She listens anxiously, stifling her sobs with 
 her handkerchief ] Teodora . . . 
 
 TEO. Is that you? 
 
 MER. Courage! What good will it do to weep? 
 
 TEO. How is he? How is he? The truth! 
 
 MER. Much better.
 
 73 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT in 
 
 TEO. Will he recover? 
 
 MER. I think so. 
 
 TEO. O God, take my life for his! 
 
 MER. [Brings her forward affectionately] And then . . . 
 then I trust in your judgment, for I see by your tears and 
 your anxiety that you are repentant. 
 
 TEO. Yes. [MERCEDES sits down and watches her suspi- 
 ciously} It's quite true I did very wrong to go and see him. 
 [MERCEDES, seeing that this is not the kind of repentance that 
 she meant, shows her disapproval] But last night you told me 
 about the insult and the duel. . . . I'm grateful for your kind- 
 ness, though you can't realize, and I wouldn't know how to 
 explain to you the harm you have done me. What a night! 
 Groaning and raving! Dear Julian's anger! the scandal! 
 the insult! . . . the blood! . . . the terrible struggle! ... It all 
 passed before my eyes! And poor Ernesto, too, perhaps 
 dying for me. . . . Why do you look at me that way? What 
 harm is there in that? Don't you believe me? Do you think 
 as the rest do? 
 
 MER. [Drily] I think you needn't have feared for this 
 young man's life. 
 
 TEO. No? Nebreda is a famous swordsman! You see 
 my Julian 
 
 MER. In brief, your Julian is avenged and the duellist is 
 laid low with a wound in his heart, so your doubts and fears 
 were unfounded. [Coldly and meaningly] 
 
 TEO. [With interest] Did Ernesto do it? 
 
 MER. Yes, Ernesto. 
 
 TEO. He met the viscount? 
 
 MER. Face to face! 
 
 TEO. [Unable to control herself] Ah, how brave and noble! 
 
 MER. Teodora! 
 
 TEO. What is it? Tell me. 
 
 MER. I can read your thoughts.
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 73 
 
 TEO. My thoughts? 
 
 MER. Yes. 
 
 TEO. What thoughts? 
 
 MER. You know very well! 
 
 TEO. I did wrong to show my happiness at seeing Julian 
 avenged; but it was an impulse from my heart that I couldn't 
 control. 
 
 MER. That's not what you were thinking. 
 
 TEO. Then you must know more about it than I do? 
 
 MER. [Meaningly] Listen, when the heart admires greatly 
 it is on the road to love. 
 
 TEO. You say I admire something? 
 
 MER. This young man's courage. 
 
 TEO. His goodness. 
 
 MER. It's all one, that is the beginning. 
 
 TEO. These are the ravings of madness. 
 
 MER. It is madness ... on your part. 
 
 TEO. Will you never understand! . . . Always this terrible 
 idea? Why, I feel only infinite pity! 
 
 MER. For whom? 
 
 TEO. For whom would it be? For Julian! 
 
 MER. Have you never heard that pity and forgetfulness 
 go hand in hand in women! 
 
 TEO. Be still, for mercy's sake! 
 
 MER. I want to awaken your conscience with the voice of 
 my experience and the light of truth. [A "pause. 
 
 TEO. I am listening to you, and as I listen you seem to 
 me not like a mother, a sister, or a friend; your words 
 sound to me as though Satan were counselling you and 
 inspiring you and speaking through your lips. Why do you 
 want to convince me that my love for my husband is a 
 lie a lie of the soul and that a rival love is foully growing 
 there, whose flame consumes and defiles? Why, I love him 
 as I have always loved him, I would give the very last drop
 
 74 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT in 
 
 of the blood that runs through my veins and sets me on fire, 
 for a single instant of life for that man from whom they 
 separate me. I would go in there this very minute if your 
 husband would let me. And I would clasp Julian in my arms 
 and would bathe him with my tears, with such tender love 
 and such passion that his doubts would be consumed by the 
 fire of our souls. But just because I adore Julian, must I be 
 so ungrateful as to hate the noble and generous man who 
 risked his life for me? And if I don't hate him, must I love 
 him? Heaven help me! The world thinks such things. I 
 hear such strange stories, I see such sad things happen, I have 
 such slanders heaped upon me, that sometimes I begin to 
 doubt myself and I ask myself in horror: Am I, perhaps, 
 what they all say I am? Do I nourish an unlawful passion 
 in the very depths of my being, consuming me without my 
 knowledge, and will the evil flame break out some sad and 
 ill-omened hour and overpower my will and my senses? 
 
 MER. Are you telling me the truth? 
 
 TEO. The absolute truth. 
 
 MER. You don't love him? 
 
 TEO. Listen, Mercedes. I don't know how to convince 
 you. Any other time such a question would make my blood 
 boil; yet now, as you see, I am calmly discussing the question 
 whether or not I am an honest woman. Can that mean that 
 I really am one? At the bottom of my heart? No; to endure 
 the humiliation is to deserve the shame. 
 
 She hides her face in her hands and sinks down on the 
 settle. 
 
 MER. Don't cry. Come, I believe you. Don't cry, 
 Teodora. Enough. No more of this. Just one word more, 
 Teodora, and then I have finished. Ernesto is not what 
 you think him: he doesn't deserve your confidence. 
 
 TEO. He is good, Mercedes. 
 
 MER. No.
 
 ACT m THE GREAT GALEOTO 75 
 
 TEO. He loves Julian. 
 
 MER. He is deceiving him. 
 
 TEO. Again! Good heavens! 
 
 MER. I don't say that you would listen to his declarations. 
 I only say ... I only say that he loves you. 
 
 TEO. [In horror, rising] He loves me? 
 
 MER. Every one knows it. A little while ago in this very 
 room, before me, before my son . . . now, you see. 
 
 TEO. [Anxiously] Well, go on. What was it? 
 
 MER. He confessed it openly, and in impassioned words 
 swore that for you he would give life, honor, conscience, 
 and soul. And when you came he wanted to see you, 
 and it was only by urgent insistence that I persuaded 
 him to go in there. I am on pins and needles now for 
 fear Severo may find him, and his anger break out! Now 
 what do you say? 
 
 TEO. [In spite of herself she has followed this speech with a 
 strange, indefinable mixture of interest, horror, and fear] Good 
 heavens! Can such infamy be? And I grieved for him! I 
 professed such sincere affection for him! 
 
 MER. Are you crying again? 
 
 TEO. Can the soul help weeping at the disillusionments of 
 this unhappy life? A man so noble, so pure ... to see him 
 fallen and defiled! You say he is in there! He! Ernesto! 
 Holy Virgin! Listen, Mercedes Mercedes he must leave 
 this house! 
 
 MER. [With real joy] That is what I want. Your vehem- 
 ence delights me. Forgive me. Now I believe you. 
 
 TEO. But you didn't before? 
 
 MER. Hush! Be still! He is coming! 
 
 TEO. [Impatiently] I won't see him! You tell him. . . . 
 Julian is waiting for me. [Turning to the right] 
 
 MER. Impossible. . . . You know it now. . . . And he won't 
 obey me. Now that I fully understand your feelings, I
 
 76 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACTIII 
 
 want him to see in you the scorn which he met with before in 
 my words. 
 
 TEO. Let me go. 
 
 Enter ERNESTO. 
 
 ERN. [Stopping at the entrance] Teodora! 
 
 MER. [Aside to TEODORA] It's too late. Do your duty 
 and that will be enough. [Aloud to ERNESTO] Teodora, as 
 mistress of this house, is going to repeat to you the command 
 that you heard from my lips a little while ago. 
 
 TEO. [In a low voice to MERCEDES] Don't leave me. 
 
 MER. Are you afraid of something? 
 
 TEO. I afraid! I fear nothing! 
 
 [Signs to her to go. She goes out, right. 
 
 ERN. The command was . . . that I should go away. [A 
 pause. They are both silent and do not dare look at each otJier] 
 And you ... do you repeat it now? [TEODORA makes a sign 
 of assent, but does not meet his eye] Then don't be afraid, 
 Teodora. I obey, I respect your commands. [Sadly and re- 
 spectfully] The others sha'n't make me obey.little as it pleases 
 them. [Harshly] But from you even though you hurt 
 from you I can suffer all things. 
 
 TEO. Hurt you, Ernesto! No. Do you think that I . . . ? 
 
 ERN. I don't think so. [Another pause. 
 
 TEO. [Without turning round or looking at him] Good-bye. 
 I wish you all happiness. 
 
 ERN. Good-bye, Teodora. [He pauses a moment, but site does 
 not turn, or look at him, or put out her hand. Finally he starts 
 to go. Then he turns and goes up to her. TEODORA feels 
 him coming, but does not turn her eyes toward him] If I could 
 wipe out now by my death all the harm I have done you in 
 spite of myself, because of my unhappy fate, I give you my 
 word of honor that soon not even a shadow of the past 
 would remain, not a sigh of agony, nor that sad pallor, 
 [TEODORA raises her head and loofo at him in terror] nor that
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 77 
 
 look that frightens me, not a sob in your throat, [TEODORA 
 does indeed stifle a sob] not a tear on your cheek. 
 
 TEO. [Aside, drawing away from ERNESTO] Mercedes told 
 the truth, and I, blind, heedless 
 
 ERN. Give me just one word of farewell just one, I beg. 
 
 TEO. Good-bye. Yes. ... I forgive the wrong you have 
 done us. 
 
 ERN. That I have done, I, Teodora! 
 
 TEO. Yes. 
 
 ERN. That look, that tone! 
 
 TEO. No more, Ernesto, please! 
 
 ERN. What have I done to deserve this? 
 
 TEO. It is as though I had never existed. All is over be- 
 tween us. 
 
 ERN. These scornful words! 
 
 TEO. [Hoarsely, pointing to the door] Go! 
 
 ERN. You tell me to go like that! 
 
 TEO. My husband is dying in there . . . and I am dying 
 here, too. 
 
 She totters, and has to support herself by the arm of 
 the chair so as not to fall. 
 
 ERN. {Hurrying to help her} Teodora! 
 
 TEO. [Repulsing him violently} Don't touch me. Leave 
 me alone! [A pause] Oh, my heart is breaking! 
 
 She tries to take a few steps, her strength fails her, and 
 ERNESTO again tries to support her. She repulses 
 him and draws away. 
 
 ERN. Why won't you let me? 
 
 TEO. [Harshly] Because you defile me. 
 
 ERN. You say I defile you? 
 
 TEO. Certainly. 
 
 ERN. [A pause] Good heavens, what is she saying? She, 
 too! Impossible! . . . Death would be better than this! . . . 
 It's not true! I'm going mad! . . . Say it's not so, Teodora!
 
 78 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT m 
 
 In Heaven's name, speak one word of forgiveness, or comfort, 
 or pity, senora! I agree to leave you and never see you again, 
 though it breaks my heart it is killing me! But I do this on 
 the condition that your affection and your esteem shall fol- 
 low me in my solitude, together with your forgiveness ... at 
 least your pity! I must believe that you believe I am faithful 
 and honorable, that I neither defile nor have defiled, that I 
 neither wrong nor will wrong you! I care little for the world. 
 I scorn its curses, and its anger fills me with profound con- 
 tempt. Even though it hits me cruelly, wantonly; though 
 it whispers about what I have been, it can never think as ill 
 of me as I think of it. But you the purest being imaginable 
 you, for whom I swear I would gladly give a thousand times 
 not only my life on earth, but my place in heaven, for you 
 to think me capable of treachery! Oh, not that, Teodora, 
 not that! 
 
 TEO. You don't understand. We must separate, Ernesto. 
 
 ERN. It is impossible. 
 
 TEO. At once. I implore you. [Pointing to the door] 
 Julian is suffering. 
 
 ERN. I know it. 
 
 TEO. Then we mustn't forget it. 
 
 ERN. No, but I'm suffering, too. 
 
 TEO. You, Ernesto? Why? 
 
 ERN. Because you despise me. 
 
 TEO. Oh, I don't. 
 
 ERN. You said so. 
 
 TEO. I lied. 
 
 ERN. No, you meant it. So we are not suffering equally. 
 In this eternal struggle, in this relentless warfare, he suffers 
 as men suffer on earth, and I as they do in hell. 
 
 TEO. Good heavens, my brain is on fire! 
 
 ERN. My heart is breaking. 
 
 TEO. Stop, Ernesto. Have some pity.
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 79 
 
 ERN. That's all I ask. 
 
 TEO. Pity? 
 
 ERN. Yes, pity. What is it that you fear from me, or 
 think of me? 
 
 TEO. Forgive me, if I have hurt you. 
 
 ERN. Hurt! No. The truth. I want the truth! I ask 
 it on bended knees, with tears in my eyes. 
 
 He kneels before TEODORA and takes her hand. At this 
 point SEVERO appears in the doorway of JULIAN'S 
 room and stands there. 
 
 SEV. [Aside] The wretches ! 
 
 TEO. Don Severo! 
 
 ERNESTO leaves TEODORA and goes to the right. SEVERO 
 comes forward between him and TEODORA. 
 
 SEV. [To ERNESTO, with concentrated fury, but in a low 
 tone, so that JULIAN may not hear] Since I can find no words 
 to express my anger and my contempt, I shall have to con- 
 tent myself with saying, "You are a scoundrel. Go at 
 once!" 
 
 ERN. Out of respect to Teodora and to this house, because 
 of him who is suffering on that bed, I shall have to content 
 myself with answering ... by silence. 
 
 SEV. [Ironically, thinking that he is going] To be silent and 
 obey is the part of prudence. 
 
 ERN. You misunderstood. I don't obey. 
 
 SEV. You are going to stay here? 
 
 ERN. Provided that Teodora does not confirm your com- 
 mand, I stay here. A few minutes ago I was about to leave, 
 but God or the devil detained me. You came, you tried to 
 throw me out, and at once, just as though your harsh words 
 were some devil's spell, I felt roots shooting out from the 
 soles of my feet and taking firm hold in the ground. 
 
 SEV. I'll try calling the servants to see whether they can 
 tear them out by force.
 
 80 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT in 
 
 EBN. Try. 
 
 He takes a step toward SEVERO with a threatening air. 
 
 TEODOKA rushes between them and restrains him. 
 TEO. Ernesto. [Then turning to her uncle, with spirit and 
 dignity] You forget, doubtless, that in my house, while my 
 husband, its master, is living, we, and we alone, have the 
 right and the authority to command. [To EKNESTO, sweetly] 
 Not for his sake but for mine because I am in trouble. 
 
 ERNESTO cannot conceal his joy tliat TEODORA is 
 
 defending him. 
 
 ERN. Teodora, do you wish it? 
 TEO. I ask this of you. 
 
 [ERNESTO bows respectfully and turns to go. 
 SEV. Your audacity amazes and horrifies me as much 
 no, far more than Ernesto's. [He approaches TEODORA with 
 a threatening look. ERNESTO, who has taken several steps, 
 stops; then, making an effort to control himself, goes on] Do 
 you dare lift up your head, unhappy woman, and before 
 me, too! Bow your head to the dust. [ERNESTO makes the 
 same movements as before, but more markedly] Where did you, 
 poor, trembling little coward, find those spirited words to 
 defend him? Passion is eloquent! [ERNESTO, now at the 
 back, stops] But you forget that before throwing him out, 
 Severe knew enough to turn you out of this house, which 
 you have stained with Julian's blood. Why have you come 
 back? 
 
 He seizes her brutally by tlte arm and gradually gets 
 
 nearer and nearer to her. 
 
 ERN. Oh, I can't! No! [He rushes up to SEVERO and 
 TEODORA and separates them] Let go of her, you scoundrel! 
 SEV. Again! 
 ERN. Again! 
 SEV. You come back! 
 ERN. Since you dare harm Teodora, what can I do but
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 81 
 
 [He has lost all control of himself] come back, come back and 
 punish your insolence, and call you a coward to your face? 
 
 SEV. Me! 
 
 ERN. Yes! 
 
 TEO. No! 
 
 ERN. He brought it on himself. I saw him lay hands on 
 you in anger. On you on you! Like this. 
 
 [He seizes SEVERO violently by the arm. 
 
 SEV. Insolent! 
 
 ERN. True. But I'm not going to let go. Did you ever 
 have a mother? Yes. Did you love her very much? Did 
 you respect her still more? Well, you are to respect Teodora 
 as much, and you are to humble yourself before the terrible 
 grief of this woman! Of this woman, purer and more hon- 
 orable than your mother, you hound! 
 
 SEV. You dare say these things to me? 
 
 ERN. Yes, and I've not finished yet. 
 
 SEV. You shall pay for this with your life. 
 
 ERN. With my life. But now . . . [TEODORA tries to separate 
 tfiem, but he puts her gently aside with one hand] You probably 
 believe in a God. You must ... a creator ... a future hope! 
 Good! Well, just as you bend your sluggish knees before 
 the altar of God in heaven, you must bend them now before 
 Teodora. Now, at once! Down! Into the dust! 
 
 TEO. Oh, have pity! 
 
 ERN. To the ground ! 
 
 [He forces SEVERO to kneel before TEODORA. 
 
 TEO. Stop! Ernesto! 
 
 SEV. The devil! 
 
 ERN. At her feet. 
 
 SEV. You dare! 
 
 ERN. I! 
 
 SEV. Before her! 
 
 ERN. Yes.
 
 82 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT m 
 
 TEO. Stop! Silence! 
 
 TEODORA, terrified, points to JULIAN'S room. ER- 
 NESTO lets go his prisoner. SEVERO rises and goes 
 back toward the right. TEODORA goes to the back, 
 toward ERNESTO. In this way he and she form a 
 separate group. 
 JUL. [Without] Let me go. 
 MER. No. 
 
 JUL. It is they. Come! 
 TEO. [To ERNESTO] Go! 
 SEV. [To ERNESTO] My revenge! 
 ERN. I admit it. 
 
 At this moment JULIAN appears, pale, haggard, half- 
 dying, supported by MERCEDES. 
 
 JUL. Together! Where are they going? Stop them! 
 They're running away from me. Traitors! 
 
 He tries to throw himself upon them, but his strength 
 
 fails him, and he totters. 
 SEV. [Rushing up to support him] No! 
 JUL. Severe, they deceived me . . . they lied. Wretches! 
 [As he is talking, MERCEDES and SEVERO lead him over to the 
 settle] Over there! Look! Both of them she and Ernesto! 
 Why are they together? 
 
 " [ [Drawing away from each other] No! 
 K K\. ) 
 
 JUL. Why don't they come here? Teodora! 
 
 TEO. [Stretching out her arms, but not going any nearer] 
 Dear Julian. 
 
 JUL. Come to me! [TEODORA rushes into JULIAN'S arms 
 and he embraces her violently. A pause] Do you see? Now, 
 do you see? [To his brother] I know they are deceiving me 
 and I clasp her in my arms and hold her there . . . and I 
 could kill her! . . . And she deserves it! ... And I look at her. 
 . . . / look at her, and I cannot!
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 83 
 
 TEO. Julian! 
 
 JUL. And that man? [Pointing to ERNESTO] 
 
 ERN. Senor 
 
 JUL. And I loved him ! Be still, and come here! [ERNESTO 
 goes up to him. He holds TEODORA] I am still her master! 
 
 TEO. I am yours! I am yours! 
 
 JUL. Don't pretend! Don't lie to me. 
 
 MER. [Trying to calm him] Please! 
 
 SEV. Julian! 
 
 JUL. [To both] Hush; be still! [To TEODORA] I've found 
 you out. I know that you love him. [TEODORA and ERNESTO 
 try to protest, but he will not let them] Why, Madrid knows it! 
 All Madrid! 
 
 ERN. No, father. 
 
 TEO. No. 
 
 JUL. They deny it; they still deny it. Why, I have evi- 
 dence. I feel it in my very being. This fever that is burn- 
 ing me up lightens my mind with its flame. 
 
 ERN. These stories are all the children of the fever in your 
 blood, of your deliriums. Listen, senor! 
 
 JUL. You're going to lie to me! 
 
 ERN. [Pointing to TEODORA] She is innocent. 
 
 JUL. I don't believe you. 
 
 ERN. By the memory of my father, senor 
 
 JUL. Don't profane his name and his memory. 
 
 ERN. By my mother's last kiss 
 
 JUL. Her last kiss is no longer on your forehead. 
 
 ERN. Then by anything you wish, dear father, I will swear 
 it, I will swear it. 
 
 JUL. No oaths, no lying words or protestations! 
 
 ERN. Then what will satisfy you? 
 
 JUL. Deeds! 
 
 ERN. What does he want, Teodora? What is he asking us 
 to do?
 
 84 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT in 
 
 TEO. I don't know. What shall we do? What shall we 
 do, Ernesto? 
 
 JUL. [Who la watching them with feverish eye* full of in- 
 stinctive distrust] Ah, you're planning deceits before my very 
 eyes. Wretches! You're plotting together. I see you. 
 
 ERN. You see with your fever, not with your eyes. 
 
 JUL. Yes, with my fever. My fever's a flame that has 
 consumed the veil that you two drew in front of my eyes, and 
 at last I see. Why do you look at each other now? Why, 
 traitors? Why do your eyes shine? Speak, Ernesto. It's 
 not the shining of tears. Come closer, closer! [He farces 
 them to come near, make him bow his head, and at last kneel 
 before him. JULIAN now is between TEODORA, who is beside 
 him, and ERNESTO, who is at his feet. In this position he 
 passes his hand over ERNESTO'S eyes] Do you see? It's not 
 tears; they're quite dry. 
 
 ERN. Forgive me, forgive me! 
 
 JUL. Why, if you ask forgiveness, you confess your sin! 
 
 ERN. No! 
 
 JUL. Yes! 
 
 ERN. It's not true. 
 
 JUL. Then let your eyes meet before me. 
 
 SEV. Julian! 
 
 MER. Sefior! 
 
 JUL. [To TEODORA and ERNESTO] Perhaps you're afraid? 
 Don't you love each other like brother and sister? Then 
 prove it. Let your souls look out of your wide pupils, and 
 let the rays of their chaste light mingle before me so that 
 when I look very closely I may see whether those rays are 
 light or fire. You, too, Teodora! Come, you must! Do 
 it, both of you! 
 
 He makes TEODORA kneel before him, faces them near 
 together, and makes them look at each other. 
 
 TEO. [Drawing away with a violent effort] Ah, no!
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 85 
 
 ERX. [Trie* to free himself, but JULJAX hsJdt him] I cannot. 
 JCL. You love each other, you love each other! I saw it 
 dearly! [To EJCTESTO] You shall pay for this with your 
 life! 
 
 Em. Ye*. 
 
 JCL. With your blood! 
 Era. With every drop! 
 JUL. BestflL 
 
 TEO. [Trying to calm him] Julian! 
 JCL, Do you defend him? Defend him? 
 TEO. It's not for his sake! 
 SEV. By heaven! 
 
 Juu iroSevEKo] Silence! [7V> Emrarro] Unnatural on! 
 EKX. Father! 
 Jcu Deceiver! traitor! 
 Era. No: father! 
 
 JUL. Today I am going to put the brand of shame upon 
 your cheek with my hand! . . . later with my sword! 
 
 With a supreme ejfort he rises and strikes EK.VEHTO in 
 the face . EiorEHTO yiten a terrible cry and yoe* away 
 to the left, altering hit face. 
 Eow. Ah! 
 
 SET. [Painting to EKXEHTOJ A just punishment! 
 TED. My God! 
 
 [Hhe hides her face in her hand* and rink* into a chair. 
 MEJL. [To EKXHSTO, a* though excusing JUUAV] It was 
 defanum. 
 
 These four cries are in quick succession, then come a few 
 moments of stupefaction. JULIAJT stands looking at 
 EJDTOTO. MEBCEDBK omf SEVEBO support him. 
 Jci*. Delirium? No: punishment! Wretch, what did you 
 expect? 
 
 Mnu Let's go, let's go. 
 SET. Come, Julian.
 
 86 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT m 
 
 JUL. Yes. I'm coming. 
 
 He walks painfully to his room, supported by SEVERO 
 and MERCEDES, but stops from time to time to look at 
 ERNESTO and TEODORA. 
 
 MER. Quick, Severe! 
 
 JUL. Look at them, the wretches ... It was justice! Isn't 
 that true? Isn't that true? I think so. 
 
 SEV. Julian, for my sake! 
 
 JUL. You alone! You alone! You loved me. 
 
 [Embracing him. 
 
 SEV. I? Of course. 
 
 JUL. [Stops in the doorway and looks at them again] And she is 
 weeping for him, and she doesn't follow me! She doesn't even 
 look at me! She doesn't see . . . that I'm dying! Yes, dying! 
 
 SEV. Julian! 
 
 JUL. Wait, wait! Shame for shame; good-bye, Ernesto. 
 JULIAN, SEVERO, and MERCEDES go out, right. ER- 
 NESTO sinks into the chair by the table. TEODORA 
 remains standing. A pause. 
 
 ERN. [Aside] What good is loyalty? 
 
 TEO. What good is innocence? 
 
 ERN. My conscience is troubled. 
 
 TEO. Have mercy, God, have mercy! 
 
 ERN. Poor child! 
 
 TEO. Poor Ernesto! 
 
 SEV. [Without, in great anguish] Brother! 
 
 MER. Help! 
 
 PEP. Quick! 
 
 TEO. Cries of grief! 
 
 ERN. Of death! 
 
 TEO. Let's go at once! 
 
 ERN. Where? 
 
 TEO. In there! 
 
 ERN. [Checking her] We can"
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 87 
 
 TEO. Why not? [Anxiously] I want him to live. 
 ERN. And I, but I can't [Pointing to JULIAN'S room] 
 TEO. I can. [Rushing to the door] 
 
 SEVEBO comes out a moment after PEPITO, and blocks 
 
 TEODORA'S way. 
 SEV. Where are you going? 
 TEO. [Desperately] I want to see him. 
 PEP. It's impossible. 
 
 SEV. Don't let her in. Is that woman in my house! 
 Quick put her out, without pity. Immediately. 
 ERN. What is he saying? 
 TEO. I am going mad! 
 
 SEV. Even if your mother shields her, you must obey my 
 commands, son. If she begs, if she implores, if she weeps 
 . . . Let her weep. [With concentrated anger] Get her far away, 
 or I shall kill her. 
 
 TEO. Are those Julian's orders? 
 
 PEP. Yes, Julian's! 
 
 ERN. Her husband's? Impossible! 
 
 TEO. I must see him! 
 
 SEV. Well, you shall see him, and then leave this house. 
 
 PEP. [.4s though urishing to oppose him] Father ! 
 
 SEV. Let me be! 
 
 TEO. It can't be true! 
 
 PEP. It's terrible. 
 
 TEO. A lie! 
 
 SEV. Come, Teodora . . . come and see! 
 
 He seizes her by the arms, drags her to the door of 
 
 JULIAN'S room and points inside. 
 TEO. He! Julian! My dear Julian! Dead! 
 
 [She falls, fainting. 
 ERN. Father! 
 
 He hides his face. A pause. SEVERO watches them in 
 anger.
 
 88 THE GREAT GALEOTO ACT m 
 
 SEV. [To his son] Put her out! 
 
 PEP. [Hesitating] Sefior ? 
 
 SEV. I command it. Do you hesitate? 
 
 EBN. Have some pity. 
 
 SEV. Pity. Yes. As she had for him. 
 
 ERN. Oh, my blood boils! I'll leave Spain. 
 
 SEV. Very well. 
 
 ERN. I'll die! 
 
 SEV. Life is short. 
 
 ERN. For the last time 
 
 SEV. No. 
 
 ERN. She's innocent, I tell you. I swear she is. 
 
 PEP. [Trying to intercede] Father 
 
 SEV. [Pointing scornfully at ERNESTO] He lies. 
 
 ERN. So you turn me out to sink or swim? Well, I won't 
 struggle. I'll go with the current. What she will think of 
 the world, and of the wrong you have done, I can't guess, 
 for her lips are mute and her mind is asleep, but I am going 
 to tell you what I think. 
 
 SEV. It's useless. [Starting to go to TEODORA] You can't 
 keep me from 
 
 PEP. [Restraining him] Father! 
 
 ERN. No! [A pause] Let no one come near this woman. 
 She is mine. The world decreed it; I accept its judgment. 
 I carry her away in my arms. Come, Teodora. [He lifts 
 her up] You turn her out of here! We obey! 
 
 SEV. At last. Scoundrel! 
 
 PEP. Rascal! 
 
 ERN. Yes, I am all that! Now you are right. Now I 
 admit it! Do you want passion? Well, here is passion, 
 madness! Do you want love? Here is love immeasurable! 
 Do you want more? Then I'll give more! I'm not afraid. 
 You thought of the plot. I only pick up my cue! Now tell 
 all about it, tell all about it. Waken the echoes with this
 
 ACT in THE GREAT GALEOTO 89 
 
 fine bit of news! But if any one asks you who was the in- 
 famous accomplice in this infamous affair, say to him, "You 
 yourself; though you didn't know it. You and the tongues 
 of other fools!" Come, Teodora, my mother's spirit is watch- 
 ing over you. Good-bye. She belongs to me now! And in 
 due time may heaven judge between you and me! 
 
 Curtain.
 
 BENITO PISREZ-GALDOS 
 
 BENITO PEREZ-GALDOS, like Echegaray, is one of Spain's 
 foremost writers. He is best known as a novelist, though 
 his activities in the field of the drama during the past twenty- 
 five years have placed him high in the minds of his country- 
 men as a dramatist. He was born in the Canary Islands, at 
 Las Palmas, in 1845. At an early age he went to Madrid, 
 to study law, but finding that the work was unsuited to his 
 temperament, he turned to journalism. He soon began writ- 
 ing fiction, which was to be his life-work, and produced a 
 series of romances "National Episodes" which, together 
 with a subsequent series, have made his name celebrated 
 throughout the civilized world. He did not seriously turn 
 to the drama until comparatively late in his career.
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE 
 PLAYS OF BENITO PEREZ -GALDOS 
 
 Realidad 1892 
 
 La loca de la casa 1893 
 
 Gerona 1893 
 
 La de San Quentin 1894 
 
 Los Condenados 1894 
 
 Voluntad 1895 
 
 DonaPerfecta 1896 
 
 La Fiera 1896 
 
 Electra 1901 
 
 Alma y Vida 1902 
 
 Mariucha 1903 
 
 El Abuelo 1904 
 
 Barbara 1905 
 
 Amor y Ciencia , 1905 
 
 Casandra 1906 
 
 Pedro Minio 1908 
 
 Celia en los Infiernos 1908 
 
 Alceste 1914 
 
 El Tacano Sal6mon 1916 
 
 Electra, translated under the same title, is published in 
 The Drama, May, 1911; El Abuelo as The Grandfather by 
 Elizabeth Wallace, in Poet-Lore, 1911. 
 
 References: The Drama, May, 1911; Atlantic Monthly, 
 vol. cii, p. 358; Era, vol. x, p. 535; Critic, vol. xxxix, p. 213, 
 and vol. xlv, p. 447; Barrett H. Clark, The Continental 
 Drama of Today (Henry Holt & Co.); Revue des deux 
 Mondes, Seme periode, 1906; Manuel Bueno, Teatro Es- 
 panol contemporaneo (Madrid, 1909); L. Alas, B. PeVez- 
 Gald6s (Madrid, 2nd ed., 1889); J. Martinez Ruiz (Azorin), 
 Lecturas Espafiolas (1912).
 
 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTHs 
 
 (La de San Quentin) 
 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 BY BENITO PEREZ-GALD6S 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 PHILIP M. HAYDEN 
 
 Presented for the first time in the Teatro de la Comedia, Madrid, January 27, 1894
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 ROSARIO DE TRASTAMABA, Duchess of San Quentin (Age 27) 
 
 RUFINA (Age 15) 
 
 LORENZA, Buendia's housekeeper 
 
 RAFAELA, Rosarws maid 
 
 DON CESAR DE BuENnfA, Rufina's father (Age 55) 
 
 VICTOR (Age 28) 
 
 DON Josfe MANUEL DE BUEND! A, Don Cesar's father (Age 88) 
 
 MARQUIS DE FALFAN DE LOS GODOS (Age 35) 
 
 CANSECO, Notary (Age 50) 
 
 Two GENTLEMEN 
 
 THREE LADIES 
 
 The action takes place in a seaport of northern Spain, desig- 
 nated by the imaginary name of Ficobriga. 
 Time, the present. Summer.
 
 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Room in BuENDf A'S house. At the rear, on the left, a large 
 door back-drop beyond through which enter those who 
 come from outside or from the garden, and a large window 
 through which trees are seen. Two doors at the right, and 
 one large one at the left, leading to the dining-room. Fur- 
 nishings of black walnut, a desk with drawers, chests, 
 all neat and clean. Religious pictures, and two or three 
 of ships and steamers; on the back wall a large painting of 
 the ship "Rufina." The setting should give the impression 
 of a pleasant village home, indicating comfort, neatness, 
 and simple habits. Table at the right; small table at left. 
 Daylight. "Right" and "left" refer to the spectator. 
 
 DON JOSE, seated, in the arm-chair near the table. At his side, 
 RUFINA. At the left, by the small table, DON CESAR and 
 a LADY. At the right, by the table, two LADIES, seated, 
 and two GENTLEMEN, standing. In the center of the stage, 
 CANSECO, standing. LOBENZA is passing in and out, 
 serving sherry. On each table, bottles and glasses, and a 
 plate of cakes. 
 
 When the curtain rises, CANSECO is delivering a speech. He has 
 just finished a sentence which has drawn applause and 
 cries of "Bravo" from all those on the stage. With glass 
 in hand, he waits for silence, and continues. 
 
 CANSECO. I conclude, ladies and gentlemen, by proposing 
 the health of our venerable patriarch, the pride and glory of 
 
 95
 
 *6 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 this fair city of commerce and shipping; that distinguished 
 landed proprietor, manufacturer and ship-owner, Don Jos6 
 Manuel de Buendfa, who today does us the honor of com- 
 pleting his eighty-eighth year I mean who today com- 
 pletes . . . and has so kindly invited us ... in short . . . 
 
 [Confused. 
 
 ALL. Good! Good! Goon! 
 
 CANSECO. Let us drink also to the health of his noble son, 
 the gallant Don Ce"sar de Buendfa. [Laughter. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Mocking] Gallant! 
 
 CANSECO. I mean, of the noble Don Ce"sar, heir to the enor- 
 mous name and brilliant fortune, real and personal, of the 
 patriarch whose anniversary we celebrate today. And 
 finally, I drink also to his grandson . . . [Murmurs of surprise. 
 DON JOSE and DON CESAR start. Aside] Ah! ... A slip of 
 the tongue. [Puts his hand to his mouth. 
 
 FIRST LADY. [Aside] That was a slip! 
 
 DON CESAR. [Aside] Bungler! 
 
 CANSECO. [Trying to cover his mistake with coughs and ges- 
 tures, and amending] To his ... I mean ... to his grand- 
 daughter, [Turning to RUFINA] that lovely flower, the delight 
 of the whole city . . . 
 
 RUFINA. [Laughing] Oh, heavens! . . . the whole city! 
 
 CANSECO. Of the family, of ... of ... [Hesitating] In short, 
 long life to Don Jos6, and likewise to Don Ce'sar and little 
 Rufina, for the greater glory of this fair city, celebrated 
 throughout the world for its mines and fisheries, and, paren- 
 thetically, for its incomparable pastries; of this city, I say, 
 in which I have the honor to serve as notary, and in that 
 capacity I can bear witness to the sentiment of the people, 
 and I take the liberty of indicating it to Senor de Buendfa in 
 the form of a warm embrace. 
 
 Embraces him. LORENZA passes cakes to the guests. 
 All eat and drink. Laughter and applause.
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 97 
 
 DON JOSE. Thanks, thanks, my dear Canseco. 
 
 THIRD LADY. [The one beside DON CESAR] What a wonder- 
 ful old man! 
 
 FIRST LADY. His presence is a benediction. 
 
 SECOND LADY. And just as strong as ever, Don Jos6? 
 
 DON JOSE. Like an old oak. No wind can overthrow me, 
 no lightning blast me. Tell that to those who envy my age. 
 My sight is keen, my legs still firm, jnd my mind as clear 
 as day. In fact, there are only two of us in the world : myself 
 and Gladstone. 
 
 FIRST GENTLEMAN. Wonderful! 
 
 CANSECO. What a lesson, gentlemen, what an example! 
 At eighty -eight years of age, he directs his immense business 
 himself, and brings to everything admirable order and system. 
 A marvelous executive, far-sighted, careful of every detail, 
 from the greatest to the smallest. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Modestly] Oh, you exaggerate. 
 
 RUFINA. Not a bit. My grandfather handles a big law- 
 suit, with lots of papers, just the same as he decides the feed 
 that we are to give the hens. 
 
 SECOND GENTLEMAN. And so this house is full of prosperity. 
 
 DON JOSE. Call it order, authority. All who live here 
 under the rule of this old duffer, from my dear son to the 
 last one of my servants, obey blindly the direction of my 
 will. No one acts or thinks without me. I do the thinking 
 for everybody. 
 
 FIRST GENTLEMAN. Just hear that! 
 
 SECOND GENTLEMAN. There's a man for you! 
 
 CANSECO. Born of very humble parents. . . . Parenthet- 
 ically, I know that he's not ashamed of it. ... 
 
 DON JOSE. Certainly not. 
 
 CANSECO. And from his earliest years, he showed an apti- 
 tude for saving. 
 
 DON JOSE. To be sure.
 
 CANSECO. And soon after his marriage he began to be a 
 perfect ant for industry. [Laughter. 
 
 DON JOSE. Don't laugh. The idea is correct. 
 
 DON CESAR. But the form is a little . . . 
 
 CANSECO. In short, in a long and industrious life he has 
 come to be the; thief citizen of Fic6briga. He is allied 
 with some of the most noble and illustrious families of 
 Castile. 
 
 FIRST LADY. Don Jose", are you related to the family of 
 San Quentin? 
 
 DON JOSE. Yes, madam, by the marriage of my sister 
 Demetria to a poor cadet of the house of Trastamara. 
 
 SECOND LADY. And the present Duchess Rosario? 
 
 DON JOSE. My niece, a few times removed. 
 
 CANSECO. You have it all: nobility on one side, and on 
 the other, or better, on all four sides, boundless wealth. 
 Yours are the best country and city properties in the district; 
 yours the two iron mines . . . two mines, gentlemen, and I 
 might better say three [To DON JOSE] because the cannery 
 that you own with Rosie the Fishwife is a mine, and a most 
 productive one. i 
 
 DON JOSE. Not bad. 
 
 FIRST GENTLEMAN. Add to that the tack factory. 
 
 CANSECO. And the two steamers that take the ore to 
 Belgium. And then the two sailing-ships. . . . 
 
 RUFINA. [Quickly] Three. 
 
 CANSECO. That's so. I was not counting the "Rufina," 
 which doesn't go out. 
 
 RUFINA. She does go out. There isn't a better ship on the 
 sea. 
 
 CANSECO. [Oratorically] One more glass, the last one, in 
 honor of this wonderful triumph of industry, gentlemen, of 
 administration, of the sacred principle of thrift. . . . Oh, 
 glorious example of the age of iron, of the age of legal
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 99 
 
 paper, of the age of public confidence, which like . . . which 
 like the . . . [Confused. 
 
 FIRST GENTLEMAN. The pipe is plugged. [All laugh. 
 
 CANSECO. Of the golden age of our literature, I mean of 
 our political economy, of electoral light. [Loud laughter] No, of 
 electric light . . . and of vapor, that is to say, of steam ... of 
 the locomotive . . . Ouf! I have done. [Applause. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Rising] Who is that coming? 
 
 RUFINA. [Looking through tlie window at the back] There's a 
 handsome horse at the big gate. 
 
 DON JOSE. A horse, you said? It must be the Marquis de 
 Falfan de los Godos. 
 
 RUFINA. [Looking out] Himself. 
 
 Enter the MARQUIS DE FALFAN DE LOS GODOS, in an 
 English riding-costume, simple, but elegant. 
 
 MARQUIS. Many happy . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. My dear Marquis! This is kind of you . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. [Aside. Vexed] What brings him here? The 
 good-for-nothing . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. I was just riding down from Las Caldas to 
 Ficobriga, and as I passed through the village toward the 
 bathing-beach, I noticed a crowd of visitors at the door of 
 this honored house. I inquired; they told me that today is 
 the patriarch's birthday, and I hasten to add my congratu- 
 lations to those of the whole town. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Taking his hand] Thanks. 
 
 MARQUIS. And so it is eighty? 
 
 DON JOSE. Eighty-eight. Don't rob me of the little ones. 
 
 MARQUIS. We shan't last so long. [To DON CESAR] You 
 especially. 
 
 DON CESAR. Nor you either. 
 
 MARQUIS. My health is good. 
 
 DON CESAR. What can I do to be able to say the same? 
 Ride horseback?
 
 100 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT'I 
 
 MARQUIS. No. Have less money [In a low tone] and fewer 
 vices. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Aside to MARQUIS] Your lordship is pleased 
 to jest. 
 
 MARQUIS. It's not a joke. It's a fact. 
 
 FIRST GENTLEMAN. Marquis, is there any excitement at 
 Las Caldas? 
 
 MARQUIS. So-so. 
 
 DON JOSE. Aren't you coming down for the bathing this 
 year? 
 
 MARQUIS. Oh, yes. My beloved ocean! Witliin a couple 
 of weeks I shall be established. 
 
 SECOND GENTLEMAN. Did you come with Ivauhoe? 
 
 MARQUIS. No, sir. With Desdemona. 
 
 THIRD LADY. [Surprised] Who's she? 
 
 DON CESAR. It's a mare. 
 
 THIRD LADY. Oh. 
 
 DON JOSE. [With interest] Tell me, did you leave Las Cal- 
 das about ten? 
 
 MARQUIS. I know why you ask. 
 
 DON JOSE. Has the Duchess come? 
 
 MAKQUIS. Rosario? Yes, sir. She told me she would 
 come over at once, in the same carriage that brought her 
 from the station. 
 
 DON JOSE. And is she well? 
 
 MARQUIS. As fine and handsome as ever. Misfortune 
 seems to have no effect on her. She charged me to tell you . . . 
 I've forgotten already. 
 
 DON JOSE. She will tell me. Won't you take a glass of 
 wine? 
 
 MARQUIS. Yes, with pleasure. [RuriNA serves him. 
 
 DON JOSE. And try the cakes, which have made Fic6briga 
 famous. 
 
 MARQUIS. They are delicious. I like them immensely.
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 101 
 
 RUFINA. Home-made. 
 
 MARQUIS. Ah! 
 
 CANSECO. [Taking another cake] And much richer than 
 those you buy. 
 
 The ladies and gentlemen prepare to leave. RUFINA 
 and DON CESAR escort them. 
 
 DON JOSE. Going already? 
 
 FIRST LADY. Many happy returns, once more. 
 
 FIRST GENTLEMAN. I repeat . . . 
 
 SECOND LADY. My dear Don Jose" . . . Marquis . . . 
 
 [The MARQUIS makes a low bow. 
 
 DON JOSE. We will come out to see you off. [To the MAR- 
 QUIS] You will excuse me, I am sure. 
 
 THIRD LADY. Don't trouble. 
 
 Exeunt all but CANSECO and the MARQUIS. The former 
 takes another cake. 
 
 MARQUIS. Excuse me, sir. Have I the honor of addressing 
 the doctor of the town? 
 
 CANSECO. No, sir. Canseco, notary, at your service. 
 
 MARQUIS. Ah, yes, I remember. I had the pleasure of 
 seeing you . . . [Trying to recall] 
 
 CANSECO. Yes, three years ago, when we drew up that 
 note ... for the loan which Don Cesar made you. 
 
 MARQUIS. Yes, yes. You will excuse me if I venture to ask 
 you a question. If my curiosity does not seem impertinent. . . . 
 
 CANSECO. Oh, no, Marquis. 
 
 MARQUIS. Do you know this family well? 
 
 CANSECO. Intimately. I respect the family very . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. And so do I. I have great respect for the old 
 gentleman. . . . But as for his son . . . 
 
 CANSECO. Well, Don Cesar is ... 
 
 MARQUIS. Is what? 
 
 CANSECO. A very handsome man. 
 
 MARQUIS. The biggest rascal God ever made ... an ex-
 
 102 THE DUCHESS OP SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 ample that He must have put into the world to make us 
 wonder at the infinite variety of His creative power, for other- 
 wise . . . Come, confess, Sefior Canseco, that our limited 
 intelligence is incapable of grasping the reason for the 
 existence of certain noxious and venomous creatures. 
 
 CANSECO. For example, mosquitoes, and . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. And so when I get up in the morning, or in the 
 evening, in the short prayer that I address to the sovereign 
 power that rules us, I always conclude by saying: "O Lord, 
 I still don't see the reason for the existence of Don C6sar de 
 Buendia." 
 
 CANSECO. [Aside. Slyly] He owes him money. 
 
 MARQUIS. And . . . tell me, if I am not too inquisitive: 
 This immense fortune acquired by the two Buendfas with- 
 out discussing the why and the how of its acquisition will 
 this immense fortune pass entire to the granddaughter, the 
 lovely Rufina? 
 
 CANSECO. Entire? No. Half, as I understand it. 
 
 MARQUIS. [Understanding] Ah! 
 
 CANSECO. And parenthetically, Marquis, isn't it a pity that 
 that girl, in whom I see an excellent match for either of my 
 sons, should have taken the determination to enter the church? 
 
 MARQUIS. Parenthetically, it seems to me madness. . . . 
 You said half. Well, here is my question. 
 
 CANSECO. What? 
 
 MARQUIS. I am not indiscreet? 
 
 CANSECO. No, indeed. 
 
 MARQUIS [Fills two glasses] Is it true that . . . ? [Hands a 
 glass to CANSECO] Parenthetically, my dear Canseco ... Is it 
 true that Don Ce'sar has a natural son? 
 
 CANSECO. [Glass in hand, like the MARQUIS, without drink- 
 ing] Yes. 
 
 MARQUIS. Is it true that this natural son, the child of an 
 Italian woman named Sarah, has been here?
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 103 
 
 CANSECO. For the last four months. 
 
 MARQUIS. Has his father legitimized him? 
 
 CANSECO. Not yet. 
 
 MARQUIS. Then he intends to do so? 
 
 CANSECO. Yes, sir, for only today he told me to prepare 
 the necessary papers. 
 
 MARQUIS. Good, good. [They drink. 
 
 CANSECO. He's a handsome lad, but he has the devil in 
 him. Brought up in foreign parts, he has a head full of 
 radical, revolutionary, and socialistic ideas. By the grand- 
 father's decree, they have put him to work to reform him, 
 at hard labor, with no rest or let-up. 
 
 MARQUIS. Here? 
 
 CANSECO. He lives at the tack factory, and works there 
 from morning to night, except when they put him on repair 
 jobs here, or on the ships, or in the warehouses . . . for paren- 
 thetically, he is a great mechanic, he can do anything. In- 
 deed, as for talent and ability, I assure you, Victor is a re- 
 markable man. 
 
 MARQUIS. [Calculating] He must be ... twenty-eight 
 years old. 
 
 CANSECO. About that. They have put him in overalls, 
 like a slave. And in fact, such wild ideas, such a violent 
 temperament, deserve a harsh treatment for education's sake, 
 Marquis. They hope to tame him, and parenthetically, I 
 believe they will tame him. 
 
 MARQUIS. Good, good. A thousand thanks, my friend, 
 for having satisfied my curiosity idle curiosity, since I have 
 no reason . . . 
 
 Enter DON CESAR. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Aside] That fool still here! 
 
 MARQUIS. Ah, Don C6sar! It was not only to congratu- 
 late Don Jose 1 that I stopped here, but also to have a few 
 words with you.
 
 104 THE DUCHESS OP SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 DON CESAR. I can guess . . . 
 
 CANSECO. [Moves away to the right and fills another glass] 
 He wants another extension. That makes six. 
 
 MAKQUIS. No doubt you think that I have come to ask for 
 another extension. . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. Naturally. [With feigned regret] And the 
 worst of it is, Marquis, that with the greatest regret, I shall 
 be obliged to refuse it. 
 
 MABQUIS. There is no occasion for regret. I have come to 
 inform the man who has been my nightmare for ten years 
 that . . . [Puts his liand in His pocket] Here is a telegram from 
 my attorney, that I received last night. Read it. [Shows it 
 to him] Yesterday the two notes were cancelled. 
 
 DON CESAR. The big one, too? The one for ten thousand 
 and . . . ? 
 
 MABQUIS. That, and the other, and the whole business. 
 
 CANSECO. [.4*ttfe] He has paid up! Let us celebrate the 
 miracle with another glass, and a cake to go with it. 
 
 [He eats and drinks. 
 
 DON CESAR. This is miraculous! Did you win it in the 
 lottery? 
 
 MARQUIS. I have had a legacy. You are glad to get your 
 money, and I am bursting with joy to find myself free of the 
 humiliating chain that a debt of long standing becomes, es- 
 pecially when the creditor is morally insufferable. 
 
 DON CESAR. [With false humility] You don't mean that 
 for me. 
 
 MARQUIS. [Ironically, but with formal courtesy] Oh, no ... 
 Thank heaven, I am free now to talk about the fabulous 
 multiplication of the interest, which in the last four years 
 has tripled the sum that I owed to your generosity. That is 
 the regular thing, I suppose? 
 
 DON CESAR. [Affecting fieartiness] My dear fellow, it was 
 the rate agreed upon.
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 105 
 
 MARQUIS. Oh, yes, agreed upon. Enough. Out of defer- 
 ence to you, and knowing business and human nature as I do, 
 I will not be so vulgar as to call you a usurer, a Jew, a monster 
 of avarice, as others do, . . . unjustly, no doubt. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Touched, but concealing his anger under a 
 false courtesy] Those who say that are the same ones who pre- 
 sume to call you a worthless scamp. So unjust! 
 
 MARQUIS. [Patting his shoulder] We despise slanderers, 
 don't we? Ah, my dear Don C6sar, what a relief it is to pay! 
 [Drawing a deep breath] I am free, free! I have struck off at 
 last the degrading shackles. When a man pays his debts, my 
 friend, he recovers the control of his faculties. The trials, 
 the deep shame, the thousand devices that insolvency in- 
 volves change our character. A debtor is a different man. . . . 
 I don't know whether you understand me. 
 
 DON CESAR. And so, on fulfilling your obligations, you 
 become again . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. What I always should have been, what I am in 
 reality. 
 
 DON CESAR. [As if trying to close the conversation] I am 
 very glad. And so our account is closed. 
 
 MARQUIS. Closed? 
 
 DON CESAR. So far as I know. 
 
 MARQUIS. Think it over. We may have some old score 
 to settle. 
 
 DON CESAR. Score? With you? There is nothing. 
 
 MARQUIS. It is not a matter of money. 
 
 DON CESAR. Of what, then? Ah! Some supposed of- 
 fense. . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. Just so. 
 
 CANSECO. [Aside] This looks bad. 
 
 DON CESAR. Well, if I have offended you unconsciously, 
 no doubt why didn't you demand an explanation at the time? 
 
 MARQUIS. Because the unhappy debtor, if I must repeat
 
 106 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 it, cannot stand up to the arbiter of his life and of all his acts. 
 A feeling of delicacy, second nature to well-bred men, inter- 
 venes, and the man is bound hand and foot, like a criminal. 
 A loan of money works a tremendous revolution in the normal 
 order of human feelings. 
 
 CANSECO. [Aside] The aristocrat is getting metaphysical ! 
 
 DON CESAR. I don't understand a word, Marquis. Ah! 
 About some woman, perhaps. 
 
 MARQUIS. I am addressing the greatest lady-killer and 
 heart-breaker in the world. 
 
 DON CESAR. That was long ago. Bah! After all these 
 years you sound that old note again! [Laughs] The good 
 Marquis is digging up antiquities. 
 
 MARQUIS. I like to revive old memories. 
 
 DON CESAR. I don't. I am a practical man. The past is 
 dead. And the present, my noble friend, is sad enough for 
 me. [Sitting down, sad and weak] I am very ill. 
 
 MARQUIS. Really? 
 
 DON CESAR. [Dejectedly] Seriously ill, as good as done 
 for. 
 
 MARQUIS. That would be a pity. [Putting his hand on his 
 shoulder] Poor fellow! Avarice and lust will undermine the 
 strongest constitution. 
 
 DON CESAR. But, after all, what offense is this? I don't 
 remember . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. There is no haste. When you recover your 
 health, we will review different periods of cur lives, and in 
 some of them we shall find certain acts which had no excuse 
 and needed one. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Remembering, and trying to palliate the fact] 
 Ah! Do you attach much importance to an innocent jest? 
 
 MARQUIS. [Seriously, repressing his wrath} Jests, eh? Well, 
 now that I am free, don't be surprised if I also . . . And beware 
 of mine!
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 107 
 
 DON CESAR. Or perhaps you refer to occurrences, or acci- 
 dents, due to a lamentable mistake, to a misunderstanding . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. [With emphasis] I, too, can make lamentable 
 mistakes when I want to make trouble. . . . Stabs in the back 
 that I have learned from you. 
 
 CANSECO. [Aside. Confused] Whj, what does this mean? 
 
 DON JOSE. [Entering, weary] They've gone. . . . Thank 
 heaven! 
 
 MARQUIS. I must be off, too. [Shaking hands with DON 
 JOSE] Good-day, sir. 
 
 DON JOSE. My good friend . . . Cesar, go with him. If 
 you meet Rosario on the way, tell her that I am waiting for 
 her eagerly. Good-bye. 
 
 MARQUIS. I will do so. [Bowing to CANSECO] SenorCanseco. 
 
 RUFINA. [Entering quickly] Here is Don Buenaventura de 
 Lantigua. 
 
 DON JOSE. More callers? [To DON CESAR] You receive 
 him. Tell him I'm tired out. And then come back. I want 
 to speak with you. 
 
 DON CESAR [In disgust] Confound the callers! 
 
 Exeunt the MARQUIS and DON CESAR at the back. 
 Enter LORENZA, who gathers up the glasses, etc., aided 
 by RUFINA. 
 
 CANSECO. I also will bid you good-day. [Embraces DON 
 JQSE] Of course you're coming to the tax-payers' meeting at 
 the town hall? 
 
 DON JOSE. [Sitting down, tired] I'll be there. Good-bye. 
 [Exit CANSECO] How much sherry did they drink? 
 
 LORENZA. Eleven bottles. 
 
 DON JOSE. A half-dozen would have been enough. 
 
 LORENZA. And see what's left of the seven pounds of cakes 
 we made today. 
 
 DON JOSE. In these times, it is pretty evident . . . [Re- 
 membering] Ah! Before I forget it ... [Takes out several keys
 
 108 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 and gives one to LORENZA] Get out three bottles of claret for 
 dinner today. 
 
 LORENZA. Very well. And shall I add another meat 
 course? 
 
 DON JOSE. No. 
 
 LORENZA. Since you told me that you would perhaps have 
 a guest . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. [Surprised] Whom? 
 
 RUFINA. Yes, grandfather: the Duchess . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. Oh, yes. But I don't know whether she will 
 dine with us. Anyway, kill a hen. 
 
 RTIFINA. The tufted one? 
 
 DON JOSE. No; keep the tufted one; she's the best. Kill 
 the speckled one. Lorenza, how many eggs did they lay 
 yesterday? 
 
 LORENZA. [Preparing to go] Nine. 
 
 DON JOSE. That's not much. Doesn't pay for the corn 
 they eat. 
 
 LORENZA. The poor things! If they could figure like you, 
 they'd fit their production to the food they eat. But God 
 hasn't made the fowls so ... mathematical. 
 
 [Exit with the crockery. 
 
 DON JOSE. And on the other hand He has made you imper- 
 tinent. [To RUFINA] Your accounts for today. 
 
 RUFINA. [Getting out paper and pencil] Here they are. 
 Meat, seven-and-a-half. Fish, five . . . [Writes. 
 
 DON JOSE. Put it all down, and tonight enter it in the 
 book. I want the accounts and expenses of the house kept 
 up to the hour of my death. Order is heaven's first law, and 
 regularity is my joy. Blessed be figures, which give peace 
 and joy to a long life! 
 
 RUFINA. I must add bird-seed for the canaries, six. And 
 bran for the hens. I bought them both at wholesale to get a 
 better price,
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OP SAN QUENTIN 100 
 
 DON JOSE. [With enthusiasm] You are an angel. The ad- 
 ministering angel. No wonder God wants you for Himself. 
 Are you going to church now? 
 
 RUFINA. [Putting away her papers] I can't go yet. There 
 are more people coming. 
 
 DON JOSE. That's so. 
 
 RUFINA. The captain and crew of the "Rufina." Didn't 
 you know? They are bringing you a pastry ship, with candy 
 masts, and a cargo of sweetmeats. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Pleased] Ha, ha! That will be fine! How 
 many presents today! The capons from the mayor, beauties! 
 
 RUFINA. Yes, and the smoked tongue from Don Cosme. 
 
 DON JOSE. And the ham from the priest. 
 
 LORENZA. [Hastening in from the back] Sefior, the coast- 
 guard men are bringing a dozen cocoanuts; and the tenant 
 of La Juncosa is here with a lot of lard and sausage, and no 
 end of dainties. 
 
 RUFINA. [With joy] I'll go and see him. 
 
 DON JOSE. Give them a glass of wine. 
 
 Exeunt RUFINA and LORENZA. Enter DON CESAR. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Indicating the nearest seat] I panted to see you 
 alone. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Sitting down wearily] Plague take the callers ! 
 
 DON JOSE. We have things to talk over. 
 
 DON CESAR. Go ahead. 
 
 DON JOSE. You are fifty-five years old. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Sighs] Yes, sir. What of it? 
 
 DON JOSE. You're a mere boy. 
 
 DON CESAR. Compared with you. . . . But if we consider 
 health, my father is the boy, and I the old man. If you only 
 knew how badly I have felt for the last few days ! 
 
 [Puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. 
 
 DON JOSE. Come, come, you imagine it. C6sar, be a man. 
 If you're going to get married, there's no time to waste.
 
 110 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 DON CESAR. [Without raising his head] Perhaps you think 
 a second marriage is gaining time! 
 
 DON JOSE. In this case it is. I tell you again that the in- 
 terests of the firm require your marriage to Rosita Moreno. 
 A worthy widow, if they do call her the Fishwife. 
 
 DON CESAR. And you insist on my walking into her net. 
 
 DON JOSE. Precisely. I have weighty reasons for desiring 
 this marriage. It is your duty to raise a family, to insure the 
 dynasty, so to speak. 
 
 DON CESAR. I have a daughter. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Quickly] But Rufina wants to be a nun. 
 
 DON CESAR. I have a son. 
 
 DON JOSE. A natural son, not yet legitimized. 
 
 DON CESAR. I am going to legitimize him. I have told 
 Canseco . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. Yes, but ... I have forbidden the adoption 
 until we have assured ourselves that Victor deserves to belong 
 to our family. In view of the bad reputation he brought 
 from abroad, where he was educated, and from Madrid, where 
 he had been living for some months, I decided, and you 
 agreed to it, that we should observe him for a while under a 
 reformatory system. Now if it turns out to be impossible . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. Victor has ability. 
 
 DON JOSE. If he had some sense along with his ability . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. I hope that the severity with which we treat 
 him will straighten him out. You see that I am inexorable. 
 I keep forever at him. 
 
 DON JOSE. That's all very well; but his radical ideas are 
 so fixed in his mind that . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. The result of bad company and perverted 
 books. I tell you, books are the curse of humanity. 
 
 DON JOSE. Don't exaggerate. There are good books. 
 
 DON CESAR. But in order to find out which are good and 
 which are not, you have to read them all, and that's impos-
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 111 
 
 sible; and so the best thing to do is to forbid reading entirely. 
 . . . Anyway, I am trying to form Victor to our own image 
 and likeness, before admitting him legally into the family. . . . 
 And how that rascal can work. Everything is easy for him. 
 Such intelligence, quickness, skill! 
 
 DON JOSE. But those qualities alone mean little. The 
 workman who hasn't the gift of silence along with his ability 
 is good for nothing. 
 
 DON CESAR. For that reason I have forbidden him to 
 speak to the laborers except to say "Good-morning," "Yes," 
 and "No." I am afraid he may sow some seed of insubordina- 
 tion in the shops. [DoN JOSE begins to nod] To tell the truth, 
 he bewitches me, in spite of myself, hard and dry as I am. 
 And although his ideas about property, labor, politics^ and re- 
 ligion seem to me absurd, he puts his nonsense in such a glit- 
 tering way that he captivates me, fools me. . . . All! if I could 
 only succeed, with this training of hard labor, in bringing 
 that genius back to the straight path. . . . [Noticing that DON 
 JOSE has fallen asleep, with his head on his chest] Why, father! 
 Are you going to sleep? 
 
 DON JOSE. [Waking slowly, and thinking he is talking to 
 some one else] Rosario de Trastamara, Duchess of San 
 Quentin. . . . Forgive me if I tell you that . . . [Waking up] 
 Ah! I thought ... I have that woman's visit so much on 
 my mind that . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. Is that so? Is Rosario coming here? 
 
 DON JOSE. You heard the Marquis of Falfan. She can't 
 be long now. She said in her letter she was coming to ask 
 my advice. " . 
 
 DON CESAR. To ask advice! Translate that into the 1?"- 
 guage of the day to ask for money. 
 
 DON JOSE. Why, is she so badly off? 
 
 DON CESAR. Poor as a church mouse. 
 
 DON JOSE. Is it all gone?
 
 112 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 DON CESAR. Soon after her spendthrift husband died the 
 real estate passed into the hands of three or four creditors. 
 Rosario had to sell the pictures, armor, and tapestries, the 
 plate and china, and even the servants' liveries. 
 
 DON JOSE. What a pity! 
 
 DON CESAR. She disposed of her jewels in Paris, so I 
 heard. Now she has nothing left but her wardrobe, a col- 
 lection of fashionable clothes that are worth nothing. 
 
 DON JOSE. Merciful heaven! To think that so great a 
 house should end like that! Tell me, did you see Rosario in 
 Madrid lately? 
 
 DON CESAR. No, sir. Since the bitter quarrel that I had 
 with her father, the proudest, most obstinate imbecile I ever 
 saw in my life, I have nothing to do with any of the family, 
 and the relationship is a dead letter for them and for me. 
 
 DON JOSE. Poor Rosario! I can't forget that I used to 
 hold her on my knees and kiss her. . . . Surely, if her poverty 
 is as great as you say, we shall have to help her out. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Rising] You can do as you like. I wouldn't 
 give her a penny. She won't ask for it; no, but she will weep. 
 You'll see how she weeps. In that noble family tears are 
 the refined way of begging for alms. [Starts to go. 
 
 DON JOSE. Wait. Listen to me. 
 
 DON CESAR. I must go to the town hall. 
 
 RUFINA. [Running in gaily, through the dining-room} Grand- 
 father, papa, the captain, pilot and sailors from the "Rufina." 
 Come! Come and see the sugar-ship. 
 
 DON JOSE. I am coming. Show them into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 RUFINA. Shall we give them sherry? 
 
 DON JOSE. No; Jamaica rum, the kind that burns your 
 throat. I am coming. Coming, Cesar? 
 
 DON CESAR. No* [Preoccupied] This visit of the Duchess 
 looks suspicious. To ask advice! What for? Can it be she
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 113 
 
 wants to marry again? Poor woman! Pride and poverty 
 are a bad pair. [Seeing VICTOR, who enters upper right] Ah! 
 Victor . . . [Harshly] What are you doing here? 
 
 VICTOR. [Laborer's dress, blowe. He carries various tools] 
 You told me to come at eleven for some work. ... I don't 
 know what. 
 
 DON CESAR. Oh, yes, I remember now. First, did you in- 
 spect the "Rufina"? 
 
 VICTOR. Yes, sir. Yesterday. 
 
 DON CESAR. Can she make another voyage, just one? 
 
 VICTOR. Hardly. Some of her ribs are broken; nearly all 
 her deck timbers need to be replaced. The stern-post and 
 the stem are weak and the mainmast is cracked at the 
 deck. 
 
 DON CESAR. So that it will be dangerous. . . . But one voy- 
 age, just one, in calm season she can do that, surely. 
 
 VICTOR. If she doesn't get back before the October equi- 
 nox, she might not come back at all. 
 
 DON CESAR. Well, all right. We'll send her with ore to 
 England. A return cargo of coal, and then we'll put the ax 
 to her. 
 
 VICTOR. As you please. 
 
 DON CESAR. Have you repaired the rolling-machine that 
 got out of order last week? 
 
 VICTOR. It is done, and works perfectly. 
 
 DON CESAR. Good. Now bring your rule, hammer, and 
 cold-chisel. 
 
 VICTOR. [Showing them] I have them here. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Leading him to door at right] I have told you 
 that I plan to put up another story over these rooms. Meas- 
 ure the three rooms carefully, and make me a plan of them. 
 Examine the thickness of the walls, locate the supporting 
 beams so that you can find them again. . . . And do it right 
 off. Get the plans done today.
 
 114 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 VICTOR. Very well. 
 
 Exit upper right. DON Josfc and RUFINA, returning 
 from the dining-room, see him go out. 
 
 RUFINA. Oh, papa, on a day like tliis isn't there any rest 
 for poor Victor? 
 
 DON JOSE. He will rest later, my dear. 
 
 DON CESAR. What he is doing today is not work for him. 
 
 DON JOSE. Idleness is his worst enemy. 
 
 RUFINA. What tyranny! Everybody is against him. 
 [Firmly] Well, let me tell you that I am here to defend 
 him. 
 
 DON CESAR. You? It seems to me ... 
 LORENZA hurries in at the back. 
 
 LORENZA. Senor, here she is. 
 
 DON CESAR. The Duchess? 
 
 LORENZA. The carriage has just stopped at the gate. She 
 has a maid with her, and there's a cart behind loaded with 
 trunks. 
 
 DON CESAR. I'll make my escape. Good-bye. 
 
 [Exit through dining-room. 
 
 DON JOSE. I will receive her here. [Exit LORENZA] In case 
 she stays to dinner, they had better make some preparation 
 in the kitchen. Order a tin of preserves the good coffee, 
 white sugar. 
 
 RUFINA. Yes, yes. 
 
 DON JOSE. And put some flowers on the table. 
 
 RUFINA. Don't worry. Shall I stay? 
 
 DON JOSE. No. Rosario will want to see me alone. You 
 will see her later. You can go to church. 
 
 RUFINA. Very well, I will. 
 
 Exit through dining-room. Enter ROSARIO at back, 
 dressed in an elegant traveling costume. 
 
 ROSARIO. Serior de Buendia . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. Rosario, my child!
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 115 
 
 ROSARIO. [Examining him] A little older, yes, but so well 
 preserved. What a handsome old fellow you are! 
 
 DON JOSE. And what a handsome young person you are! 
 
 [They sit. 
 
 ROSABIO. This reminds me of my dear grandfather. Do 
 you remember? 
 
 DON JOSE. [Sadly] Ah! 
 
 ROSARIO. And my father. 
 
 DON JOSE. Poor Mariano! If he had done as I said, you 
 would not be in this sad situation today. But with him as 
 well as your mother, the good advice of this old preacher 
 went in one ear and out the other. While I handled the ex- 
 tensive interests of the house of San Quentin in this district, 
 I worked like a dog to put some order in the budget of the 
 family. . Ah! it was like putting up gates in an open field. 
 I had to abandon the task. Our relations were broken off, 
 and finally I neglected to write to you you probably don't 
 remember when the Juncosa property went under the 
 hammer. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, it makes me sad today to pass by the 
 Juncosa. To think that that lovely grove was mine, and the 
 hill, and the meadow. There in that old house, that looks 
 like a feudal castle, with its ivy, its battlemented walls, its 
 lonely mystery and romance, I passed the happiest days of 
 my childhood. And now, the Juncosa, and San Quentin, 
 and the ancestral palace . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. [Embarrassed] Are mine. Yes. I bought them 
 from the bidder. Other good farms of San'Quentin have come 
 into my possession in the most legitimate fashion. Gossip, 
 my child, which respects nothing, has tried to insult me by 
 whispering that I made loans to your family on usurious terms. 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh, no. If I mentioned the fact of our property 
 being in your hands, it was not to complain. I state a fact, 
 a coincidence .
 
 116 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 DON JOSE. A very natural coincidence, which happens 
 every day. Riches, like an eel, slip away from the weak, 
 delicate, effeminate grasp of the aristocrat, to be seized by 
 the strong, calloused hands of the laborer. Accept this les- 
 son, and learn it by heart, Rosario de Trastamara, daughter 
 of princes and kings, and my niece once removed . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. And proud of it. 
 
 DON JOSE. And I will add, to drive the lesson home to you, 
 that my father was a poor pastry-cook of this town. Not 
 that he was without superior qualities. The tradition is that 
 he invented, [proudly] that he invented the rich cakes that 
 have made Ficobriga famous. 
 
 ROSABIO. Oh! 
 
 DON JOSE. Sixty years ago, when your grandfather, the 
 Duke of San Quentin, was astounding the simple countryside 
 with his prodigal luxury, Jose Manuel de Buendia married 
 Teresa Corchuelo, the daughter of a worthy confectioner. 
 Well, on the day of my wedding I did not possess four 
 pesetas. I got married, and they put me in charge of 
 the cakes, which began to find a market outside, and I 
 made money, and I was able to increase it, and I became 
 a man, and look at me today. 
 
 ROSARIO. An example for everybody! 
 
 DON JOSE. Ah! if I had only taken you under my care! 
 [Shaking his fist playfully] Now tell me how things are going 
 with you. All about it. 
 
 ROSARIO. Ah! Don Jos, I have so many troubles that 
 I don't know where to begin. Soon after I lost my husband, 
 who was, as you know . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. A calamity. God rest his soul! Go on. 
 
 ROSARIO. I found myself involved in disagreeable law- 
 suits and discussions with my aunts, the Gravelinas, and with 
 my cousin, Pepe de Trastamara. That, and the complete 
 ruin of the family, made life impossible for me in Madrid.
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 117 
 
 I took refuge in Paris, and there, new trials, humiliations, 
 daily discussions, a life of misery. 
 
 DON JOSE. Yes, yes, I know. You must have suffered a 
 great deal, poor child, with your proud spirit. 
 
 ROSARIO. Proud? 
 
 DON JOSE. That's what they tell me. 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh, my troubles have humbled my pride more 
 than you think. If you only knew! I feel in me a vague 
 dissatisfaction, a regret at having been born into the upper 
 circles. And at the same time I have here [Gesture] some 
 strange ideas. I find in myself a yearning for a practical 
 life in a modest home. 
 
 DON JOSE. It's a bit late, a bit late now. 
 
 ROSARIO. I long for solitude, quiet, simplicity, to live 
 with truth, with my own feelings, thinking my own thoughts. 
 
 DON JOSE. Oh! You want to withdraw from the world. 
 Does the life of the convent call you? 
 
 ROSARIO. It may be my only salvation. I want to con- 
 sult you about it. 
 
 DON JOSE. We will think it over, and discuss it. Don't 
 worry. Listen. You have come to ask my advice, and 
 without refusing you that, I will give you something better. 
 I will give you shelter in this humble home. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Joyously] Oh, thank you, thank you! 
 
 DON JOSE. While you are deciding whether to enter a con- 
 vent or not, and which one it's to be, you will be quiet here. 
 
 ROSARIO. Perhaps I shall be in the way. 
 
 DON JOSE. Not a bit. I assure you I shall not change my 
 simple habits. If there is enough for four, there's enough 
 for five. The old-fashioned table, you know only soup, 
 meat, and dessert. The house is big, with a fine view, light, 
 and air, and cheerful all through. 
 
 ROSARIO. Don't tempt me, Sefior de Buendfa. How 
 happy, how restful, how enchanting it is! I love these old.
 
 118 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 family homes, this perfect neatness, this black-walnut pol- 
 ished by time and by industrious hands. [Rises and looks 
 out of the loindow] And there's the garden. I saw it as I 
 came in. What fine apple-trees, and so laden with fruit! 
 And the chicken-yard! And that terrace, where they are 
 ironing, under the arbor. And there's the oven . . . And a 
 dove-cote I can hear the cooing. This is a paradise! 
 
 [Returns to DON JOSE. 
 
 DON JOSE. Besides the repose that I offer your weary mind, 
 the h'fe here will be like a course in domestic science for you. 
 My granddaughter will teach you many things that will be 
 new to you. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Clapping her hands] Yes, yes! I have heard so 
 much about that dear child. 
 
 DON JOSE. She is an angel, a real ministering angel, 
 capable of filling a chair of house-management. 
 
 ROSARIO. Where is she? I want to meet her. 
 
 DON JOSE. You will see her presently. 
 
 ROSARIO. And only you two in the family. 
 
 DON JOSE. My son is here also. 
 
 ROSARIO. Don Cesar! [With a start, rising. 
 
 DON JOSE. Yes. What's the matter? 
 
 ROSARIO. I thought your son was still in Madrid. 
 
 DON JOSE. He returned last month. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Much disturbed] No, no. I can't accept your 
 hospitality. I cannot remain under the same roof with that 
 man. 
 
 DON JOSE. What foolishness! Why are you afraid of 
 Cesar? 
 
 ROSARIO. It is not fear. It is rather dislike. 
 
 DON JOSE. Ah! I understand. The friction with your 
 father some years ago. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Very nervous] Friction? It was more than that. 
 I saw my father on his death-bed, at the hour of the sacra-
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 119 
 
 ment, shed tears of rage at not finding it in his heart to forgive 
 Don Cesar. 
 
 DON JOSE. Your father was extreme in everything. My 
 dear child, forget, and forgive. Bah! I assure you that my 
 son will not bother you. Come, C6sar is not a bad man at 
 heart. But my paternal affection does not blind me, and I 
 see in him a grave fault. 
 
 ROSABIO. What? 
 
 DON JOSE. His weakness for the fair sex. It has been in 
 him a disease, a blind passion. He fell in love with every 
 woman he saw. From that defect came all his errors, all the 
 grievous sorrow he caused his poor wife and me. 
 
 ROSABIO. What a deplorable character! 
 
 DON JOSE. But we must be just. There was one good thing 
 about his madness, and that was, that he never gave them 
 money, or very little. 
 
 ROSARIO. He wanted to be loved for himself alone. And 
 by the way, my cousin Falfan spoke te me of ... It appears 
 that Don Cesar has a son. 
 
 DON JOSE. And he is a very grave problem for us. 
 
 ROSARIO. Tell me, isn't this young man the son of an 
 Italian woman named Sarah, who died several years ago? 
 
 DON JOSE. Exactly. A fine present to make to his father! 
 
 ROSARIO. And you expect me to be kind to Don Cesar, 
 when you yourself . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. But your injuries are purely imaginary, and 
 besides, it is all over now. You will offend me if you refuse 
 for so slight a cause the hospitality I offer you. 
 
 ROSARIO. I don't want to offend you. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Taking her hands] You'll stay? 
 
 ROSARIO. For your sake, and your granddaughter's. 
 
 DON JOSE. Good. I will try to make life pleasant for you 
 in this humble, but peaceful kingdom of mine. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Moved] Thanks, thanks. I suspect, my dear
 
 120 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 old friend, that I shall find it so pleasant that in the end you 
 will have to turn me out. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Jokingly] Good! We'll turn you out when you 
 are in the way. 
 
 Enter LOBENZA and RAFAELA and two men who bring 
 in four trunks. 
 
 DON JOSE. Put those down here. [To ROSARIO] Take out 
 the simple things that you will use here, and leave the rest 
 packed away. 
 
 ROSARIO. That's what we'll do. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Indicating the door at the right, front] You will 
 occupy these three rooms, which were my wife's. From the 
 windows you can see the sea, and the batliing-beach. 
 
 ROSARIO. Let's go and look. 
 
 [Exit, right, followed by DON JOSE. 
 
 LORENZA. [To RAFAELA] Say, are all those full of clothes? 
 
 RAFAELA. Surely. All the summer tilings, and some of the 
 spring and fall dresses. Twenty-seven in all. 
 
 LORENZA. Oh, how rich your mistress must be! 
 
 ROSARIO. [Coming back with DON JOSE] Charming! Ra- 
 faela, open all these; I want to change at once. Take out 
 the dotted percale. 
 
 DON JOSE. Well, I'll leave you alone now. I am in the way. 
 I must go to the town hall for a while. [To LORENZA] My 
 hat. [LORENZA gives him his Jiat] Try to be ready, and to get 
 into the habit of punctuality. [To LORENZA] Don't forget . . . 
 you know . . . [Speaks to LORENZA rapidly, and in a low tone. 
 
 RAFAELA. [Who has opened one of the trunks and is taking 
 out some dresses, which she puts on the chairs] Now I re- 
 member, the blue, dotted dress isn't in here. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Indicating another trunk] In here, stupid! 
 
 DON JOSE. This is your house. Lorenza, and all the ser- 
 vants, at your disposal. 
 
 [Kisses ROSARIO'S hand, and exit, rear, ivith LORENZA.
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 121 
 
 ROSARIO. Good. [Jocosely] Then we don't need you any 
 longer. [Takes off her hat and puts it on the table] Get me out 
 a couple of waists, too. 
 
 RAFAELA. [Struggling unsuccessfully with the lock] Madam, 
 I can't get it open. 
 
 ROSARIO. Then leave it. Take the things out of this one, 
 [The one that is open] and put them away in that black- 
 walnut wardrobe. [Pointing through door, right. 
 RAFAELA. [Impatient] Plague take the lock! 
 ROSARIO. There must be some one around here who will 
 help you. [Loud pounding on the wall, at the right] What's 
 that? 
 
 RAFAELA. It sounds as if they were tearing the house down. 
 
 ROSARIO. Come, hurry up. Here, I'll take these out. Go 
 
 and get me some water. [Turning over a tray of dresses which 
 
 RAFAELA, on going out, left on a chair] Here is the checked 
 
 one. I don't like it. 
 
 Pulls it out, and, turning to the right to put it on a chair, 
 sees VICTOR, who comes in through tlie door, upper 
 right, with hammer, chisel, and rule. ROSARIO is 
 startled and gives a little scream. VICTOR stands mo- 
 tionless, in surprise, looking at her. 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh! It's a workman. Excuse me, I was 
 startled. If you would be kind enough to open that trunk . . . 
 VICTOR. [Aside] Yes, . . . it is she. 
 
 [Continues looJcing at her, in ecstasy. 
 
 ROSARIO. Don't you hear what I say? Was that you 
 pounding on the wall in my rooms? 
 
 VICTOR. [Aside. Unable to conceal his joy] She lives here! 
 ROSARIO. [Observing him with an expression of doubt and 
 wonder] Why. . . . 
 
 VICTOR. I beg your pardon, Duchess. What did you say? 
 ROSARIO. [Aside. Confused] How strange! I know that 
 man.
 
 122 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 VICTOR. [Noticing the attention with which ROSARIO w 
 looking at him] You will have some difficulty in recognizing 
 me in this dress. 
 
 ROSARIO. Recognizing you! Why . . . Have I seen you 
 before? 
 
 VICTOR. Yes, madam. [Surprise and increasing confusion 
 of ROSARIO. A pause] But what was it you asked of me? 
 Enter RAFAELA with two pitchers of water. 
 
 RAFAELA. This trunk is the one I can't open. 
 
 Exit, right. VICTOR examines the lock. ROSARIO con- 
 tinues to look at him. 
 
 ROSARIO. [.4si<fc] Either I am mad, or I really ... do 
 know that man. But who is it? Where have I seen him? 
 That costume . . . 
 
 VICTOR. [Who, after several trials, has opened the trunk] 
 There it is. 
 
 ROSARIO. Now you may go. 
 
 VICTOR. [After a pause, hesitating whether to venture or not] 
 Without satisfying your curiosity? For you are cudgeling 
 your brains, Duchess, at this moment, to recall where and 
 when you have seen me. 
 
 ROSARIO. That is true. [Aside] He is a bit forward. 
 
 VICTOR. If madam will allow me, I will refresh her memory 
 in two words. 
 
 ROSARIO. Are you Don Cesar's son? 
 
 VICTOR. Yes, madam. 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh! And how is this? Condemned to hard 
 labor for your hot-headedness? 
 
 VICTOR. Yes, madam. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, I can't restrain my curiosity. Tell me 
 how and when . . . 
 
 VICTOR. First, if my boldness has displeased you, I beg you 
 to pardon me. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Haughtily] You are forgiven. Come, answer me.
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 123 
 
 VICTOR. Where and when I had the honor of being in 
 your presence? 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes. 
 
 VICTOR. And the greater honor of speaking with you? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Quickly] Speaking with me? Oh, no. 
 
 VICTOR. Oh, yes. Hear me a moment. I have not always 
 been dressed as a workman. My father, a stern man, has 
 imposed this costume as a discipline. I was brought up in 
 France. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Interrupting] And in Biarritz, perhaps . . . you 
 saw me. 
 
 VICTOR. No, madam. Five years ago my father sent me to 
 Liege to study mechanical engineering. After the theoretical 
 course, I went to Seraing and worked in the big factory by 
 the name of Cockerill. On Saturdays three or four of us 
 young fellows of different nationalities would get together and 
 go to spend Sunday at Antwerp, Malines, or Bruges. One 
 day we went to Ostend. It was the height of the bathing 
 season. Putting together the little money we had, we played 
 a few turns of roulette in the Casino, and fortune favored us. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Laughing] You won? 
 
 VICTOR. Enough to feel rich for a few hours. There were 
 three of us: an Alsatian, a Swiss, and your humble servant. 
 Determined to play a gorgeous prank, we established our- 
 selves luxuriously in the Hotel del Circulo de Banos, announc- 
 ing ourselves as Russian princes. 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh, you rascals! Yes, yes, now I remember. . . . 
 One afternoon in August. Yes, I remember the young Rus- 
 sian prince. 
 
 VICTOR. It was I. I invited you to take a walk in the 
 grounds during an intermission. We went to the dairy, we 
 talked awhile, and in the evening at the ball, I ventured . . . 
 I had the incredible audacity to make a declaration of love to 
 
 you.
 
 124 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 ROSAKIO. [Laughing] Yes, yes, and it was a most violent 
 and passionate one. Now I remember. . . . But tell me. . . . 
 It seemed to me that you spoke German with your comrades. 
 
 VICTOR. I speak German as well as I do Spanish. 
 
 ROSABIO. With me you spoke French . . . like a Parisian. 
 
 VICTOR. Yes, madam. 
 
 ROSARIO. You learn languages easily? 
 
 VICTOR. I have that gift, lacking others. I speak English 
 also. Unfortunately, at that time not one of us knew a word 
 of Russian. For that reason, and because our money was 
 soon gone, we had to abandon our deception and escape by 
 the first train Monday morning. 
 
 ROSARIO. And we never met again. 
 
 VICTOR. Oh, yes, we did. 
 
 ROSARIO. [With great curiosity] But when? 
 
 VICTOR. There is a great deal more to tell. 
 
 ROSARIO. Really? 
 
 RAFAELA. [Enters, right. Indicates another trunk] This one 
 too. I don't know what's the matter with it. [To VICTOR, 
 imperiously] Here! Open this one, too. [Aside] What a 
 handsome fellow! [Picks up some dresses to take away] You 
 might help me carry these trays. 
 
 ROSARIO. Let him alone. [Aside, while VICTOR opens the 
 
 other trunk] This is like a novel. How extraordinary! The 
 
 Russian prince of Ostend opening my trunks in Ficobriga! 
 
 [RAFAELA goes out again with clothes. 
 
 VICTOR. [With one Jcnee on the ground, opening the lock] 
 Shall I go on? 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, yes. I like to get away from the beaten 
 track. But take care! Don't tell me anything but the 
 truth. 
 
 VICTOR. If you knew me, madam, you would know that I 
 adore truth, and that I sacrifice everything to it. [Opens the 
 trunk] There it is,
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OP SAN QUENTIN 125 
 
 ROSARIO. You adore truth, and pretended to be a Russian, 
 and a prince! 
 
 VICTOR. A student's prank. And what a day it was! You 
 were then newly married, and most beautiful. 
 
 ROSARIO. That was long ago. 
 
 VICTOR. Now you are much handsomer. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Aside] He goes too far. [To VICTOR] That will 
 do. You probably have something to do elsewhere. 
 
 VICTOR. [Disconsolate] You dismiss me, . . .without hearing 
 what . . . Do you think that you lower yourself in listening to 
 me? 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh, no. Speak, say what you like. What a 
 rascal you must have been, for them to treat you like this! 
 
 VICTOR. I recognize that my father is right. I have been 
 at fault. 
 
 ROSARIO. Rebellious to study, perhaps. 
 
 VICTOR. Yes. I did not study, or rather, I did study, 
 and a great deal, but alone. I read what I liked, and learned 
 what interested me. I always disliked instruction in regular 
 schools, I refused to work for marks and degrees. What I 
 know, I have no diploma to show for, and I have no stamp 
 of official education. In Belgium I learned more by practice 
 than theory. I am something of an engineer, something of 
 an architect without the title, it is true. But I can make a 
 locomotive, and if necessary I can build a cathedral, and if 
 I set about it, I can make needles, glass, pottery. 
 
 ROSARIO. So many talents, and to come to this sad state 
 of simple laborer! 
 
 VICTOR. You shall see. In Belgium I was carried away 
 by the idea of socialism. I was captivated by a German, an 
 agitator, who preached the transformation of society, and I 
 took part in a big strike. I made speeches, aroused the 
 masses. A wild career, which ended in prison. 
 
 ROSARIO. You deserved it. '
 
 126 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 VICTOR. They 'kept me six months in the prison at Ant- 
 werp. My father wrote to me reproaching me, and refusing 
 any help. 
 
 ROSAKIO. And quite right. The idea of defending such 
 absurdities! But you did not believe in all that: you en- 
 gaged in it as a pastime, for fun. 
 
 VICTOR. No, madam. I believed in it ... and I still be- 
 lieve in it. When I got out, I went to England. But I could 
 not give myself up to the study of my beloved theories, be- 
 cause in London I met a Spaniard who insisted on recon- 
 ciling me with my father, and succeeded. My father came 
 for me, and brought me to Spain, and set me down in 
 Madrid. 
 
 ROSARIO. And were you a workingman there? 
 
 VICTOR. No, I was a gentleman. My father took every 
 precaution to keep me away from socialistic propaganda. 
 I went with a crowd of young men of the best society, some 
 of them very rich. In the evening I would put on evening 
 dress, and thanks to the easy democracy that reigns there, 
 I was able to go everywhere. 
 
 ROSARIO. Ah! [Comprehending] And once perhaps you saw 
 me. Well, I don't recall . . . 
 
 VICTOR. I do. Besides, I saw you continually at theaters, 
 on the avenue, at church . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. You went to church, too? 
 
 VICTOR. I went everywhere where I might see the person 
 who fascinated me, whom I was crazy about, who . . . 
 Enter RAFAELA. 
 
 RAFAELA. [Aside] That young workman still here! What 
 can he be telling my mistress? 
 
 ROSARIO. And did you also preach in Madrid the destruc- 
 tion of society, and all that nonsense? 
 
 VICTOR. I made oral and theoretical propaganda, but with- 
 out success.
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 127 
 
 RAFAELA. [Aside. Carrying off more doilies] He is hand- 
 some. I'll hook him, as sure as two and two are four. [Exit. 
 
 ROSARIO. No! you didn't dare! 
 
 VICTOR. I tell you in all sincerity, and in all modesty, that 
 I dare do anything. There is nothing in the world, nothing, 
 that I am afraid of. 
 
 ROSARIO. [With admiration] Truly? 
 
 VICTOR. And difficulties and dangers increase my courage. 
 
 ROSARIO. Bravo! It's for your courage that they keep you 
 in this servitude. Heaven knows what atrocities you com- 
 mitted in Madrid. 
 
 VICTOR. No: my life in Madrid was quite innocent. I 
 did nothing but follow the woman who was my delight and 
 my torment, since she fascinated me without looking at me. 
 
 ROSARIO. She didn't look at you? Heartless creature! 
 
 VICTOR. She did not know she does not know my wild 
 passion. 
 
 ROSARIO. Such unrequited love is madness, self-deception. 
 
 VICTOR. [With heat] It is a love whose reality is beyond 
 question, since in it I've lived and shall live; a love of spot- 
 less purity, since I never hoped for it to be returned, nor do 
 I now. A love that flames as high in the absence as in the 
 presence of the lovely being who . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. [Laughing] Enough, enough. What a deluge of 
 poetry! I must get under cover. [She moves away] Frankly, 
 I don't believe in love at first sight; even in plays and novels 
 it seems to me of questionable taste. To fall suddenly in 
 love with a lady of rank, follow her carriage, pursue her 
 shadow in the street, assailing her with unnoticed glances in 
 parks and theaters, adore her in pure, ethereal ecstasy. Tell 
 that to some one with less experience of the world! 
 
 VICTOR. I tell it to you, because it is the truth, and be- 
 cause you asked for it. I live with that delusion and I shall 
 die with it. It is the best of life to me. I cannot endure life
 
 128 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT i 
 
 without the continual presence of my idol here, [Gesture] 
 and here I carry her, and here I adore her, peerless being, 
 Nature's masterpiece, image of divinity. . . . 
 
 ROSAKIO. Ha, ha, ha! But, man, tell me who this goddess 
 is. I want to know who she is. Perhaps I know her? 
 
 VICTOR. Pardon my presumption, which is the reward of 
 my insignificance. One who is nothing, has nothing, and 
 perhaps never will be anything, can permit himself the 
 luxury of sincerity, of frankness. 
 
 ROSAKIO. Oh, but I like sincerity. It is a great relief for 
 one who has lived so long in a world of pretense and lies. 
 
 VICTOR. [Warmly] Bless you for those words! 
 
 ROSARIO. [Impatient] The name! What is her name? 
 
 VICTOR. Why do you wish to know? 
 
 ROSARIO. Come! Who is she? 
 
 VICTOR. No, no. 
 
 ROSARIO. Well, if you won't tell, I will, and make you 
 blush. The lady whom you idolize so foolislily [Patise] is I. 
 
 VICTOR. Oh! 
 
 ROSARIO. I guessed it at once. Do you think I have never 
 read novels? 
 
 VICTOR. Madam, notice that I make no plea. I have no 
 hope, and never shall have. 
 
 ROSARIO. Naturally. 
 
 VICTOR. If what you have discovered seems to you un- 
 pardonable, crush me with your indifference. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Still jestingly] Oh, as for crushing you. . . . 
 Nobody minds being an idol more or less false. 
 
 VICTOR. And I have told you that it is not inconsistent with 
 the greatest respect. I swear to you not to speak of it again. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, these things don't bear repeating. So much 
 poetry is cloying. You think yourself a socialist, and you 
 are only a poet; a poet who wants to destroy the world and 
 set me up as a statue upon the ruins. What nonsense !
 
 ACT i THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 129 
 
 VICTOR. Don't notice me. Don't even look at me. 
 
 ROSARIO. What, forbid me to see you! If you come near 
 me ... I shall not close my eyes when you pass. 
 
 VICTOR. Then if my existence means anything to you, make 
 me your slave. 
 
 ROSARIO. All right. Let's begin now. [Enter RAFAELA, 
 right] Be kind enough to assist my maid. 
 
 [Pointing to the trays of clothing which are on tJie chairs, 
 
 RAFAELA. [Giving them to him] Here. It is late. The 
 gentlemen have returned already. 
 
 VICTOR. My father and grandfather. 
 
 [Exit, right, carrying the trays. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Aside. Admiringly] Such assurance! I never 
 saw his equal. 
 
 Enter, at back, DON JOSE and RUFINA. Behind them, 
 with some constraint, DON CESAR. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Presenting RUFINA] My granddaughter. 
 
 ROSARIO. What a pretty girl! [They embrace affectionately. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Remaining at the back, right, looking at 
 ROSARIO with admiration. Advances and makes a low bow, 
 which ROSARIO acknowledges coldly. Aside] Beautiful. A 
 splendid woman. [RAFAELA and VICTOR re-enter, right, after 
 more clothes. To VICTOR, with displeasure] What are you 
 doing here? Go back to the factory at once. Leave the 
 work I gave you. . . . And you may take the afternoon off. 
 But keep away from here. 
 
 VICTOR [Going out by the door at right, upstage] Very well, 
 sir. I will go away ... a long way. 
 
 DON JOSE. [To ROSARIO] Well, shall we eat? It is time. 
 
 ROSARIO. [In haste] Just five minutes. I will be ready 
 directly. [Runs to her room. 
 
 DON JOSE. Five minutes, girl. [Catting through door, left] 
 Lorenza, the soup! 
 
 Curtain.
 
 ACT II 
 
 Terrace at BuENDfA's house. At back, a line of apple and 
 oilier fruit trees, and trellis, with opening in center, through 
 which enter those who come from the garden. Background, 
 a rustic landscape. Doors at each side, front. That on 
 the left, covered with vines, leads to the kitchen and service- 
 rooms; beside it an opening in the wall leads to tlie place 
 wliere tfie oven is supposed to be located. TJie door on Hie 
 right leads to ilie living apartments. Left, front, a large 
 table which serves for ironing and for kneading. Two 
 chairs and a wooden bench. ROSARIO, RUFINA, LORENZA 
 are discovered, all three wearing large aprons. ROSARIO 
 is ironing a blouse, LORENZA directing and instructing her. 
 RUFINA is piling on a bench the linen already ironed. 
 
 LORENZA. Bear down harder, ma'am. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Doing so] Still harder? 
 
 LORENZA. Not so much. Ah! the gentlemen's shirt- 
 bosoms are the real test. 
 
 ROSARIO. How awkward I am! 
 
 LORENZA. Oh! You are doing well. Many a girl . . . 
 
 RUFINA. Don't tire yourself out. Lorenza will finish. 
 
 ROBARIO. [Tired, laying down the iron] Yes, I can't do any 
 more. I've earned my salt today. 
 
 LORENZA. [Ironing vigorously] I'll have it done in a jiffy. 
 
 RUFINA. We'll be putting it away. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Piling pillow-cases and sheets on a wicker tray] 
 Let me do it. 
 
 RUFINA. No, let me. You are getting tired. 
 130
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 131 
 
 ROSABIO. Oh, no, I'm not. What fun to fill the wardrobes 
 with this clean, white, fragrant linen! And to put it all in 
 order, the different sizes and kinds together. [Picking up the 
 tray] Up with it! [RUFINA helps her to put it on her head] 
 There we are! 
 
 RUFINA. [Pointing, right] In the big wardrobe there. 
 
 [Exit ROSARIO, right. 
 
 LORENZA. She doesn't look it, but she has strength . . . 
 and so willing! 
 
 RUFINA. Indeed she is. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Re-entering, briskly, right] Now the sheets. 
 
 RUFINA. Now it's my turn. 
 
 [Takes up a pile of linen. Exit, right. 
 
 ROSARIO. What shall I do? Lorenza, give me the iron 
 again. Since I came here I have lost the habit of sitting with 
 my hands folded, and now idleness is torture for me. 
 
 LORENZA. I am just finishing. 
 
 RUFINA. [Entering, right. Firmly] There now, Duchess of 
 San Quentin, the ironing is done. What do we make today? 
 
 LORENZA. Butter. 
 
 ROSARIO. No, today it's cakes. Don Jose" said so. 
 
 RUFINA. And I have already told Victor to start the oven. 
 LORENZA gathers up the last of the linen and carries it 
 in. Then she clears away the ironing implements. 
 
 ROSARIO. Today I am going to tend the oven myself, and 
 you shall see. [Gestures of putting cake in the oven. 
 
 RUFINA. No, you don't know how. You have had no 
 practice, and you'll burn them. Leave the oven to me. 
 
 ROSARIO. All right, all right. 
 
 With childish uneasiness, making the motions of knead- 
 ing at the table. 
 
 LORENZA. Are you going to mix them here? 
 
 ROSARIO. Right here, where it is cool. 
 
 RUFINA. And Victor will bring them to me.
 
 132 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 ROSARIO. But will they let him come here? 
 
 RUFINA. He's here already. [Pointing to tfie garden] Papa 
 has told him to fix the asparagus and replant the old straw- 
 berry bed. 
 
 ROSARIO. What? Does he understand gardening too? 
 
 RUFINA. That boy can do anything. [Goes to the back and 
 calls, beckoning] Oh, Victor! 
 
 ROSARIO. Mr. Socialist, Social Leveler, come here! 
 Enter VICTOR at the back. 
 
 VICTOR. What is the will of the fair Proletarians? 
 
 RUFINA. Get ready. We need your reformatory and revo- 
 lutionary co-operation. 
 
 ROSARIO. We are the masses. We ask for bread and work; 
 and as they don't give us bread, we make it, but not for the 
 rich to eat. 
 
 VICTOR. [Laughing] Are you going to make bread? 
 
 ROSARIO. Cakes, man, for the sovereign people. 
 
 [Pointing to herself. 
 
 RUFINA. And you are to bring out here the mixing-board, 
 the pans, and all the things. 
 
 ROSARIO. And then you will condescend to carry the cakes 
 to the oven. 
 
 VICTOR. It is already hot, glowing like a loving heart. 
 You will have to wait until it cools a little. 
 
 ROSARIO. The cold light of reason and sanity. 
 
 RUFINA. Go back to the garden. Papa mustn't say that 
 we keep you from your work. 
 
 VICTOR. [Aside, gazing at ROSARIO] Divine creature! Poor 
 me. [Aloud] Will you call me presently? Promise to call me. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, yes. 
 
 VICTOR. Au revoir, then. [Exit, back. 
 
 RUFINA. How handsome and good-natured he is! 
 
 ROSARIO. Indeed he is. A big heart, and gentle as a 
 child.
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 133 
 
 LORENZA. [Who has been in and out several times, carrying 
 off the ironing things] Don't forget the hens. It's time to 
 feed them. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, let's go and feed them. 
 
 As they start for the back, they are detained by DON JOSE 
 and the MARQUIS, who enter. Exit LORENZA, left. 
 
 DON JOSE. Kere she is. 
 
 MARQUIS. [Laughing at ROSARIO'S appearance} Ha! ha! 
 ha! Rosario, is that you? What a metamorphosis! 
 
 ROSARIO. [Indicating DON JOSE] Here is the worker of the 
 miracle. 
 
 DON JOSE. What do you think? She gets up at five in the 
 morning. 
 
 MARQUIS. Just the time she used to go to bed in Madrid. 
 
 ROSARIO. And how are you? 
 
 MARQUIS. Yesterday I moved down to the shore, and my 
 first visit in all Ficobriga is to the daughter of kings, now a 
 laundress. 
 
 DON JOSE. She goes from one task to another all day. 
 She is busy, healthy, and happy. 
 
 MARQUIS. She must be. Will you take me for your as- 
 sistant? 
 
 RUFINA. Don't forget that this is real work. 
 
 DON JOSE. Don't forget that you have a lot of fun too, 
 laughing and playing pranks. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yesterday we were up on the mountain. What a 
 splendid view, what clear sky, and what fragrance! I never 
 felt so fully the cliarm of nature and solitude. 
 
 MARQUIS. They told me at the baths that you were nearly 
 killed one day, going up the mountain. 
 
 ROSARIO. I? 
 
 RUFINA. It was nothing. 
 
 DON JOSE. It was Victor's stupidity. I have scolded him 
 for it. He persisted in leading the donkey through a pass.
 
 134 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 ROFINA. It wasn't Victor's fault. You blame poor Victor 
 for everything. 
 
 ROSARIO. It was my fault. I myself told him to take me 
 over those rocks. We nearly fell off, rider, and donkey, and 
 guide. But thanks to the courage of the brave fellow, nothing 
 happened. 
 
 DON Josfc. And it won't happen again. He will be careful 
 now. 
 
 ROSARIO. Well, Currito Falfdn, cousin mine, illustrious 
 scion of the younger branch of the Otumbas, will you help 
 us make some cakes? 
 
 MARQUIS. [Laughing] Really? Can you . . . ? 
 
 DON JOSE. She kneads them like a professional. 
 
 MARQUIS. I will help ... to eat them. And I also accept 
 Don Josh's invitation. He claims there is no cider like his. 
 
 DON JOSE. [With emphasis] Home-made. You shall see 
 what cider is. 
 
 ROSARIO. And now, to the chicken-yard. 
 
 MARQUIS. Wait, Rosario. I want to speak to you. Am I 
 less important than the fowls of the air? 
 
 RUFINA. You stay here. I'll go. [Exit, back. 
 
 DON CESAR enters briskly at back. 
 
 DON CESAR. Hasn't Canseco come? Hello, Marquis. [Aside, 
 suspicious and displeased] That spendthrift here again! 
 
 DON JOSE. The notary will be here soon. 
 
 MARQUIS. Tell me, Don Cesar, is it true that you intend 
 to buy the Marquis of Fonfrfa's coach horses, and the mare, 
 which are to be auctioned off today? 
 
 DON CESAR. [Proudly] Yes, sir. What of it? 
 
 DON JOSE. Have you gone crazy? What do you want of 
 horses like them? 
 
 DON CESAR. I, I ... The Marquis, who is an expert in 
 horseflesh, will advise me. 
 
 MARQUIS. With pleasure.
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 135 
 
 DON JOSE. [Aghast] Have you fallen into delusions of 
 grandeur? Ce"sar, come to your senses. 
 
 MARQUIS. The two coach horses, Eclair and Nestor, are 
 
 of my brother's stock, mixed breed. The mare Sarah was 
 
 mine. She came from the Duke of Northumberland's 
 
 stables ... a thoroughbred, fine as coral, and swift as the wind. 
 
 ROSARIO cleans the table, and finishes putting away 
 
 some things that are left. 
 
 DON CESAR. Will you give me, if it is not too much 
 trouble, the exact pedigree of all three animals? 
 
 MARQUIS. I have it all in my book, descent, age. . . . 
 You need not hesitate to purchase; it is a bargain. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Uneasy] This isn't a joke? Such recklessness ! 
 
 ROSARIO. [Approaching the group] Don Cesar intends to 
 have his carriage like the rest of the nobility, so that Rosita 
 the Fishwife may ride in state. 
 
 DON CESAR. You'll see who rides in it. 
 
 MARQUIS. He's going to get married? You don't mean it! 
 
 DON JOSE. [In HI humor] If the choice is not good, it is 
 better not to think about it. 
 
 ROSARIO. Get married? Why, he says he's going to die 
 soon. 
 
 MARQUIS. That's the way to persuade them. 
 
 DON CESAR. I'm good for a while longer. [To ROSARIO, 
 abruptly, in an affectionate tone] Rosario, don't work so hard, 
 you'll spoil your hands. 
 
 ROSARIO. What's that to you? 
 
 DON CESAR. To me . . . ? It may be a good deal to me. 
 And you shouldn't be out in the sun so much if you care 
 about the delicacy of your skin. 
 
 DON JOSE. She is prettier so. 
 
 MARQUIS. The pastoral type, the simple country lass! 
 
 DON JOSE. [Scolding] A nice time to get these high-toned 
 notions!
 
 136 THE DUCHESS OP SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 ROSARIO. Just when I am turning to the populace. 
 
 DON CESAR. My dear Rosario, don't quarrel with me. 
 You know how much I think of you. . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. [Disturbed] There, there, enough of your jokes. 
 
 DON CESAR. It's not a joke. [To ROSARIO] Did you take 
 what I said as a joke? 
 
 MARQUIS. What's all this? [Jolcing] Don Jos6, this is 
 grave. 
 
 DON JOSE. I declare, my son has lost his wits. 
 
 DON CESAR., And moreover . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. [Moving away angrily] I will not listen to any 
 more foolishness. I ought to treat you like a child. Marquis, 
 are we going to try that cider or not? 
 
 MARQUIS. .Whenever you like. 
 
 DON JOSE. I am going to the store-house for a moment. 
 I'll meet you in the dining-room. [In the doorway, aside, 
 looking at DON CESAR] Oh! what a son! We shall see, we 
 shall see who comes out ahead. [Exit, back. 
 
 LORENZA. [At right] Senor de Canseco. 
 
 DON CESAR. Show him into my room. [To ROSARIO] I 
 have some serious business to attend to. We will talk later. 
 [ To the MARQUIS] Excuse me. You won't forget to send me ... 
 
 MARQUIS. The pedigrees? Yes, yes, don't worry. 
 
 DON CESAR. I'll see you later. [Exit, right. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Seeing DON CESAR depart] What a boor! 
 
 MARQUIS. I would swear that he has fallen in love with 
 you. 
 
 ROSARIO. Unfortunately for me, he has. 
 
 MARQUIS. And has he declared himself? 
 
 ROSARIO. He asks me every day, in a different form. 
 Yesterday a long, stupid, ungrammatical letter proposing 
 marriage. 
 
 MARQUIS. And you . . . ! 
 
 ROSARIO. Hush, for heaven's sake! I swear that I would
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 137 
 
 sooner marry a mason, a day-laborer, a jail-bird, than that 
 man. 
 
 MABQUIS. Well said. Anything rather than this family of 
 parvenu pastry-cooks. The one that invented the cakes 
 must have been an excellent man. But the stock has de- 
 teriorated, and Don Cesar is a perfect scoundrel. You hate 
 him, but not so much as I do. 
 
 ROSARIO. No, I hate him more than you do. I claim the 
 right. The sting of that reptile has been more fatal to my 
 family than to yours. 
 
 MARQUIS. Ah! you don't know. I won't mention to you 
 the humiliation in which I have lived for ten years, suffering 
 his treachery, without the power to defend myself. Besides, 
 the man, with a refinement of hypocrisy, feigned a servile 
 attachment to me, and after playing some trick on me, 
 would outdo himself in compliments and protestations of 
 friendship. And always slily criticising my acts and spying 
 upon me . . . ! He wouldn't let me alone, followed my every 
 move. . . . He was my shadow, my nightmare. Have I 
 never told you what he did? You shall see. He came into 
 possession of seven letters of mine to Stephanie . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. And sent them to your wife. Yes, I knew 
 that. 
 
 MARQUIS. He had a certain sum to send to Dolores in 
 bank-notes. He put the letters in the same envelope. 
 
 ROSARIO. Infamous! And you didn't kill him! 
 
 MARQUIS. I went after him like a wild beast. Ah! you 
 should have seen and heard him, trembling, cringing, trying 
 to cover his cowardice by hypocrisy. He swore that he had 
 made a mistake . . . that he thought he was sending the 
 letters to me. In fact, he was sending me at the same time 
 in another envelope a memorandum of interest due. 
 
 ROSARIO. You ought to have strangled him. 
 
 MARQUIS. Yes, I ought to have. But that night I had to
 
 138 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 have two thousand dollars. A debt of honor ... a case of 
 shooting myself if I did not get them. 
 
 ROSAHIO. I understand. 
 
 MARQUIS. And I had to humiliate myself. My dear 
 Rosario, nothing degrades a man so much as certain kinds of 
 debt. Don't get into debt. If in order to keep free from 
 such entanglements you have to go down in the social scale, 
 do it without hesitation. Marry a gatekeeper or the watch- 
 man on your street. 
 
 ROSARIO. You are right. I, too, have been a slave and 
 martyr. Thank heaven, I am free, though poor. 
 
 MARQUIS. And now, cousin, I have resolved not to die 
 without administering to my tormentor a blow like those he 
 gave to me; I take pleasure in informing you that I have it all 
 prepared and waiting for him. 
 
 ROSARIO. A blow? 
 
 MARQUIS. A mistake of the choicest like his own. 
 
 ROSARIO. Tell me. What is it? 
 
 MARQUIS. A big thing. 
 
 ROSARIO. [With great interest] Tell it to me. Is it a secret? 
 
 MARQUIS. Not for you. 
 
 ROSARIO. Then what are you going to do? 
 
 MARQUIS. [Fearful of being overheard] Destroy the illu- 
 sion of his life. You know that there is around here 
 a son . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, I know him. He is here. 
 
 MARQUIS. And moreover, an agitator, partisan of socialism, 
 of atheism, of the devil himself. But with all that he is 
 doubtless a better man than C6sar. 
 
 ROSARIO. Indeed he is. He is not disagreeable. He 
 doesn't seem like the son of such a father. 
 
 MARQUIS. Well, he isn't ... he isn't. Is it clear now? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Stupefied] What are you saying? [Pause. 
 
 MARQUIS. Just as I am telling you. I can prove it. That
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 139 
 
 is to say, what I can prove is that the parentage of the young 
 social reformer is an enigma, an unknown quantity. 
 
 ROSABIO. [With great curiosity]* Explain yourself. Is it 
 possible that . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. Did you ever know a certain Sarah Balbi? 
 
 ROSARIO. An Italian, governess in the Gravelinas family? 
 I have heard my mother speak of that woman. Ah! now I 
 begin to see. And Cesar loved her, and thought her faith- 
 ful ... 
 
 MARQUIS. Human nature is a strange thing. 
 
 ROSARIO. A man who knows counterfeit money so well 
 that in a hundred thousand good coins he can pick the bad 
 one, by merely turning them over on the table and not 
 know what Sarah was! 
 
 MARQUIS. And take her for pure gold ! Such blindness is a 
 punishment from heaven. 
 
 ROSARIO. But you . . . how do you know? 
 
 MARQUIS. You remember that poor Barinaga died a few 
 months ago, at my house. 
 
 ROSARIO. A colonel in the army, very distinguished, with 
 a white beard. 
 
 MARQUIS. He got mixed up in politics, and ended his days 
 in poverty. I took him in to save him from the poorhouse. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, yes, and the poor fellow also had an affair 
 with the Italian woman? 
 
 MARQUIS. Yes. 
 
 ROSARIO. At the same time as Don Ce"sar. 
 
 MARQUIS. Two days before he died, the poor colonel told 
 me his story. Now you see. He loved her madly; he kept 
 seven letters from her seven! Notice the number seven 
 letters, which he gave to me. 
 
 ROSARIO. And you have them now? 
 
 MARQUIS. And they will be the bomb of dynamite which 
 I intend to place in the hands of that gentleman who makes
 
 140 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT 11 
 
 mistakes. Ah! I forgot to say that Barinaga suffered the 
 torments of jealousy. 
 
 ROSAKIO. So that Sarah deceived him also . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. He believed so, or feared so. That woman was 
 a mystery, a mystery full of charm: I know that. Let us 
 draw a veil . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, draw the veil. 
 
 MARQUIS. In the seven letters, which I call the seven mani- 
 festoes, it becomes evident that she was exploiting Don 
 Cesar's blind confidence . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. With the argument of her maternity. 
 
 MARQUIS. Which she used as a lever to force the money 
 box that was so hard to open. 
 
 ROSARIO. A horrible story! And that poor youth! But 
 how is he to blame? Rob him of his name, deprive him of 
 his fortune! No, no, cousin, don't do that. Let him . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. It is a serious matter. Don't think that I ... 
 I too hesitate sometimes . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. [Suddenly changing her mind] Oh! what possi- 
 bilities! Yes, you must . . . 
 
 MARQUIS. You think then . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. [Retracting, horrified at herself] No, no. 
 
 MARQUIS. Then it seems to you that . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. [After hesitating] Yes, yes. I feel a bitter, re- 
 vengeful impulse. Don C6sar deserves a hard blow, and I'll 
 not be the one to spare him. My hatred for him I have in- 
 herited from my father. 
 
 MARQUIS. I know. 
 
 ROSARIO. And from my mother also. That man presumed 
 to make love to her, and angry and spiteful at seeing himself 
 repulsed with horror, he slandered her infamously. 
 
 MARQUIS. Don't I know it? He said that she . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. [Indignant, closing his mouth] Hush! 
 
 MARQUIS, Then it's settled. I am to make a mistake?
 
 ACT n THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 141 
 
 ROSARIO. [Firmly] Yes. 
 
 MARQUIS. He has asked me for the history of the mare, 
 whose name is also Sarah. A coincidence from on high! 
 And so I make a clerical error, and instead of putting in the 
 envelope . . . 
 
 RosARlo. I understand. [Agitated and disturbed] Oh! I 
 don't know what to think. I don't understand my own feel- 
 ings! If you knew, cousin, in how many ways this matter 
 interests and concerns me! 
 
 MARQUIS. Yes, I think that as a matter of duty we 
 ought . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. [Making up her mind] Will you do as I tell 
 you? 
 
 MARQUIS. What is it? 
 
 ROSARIO. Give me the seven letters. 
 
 MARQUIS. And you will . . . ? 
 
 ROSARIO. Leave it to me. 
 
 MARQUIS. I will send you the packet by some one I can 
 trust. 
 
 ROSARIO. I will take upon my conscience the care and the 
 responsibility for the mistake. [Hearing voices, right] Hush. 
 I think the old gentleman is calling you. 
 
 MARQUIS. [Hastily] Oh, yes, the cider. Then it's agreed 
 that I will send it to you. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes. 
 
 DON JOSE enters from the back, behind him, LOKENZA. 
 
 DON JOSE. Marquis, I am waiting for you. 
 
 MARQUIS. I was just coming. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Searching the terrace with a look] Hasn't that 
 crazy son of mine come back? [To LORENZA] Where's 
 C6sar? 
 
 LORENZA. In his room. Senor Canseco has gone. He 
 said he would return. 
 
 DON JOSE. Hum! |/lmfe] The adoption.
 
 142 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 MARQUIS. But you don't know the worst of it. 
 
 ROSARIO. That I am the cause of his madness, my dear 
 Don Jose". 
 
 DON JOSE. Don't you suppose I could see that? For days 
 the volcano has been smoking under my very nose. 
 
 ROSARIO. I, alas, have not given him the slightest reason. 
 
 DON JOSE. I should hope not. My dear child, I beg you 
 to do everything in your power to put the foolish idea out 
 of his head. It is not a suitable thing for him, nor . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Certainly not for me. 
 
 DON JOSE. I want to marry him to a plain, unpretentious 
 woman. 
 
 ROSARIO. A very natural match. And thus you make sure 
 of the fish business. 
 
 DON JOSE. That is nothing to joke about. [Suspiciously, 
 aside] I wonder if she encourages him? We must be on our 
 guard. 
 
 RUFINA enters from the back with a basket of eggs. 
 
 RUFINA. Eight today. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Examining the eggs with pleasure, and showing 
 them to the MARQUIS] See what beauties they are. 
 
 MARQUIS. Yes, indeed. 
 
 DON JOSE. You can tell your friends that my hens are the 
 best layers in the world. 
 
 MARQUIS. I shall proclaim it far and wide, and woe to him 
 who doubts it! 
 
 LORENZA. [To RUFINA] Give me the key to get the sugar. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Surprised] Sugar? 
 
 ROSARIO. Surely. For the cakes. 
 
 DON JOSE. Oh! 
 
 RUFINA. We are going to make five pounds, grandpa. 
 
 DON JOSE. Then one pound of sugar. Get the sugar and 
 cinnamon. [Feeling in his pockets] Have you the keys? 
 [RUFINA gives the keys to LORENZA] A pound and a half of
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 143 
 
 butter, you know. First you separate the whites from the 
 yolks; beat the yolks with the sugar, and when it is well 
 beaten, you . . . 
 
 LORENZA. [Interrupting] I know that, sir. 
 
 DON JOSE. I say you are to mix it for them to save them 
 trouble. You may go. [Exit LORENZA] Now then, Marquis, 
 shall we try the cider? 
 
 MARQUIS. Allans! And then I'm going down to the shore. 
 So good-bye. [To ROSARIO] You have your work laid out for 
 you. [Meaningly] Knead it well. 
 
 DON JOSE. Come along. 
 
 [The MARQUIS gives him his arm. Exeunt at back. 
 
 VICTOR. [Entering, left, with cake-board, rolling-pin, and 
 several pans] Where shall I put these? 
 
 ROSARIO. Here. Has Lorenza beaten the eggs? 
 
 VICTOR. She is at it now. The yolks and the sugar, repre- 
 senting the union of the aristocracy of blood with that of 
 wealth. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Joking] Hush, envious proletarian! 
 
 VICTOR. What is the matter with the simile? 
 
 ROSARIO. It is not bad. Then I take the aristocracy, and 
 [Gesture of kneading] mix it, amalgamate it with the popu- 
 lace, common flour, which holds everything together. . . How's 
 that? And make a rich pastry. 
 
 RUFINA. But this populace, alias flour, where is it? 
 
 ROSARIO. And the butter the middle class, so to speak? 
 
 VICTOR. I'll go and get the mass. 
 
 ROSARIO. But don't bring us the masses. 
 
 RUFENA. And don't preach the social revolution to us. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Pushing him] Quick, quick. 
 
 VICTOR. Full speed. [Exit, left. 
 
 RUFINA. [Arranging the cake-board and wiping it] How 
 good he is! 
 
 ROSARIO. Are you fond of him?
 
 144 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 RUFINA. Indeed I am. It is so good to have a brother. 
 Isn't it? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Looks at her, fixedly. Sighs sadly. Pause] Yes. 
 Enter LORENZA with a basin and towel, which she puts 
 on tJie end of the table. Then VICTOR with the dough 
 on a board. 
 
 LORENZA. It is all mixed now. 
 ROSARIO. Plenty of butter in it? 
 LORENZA. Yes, ma'am. 
 
 She puts tfie dough on the cake-board and begins to 
 
 pound it. 
 ROSARIO. [Impatiently] Let me; let me. 
 
 [Pushes LORENZA away, and pounds the dough. 
 LORENZA. Before you roll it out ... so, so. 
 
 [Indicates the motion of worJdng it with the fingers. 
 RUFTNA. And turn it and press it well so that it will be 
 firm. 
 
 ROSARIO. {Burying her hands in the dough] I know, stupid. 
 You go to the oven. Is it good and hot? 
 LORENZA. You ought to see it. 
 RUFINA. Come. 
 ROSARIO. I'll have the first batch ready in a jiffy. 
 
 [Exeunt RUFINA and LORENZA, left, upstage. 
 ROSARIO. [Interrupting her work] Tliank heaven we're 
 alone! 
 
 VICTOR. Fleeting moments of happiness for me, stolen from 
 the sadness and solitude of this prison. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Working again] I am going to scold you, young 
 man. Last night when you tnet me as if by chance on my 
 way back from a walk on the beach with Rufina and the 
 priest's nieces, you said hard things to me. I dreamed of the 
 masses in revolt, of the guillotine and of pillage. 
 VICTOR. That's not for you. 
 ROSARIO. Because I'm poor and have nothing to pillage.
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 145 
 
 VICTOR. That is not the reason. 
 
 ROSARIO. Then, when they start destroying idols, you 
 will make an exception in my favor. For this socialist flouts 
 all his ideas by falling madly in love with an aristocrat. 
 
 VICTOR. Madly, yes. 
 
 ROSARIO. Traitor! deserter! apostate! make a joke of 
 principles. 
 
 VICTOR. I laugh at them. 
 
 ROSARIO. You abandon one absurdity to aspire to another. 
 
 VICTOR. [Quickly] No, I aspire to nothing. I know that 
 you cannot love me. 
 
 ROSARIO. Then if I can't love you, control yourself. Take 
 your heart and do with it [Kneading the dough] as I am doing 
 with this unfeeling mass. 
 
 VICTOR. And then take it to the furnace of the imagination. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Quickly] Your imagination is your ruin. 
 
 VICTOR. On the contrary, it is my salvation. Blessed 
 imagination! My only consolation is to mount it and speed 
 away through infinite space to the region of the ideal, of 
 thought, free and unconfined. Giving rein to my fancy, I 
 construct my life to suit my desires. I am not what others 
 try to make me, but what I wish to be. Laws are nothing to 
 me, because there I make them to suit myself. I plant my- 
 self on the fairest planet: I am a king, a demigod, a god! 
 I love and am loved in return. 
 
 ROSARIO. Enough. That reminds me of my childhood 
 when I played supposing games with my little friends. 
 
 VICTOR. What is that? 
 
 ROSARIO. Didn't you play supposing games as a child? 
 
 It is great fun. I was crazy about it. It was like this: we 
 
 would see which could invent the biggest stories, and the one 
 
 who brought forth an absurdity that no one could surpass, won. 
 
 The actress will determine, according to the meaning of the 
 
 speeches, when she will interrupt and resume the work.
 
 146 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 VICTOR. What fun! 
 
 ROSAKIO. Let's play at supposing. Let's see which of us 
 can contrive the most preposterous thing. 
 
 VICTOR. The most impossible. 
 
 ROSARIO. Exactly. The other night I thought I was an 
 ant, and that I kept travelling around the world, always in the 
 same path, until I wore a path so deep that I split the earth 
 in two. Imagine how many centuries I should need to ... 
 
 VICTOR. [Laughing] Yes, that's clever. Well, I supposed 
 something more nonsensical than that: that you and I were 
 living on a planet where the trees could speak . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. And the animals grew leaves. 
 
 VICTOR. And we were like a couple of walking shrubs, and 
 our eyes laughing flowers, and our moutlis flowers that kissed 
 each other. ... In that far-off world, you were not an aristocrat. 
 
 ROSARIO. Probably I was a pumpkin, perhaps a nice little 
 nettle. Bah! Your nonsense is good for nothing, Victor. I 
 can suppose an impossibility far greater. 
 
 VICTOR. What? 
 
 ROSARIO. An absurdity almost inconceivable. [Pause. They 
 look into each other's eyes for a moment] That I, not in that 
 planet where the grass speaks, but here on this earth, should 
 come to love you, to sympathize with your ideas first, and 
 then with yourself. 
 
 VICTOR. Duchess, do you want to drive me mad? 
 
 ROSARIO. Why don't you invent some nonsense like that? 
 
 VICTOR. You! Love me? Duchess . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Why do you keep saying, Duchess, Duchess? 
 If you are so frosty these cakes will be covered with icing. 
 Call me Rosario. 
 
 VICTOR. Just Rosario like that? 
 
 ROSARIO. Don't you know that the Duchess of San Quentin 
 is also a revolutionist and an anarchist? Yes, sir, I think 
 that everything is going very badly in this world; that with
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 147 
 
 all our laws and pretences we have come to inextricable con- 
 fusion, and now no one understands it. And we shall have 
 to mix it up again like this, [Kneading vigorously] and shape 
 it and make it over, and pound it, and roll it out, [Suiting 
 the action to the word] to arrive at something different. 
 
 VICTOR. Admirable! I go farther than that. 
 
 ROSABIO. Yes, you will go now and see if the oven is ready. 
 
 VICTOR. I know it is. 
 
 ROSARIO. Go and see, I tell you. 
 
 VICTOR [Smiling] Tyrant! [Moving away. 
 
 ROSARIO. I am not the tyrant; it is the baking, the public 
 interest. [Exit VICTOR, left, upstage. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Stops kneading, and takes the rolling-pin] Ah, 
 me! [Sighs deeply] I hardly dare admit it to myself. But it 
 is true, and I confess it, and reproach myself. . . . The ideas 
 of this man seduce me, charm me. . . . No, it is not his ideas; 
 it is the man himself. [She has rolled out the dough, and cuts 
 it with the knife. She stops work, and takes up a piece of the 
 dough, working it mechanically, abstractedly] What! Rosario, 
 shame on your weakness! In love with a poor nameless . . . 
 Ah! if I could make a new world, new society, new people, 
 as I make of this pastry the forms I please! [Looking at a 
 figure which she has moulded rapidly] No, no. We must ac- 
 cept the human gingerbread man as he is, as the cooks of old 
 formed him. [Destroying the figure and trying the dough] It is 
 not hard enough. [Rolls it up and uses the rolling-pin again] 
 Poor Victor! A hard fate is his. 
 
 [Stands in thought, both hands on the rolling-pin. 
 
 RAFAELA. [Enters, back, with a package] From the Marquis. 
 He charged me to place it in your own hands. 
 
 ROSARIO. Ah, the letters. . . . Sarah . . . [Unable to take it] 
 Put it in the pocket of my apron. 
 
 RAFAELA. [Putting the package in the pocket] Do you wish 
 re to help you?
 
 148 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 ROSARIO. [Rolling again] No. Leave me alone. [Exit 
 RAFAELA] It frightens me to contemplate the abyss that is 
 opening between Victor and Don Cesar. [Takes the knife and 
 cuts the dough. Remains motionless in thougftt] Shall I dare? 
 No. Impossible. 
 
 VICTOR enters, left, upstage. 
 
 VICTOR. Ready in two minutes. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Absent-minded] Who? 
 
 VICTOR. The oven. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Begins to make the cakes, twisting strips of dcrugji] 
 Come, Rosario, hurry up. 
 
 VICTOR. When I came in, you seemed to be talking to 
 yourself. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, and I was saying that it is foolish to sacri- 
 fice every tiling to truth, and that the great art in life consists 
 in adapting ourselves blindly to this mass of fiction and pre- 
 tence that surrounds us. 
 
 VICTOR. I don't believe that. For me it is war to the death 
 against all falsehood of whatever kind. 
 
 ROSARIO. Do you love truth? 
 
 VICTOR. Above everything else. 
 
 ROSARIO. And do you maintain that the truth should 
 always prevail? 
 
 VICTOR. Always. 
 
 ROSARIO. Even when it causes great unhappiness? 
 
 VICTOR. The truth can do no harm. 
 
 ROSARIO. You say that very confidently. You are very 
 puritanical. 
 
 VICTOR. You are very curious. 
 
 ROSARIO. One more question. I like to know all your 
 tastes and desires. Do you care about money, wealth? 
 
 VICTOR. [Disconcerted] That question ... in that form. . . . 
 Why, it all depends. 
 
 ROSARIO. You are an enemy of capital. So that it will be
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 149 
 
 very disagreeable to you to see that rascally capital coining 
 your way. You will take a stick and . . . 
 
 VICTOR. As for that . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Come, that hatred 'of capital is theoretical, 
 especially when the capital is one's own. [VICTOR starts 
 to speak. She goes on] Wait and let me make the ques- 
 tion more concrete. You have in prospect wealth, a 
 position, a name. If you should lose all that, should you 
 regret it? 
 
 VICTOR. Wealth and poverty will be all one to me if you 
 love me. 
 
 ROSARIO. I love you! You're coming back to our game of 
 impossibilities. 
 
 VICTOR. Let us come back to it, and tell me that it is not 
 an impossibility that it is possible. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Looking into his eyes] Ah! Victor, between you 
 and me there is a horrible phantom. 
 
 VICTOR. [Surprised] A phantom? 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, and in order to destroy it, note well what 
 I say, I should have to commit a crime. 
 
 VICTOR. [Stupefied] A crime! 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, sir, a little crime a village crime. [Laugh- 
 ing] What a face! 
 
 VICTOR. Really, I don't understand. 
 
 ROSARIO. Don't you see? I am wicked, very wicked. 
 
 VICTOR. You are an angel. 
 
 ROSARIO. An angel that can kill; the angel of assassina- 
 tion, as they said of Charlotte Corday. 
 
 VICTOR. [With increasing astonishment] You, capable of 
 killing! 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes. 
 
 VICTOR. Whom? 
 
 ROSARIO. You. 
 
 VICTOR. [Taking it as a joke] Me? Very well, from your
 
 150 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 hand I will accept death, if only it brings me love at the same 
 time. 
 
 ROSARIO. And you won't be angry with me ... if I 
 kill you? 
 
 VICTOR. Never. If you doubt it, put me to the test. What 
 must I do? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Handing him a pan of cakes] For the present, 
 take Rufina the first panful. [Alarmed at seeing DON C&SAR 
 entering, right] Ah! Don Csar. Careful! 
 
 DON CSAR. [Brusquely, surprised at seeing VICTOR] What 
 brings you here? 
 
 ROSARIO. Don't scold him. I told him to come. 
 
 DON CfesAR. This is an occupation, my dear lady, suitable 
 for children and women. Your maid . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. I have given her something else to do. 
 
 DON CSAR. Then Pepita . . . And you, take that away, 
 and then I want the drainage plan for the lower field this 
 afternoon. 
 
 VICTOR. Very well. [As he goes out, aside] Unbearable 
 tyranny! [Exit, back. 
 
 DON CfbsAR. You and Rufina have upset the whole house 
 with your little tasks and your . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Don Jos6 doesn't mind what we're doing. But 
 if you don't like it ... 
 
 DON CfesAR. No, no. You are the mistress here. Allow 
 me to sit down. I am very weak. 
 
 [Brings up a chair and seats himself by the table. 
 
 ROSARIO. As you reproved me ... 
 
 DON CSAR. Reprove, no. Go on, go on, since you have 
 the poor taste to descend to occupations so far beneath you. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Preparing cakes rapidly] Ha, ha! You are still 
 harping on that old idea of class distinctions? Remember 
 that I am poor, Don Ce"sar. [Sighing] And I must be learning 
 to earn my living.
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 151 
 
 DON CESAR. And you will still have your joke. Duchess 
 of San Quentin, taking everything into account . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. I never was any good at accounts. 
 
 DON CESAR. I mean, when you think it over for of course 
 you will marry . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh, no. 
 
 DON CESAR. If you take a second husband in the aris- 
 tocracy, you may easily fall again into the hands of some one 
 like poor Gustave. I am not an attractive man, at first 
 blush, as they say, but when you know me. . . . Oh, Rosario, 
 I will love you with my heart and soul; I will give you a 
 fine position. 
 
 ROSARIO. I am sick of fine positions. 
 
 DON CESAR. Mere fancy. 
 
 ROSARIO. It's true. Ah, Don Ce'sar! After a life of 
 grasping and usury, you have taken a fancy to become a 
 Duke. If my father could raise his head and see you asking 
 me to be your wife . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. He would be glad. 
 
 ROSARIO. And if my poor mother could come to life 
 again . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. She would be glad, too. Come, Rosario, my 
 dear, let us forget old disagreements . . . which never had any 
 basis of truth. Tell me, in heaven's name, what shall I do 
 to overcome this aversion? 
 
 ROSARIO. You'd have to be born again. 
 
 DON CESAR. I will be your slave, and fit myself to your 
 wishes and caprices. I will be as yielding as that dough 
 that you take in your fingers and mould as you like. 
 
 ROSARIO. You would be hard to twist. 
 
 DON CESAR. That would be on account of the coating of 
 sugar. 
 
 ROSARIO. Sugar money. Ah! Don Csar, a mountain of 
 sugar-cane wouldn't be enough to sweeten you!
 
 152 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 DON CESAR. We would add soft butter, sentiment, affec- 
 tion, domestic peace. 
 
 ROSARIO. No, the mixture would still taste bitter. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Rising and thumping his chair on the ground] 
 The devil take your pastry! You drive me mad. You play 
 with me like a kitten with a spool, and you confuse my 
 soul and make me a snarl, a tangle, and I don't know what to 
 think. [Firmly] Come, let's make an end of this. 
 
 ROSARIO. That's what I want, to end it. 
 
 DON CESAR. Did you read nay letter? 
 
 ROSARIO. Surely. 
 
 DON CESAR. Why don't you answer? 
 
 ROSARIO. Be calm. 
 
 DON CESAR. How can I? I like to have things definite. 
 Yes, or no. I'm not like you. As an aristocrat, you like to 
 exercise your fickle disposition, and it disgusts me. 
 
 ROSARIO. Thank you. 
 
 DON CESAR. No. I have a better opinion of you than I've 
 any reason to have. I believe firmly that you will answer 
 me, that perhaps you have already written the answer. 
 
 ROSARIO. That may be. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Aside] She is flirting with me, pretending to 
 despise what she really wants. I know women! 
 
 ROSARIO. What are you saying? 
 
 DON CESAR. [With a show of sincerity] That you are 
 playing with me. And with all this teasing, you arc preparing 
 for me a pleasant surprise. 
 
 He approaches the table, and leans over it with his hands 
 upon it, looking at ROSARIO, softening his voice, 
 
 ROSARIO. A pleasant surprise? Are you sure of it? 
 
 DON CESAR. Yes. And you are going to give me a yes 
 flatly and frankly that will make me happy. [Noticing the 
 package which ROSARIO has in the pocket of her apron] Ah! 
 What have you there? A letter?
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 153 
 
 ROSARIO. Maybe. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Moving away from the table] Aha! That is 
 the reply I am asking for. I am a prophet, Rosario. I 
 am, unfortunately, an old hand at the wiles of feminine 
 diplomacy. 
 
 ROSARIO. I can see that. 
 
 DON CESAR. I penetrate their intentions, I catch their 
 thoughts on the wing. 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh, indeed! Then guess the reply that I have 
 here. 
 
 DON CESAR. Well, I'll wager you accept, but with a lot of 
 delicate circumlocution . . . the eternal feminine. A woman 
 after all I mean a lady. 
 
 ROSARIO. It's all the same. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Showing great impatience] Will you permit me 
 to approach? [Without waiting for permission, he comes up to 
 ROSARIO and looks at the packet, which is sticking half out of 
 the pocket] It's a thick one. I see my name the Marquis's 
 writing. 
 
 ROSARIO. It is a paper that my cousin has sent for you. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Disappointed] About the horses? Why don't 
 you give it to me? 
 
 ROSARIO. I can't use my nands. 
 
 DON CESAR. Then let me take it. 
 
 Starts to take the packet. ROSARIO, with a sudden start, 
 prevents him by putting her hand over her pocket. 
 
 ROSARIO. No. [Pause. DON CESAR is surprised. 
 
 DON CESAR. Why . . . ? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Aside] I dare not . . . No. Let fate take its 
 course, let falsehood triumph. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Very serious] If that package is only what 
 I think it is, why don't you give it to me? 
 
 ROSARIO. [At a loss] The fact is that . . . [She has an in- 
 spiration] You were right, Don C&ar, This is my reply. I
 
 154 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 put it with the papers that the Marquis gave me, and tied 
 it all together with this red ribbon. 
 
 DON CfesAR. [Impatient] Then give it to me, for God's 
 sake! 
 
 ROSARIO. No, no. 
 
 DON CfcsAR. [Bitter and sarcastic] Is what you said to me 
 so horrible? 
 
 ROSARIO. Naturally. I specify my grievances, as you 
 asked in your letter. 
 
 DON CSAR. [Showing himself gross and insulting] And you 
 bring up the case of your father. Well, your father, the 
 noble Duke of San Quentin, had a lot to thank me for, madam. 
 I saved him from going to prison. And I am not one of those 
 who say, "Aha! He deserved to go." Not I ... 
 
 ROSARIO. [Unnerved, stammering with anger] And why do 
 they say that you are as treacherous as you are base? 
 
 DON C&SAR. And you will also talk about your mother . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Don't take her name upon your vile lips! 
 
 DON CSAR. Her name! Innocent creature! What do 
 you know about it? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Furious] You dare repeat . . . ! Oh, if I were a 
 man I'd strangle the infamous . . . [She stops, overcome with 
 anger. Looks at him with scorn] Don Ce*sar, let us have no 
 more words. You deserve no consideration, nor even pity. 
 [Giving him the packet] Take this. 
 
 DONC&JAR. At last! [Takes it. 
 
 ROSARIO. I beg you to leave me. 
 
 DON CfesAR. Good. I will retire. [Starts to the door, right, 
 and stops, hesitating, as if dissatisfied with himself. Aside] 
 The devil! I have been a fool. Blinded by anger. [Trying 
 to reopen the conversation] Rosario . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Enough. 
 
 DON CfcsAR. [Humbly] But you. . . . Did you take seriously 
 what I said? [Hypocritically] Without meaning to, one word
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 155 
 
 led to another, and I ran on without thinking. ... I was im- 
 pertinent. [RosARio moves away, turning her back] What? 
 Won't you hear me? [Takes a few steps toward her] You know, 
 my nerves are all upset, from not sleeping, and not eating. 
 I get mixed up. . . . Anybody is likely to make a mistake . . . 
 especially a sick man. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Aside] His cringing apologies are more offen- 
 sive than his insults. 
 
 DON CESAR. Won't you let me explain? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Sharply] No. 
 
 DON CESAR. You are angry with me? 
 
 ROSARIO. [With disdain, not unmixed with compassion] Oh! 
 No. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Going toward the door] I will read your reply, 
 and then we will have a talk. You will do me justice. 
 
 ROSARIO. Justice! That's exactly the idea. 
 
 DON CESAR. [From the door, looking at her with eyes 
 of passion. Aside] You little savage! I'll catch you yet, 
 though it be in a trap. 
 
 Exit. VICTOR has entered, left, upstage, a few moments 
 before DON CESAR'S departure, and has waited for 
 him to leave. 
 
 VICTOR. He has gone. It seemed to me that you were 
 speaking with some excitement. What is happening? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Agitated and embarrassed] Nothing . . . no. 
 
 VICTOR. [Taking up the pans] Shall I take these? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Takes them from him] No, not now. Heavens! 
 what have I done? [Hastily washes her hands in the basin] 
 Victor, forgive me! No, you will never forgive me. Im- 
 possible. 
 
 VICTOR. [Alarmed] For what? What are you doing? 
 
 ROSARIO. You see: washing my hands like Pilate. Or 
 rather, no; I am guilty. . . . There is blood on them. 
 
 VICTOR. [Not understanding] Rosario!
 
 156 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT 11 
 
 ROSARIO. All! my dear Victor! . . . Truth above every- 
 thing. . . . You believe that, don't you? 
 
 VICTOR. Yes. 
 
 ROSAKIO. Always, and under all circumstances? 
 
 VICTOR. Always, always. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Dropping the towel, runs to VICTOR and puts 
 both hands on his breast, questioning him with an affectionate 
 look] Victor! 
 
 VICTOR. What? 
 
 ROSARIO. Will you always love me? Always? 
 
 VICTOR. [Overcome, not knowing what to say] Rosario! 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh, I must be crazy to talk to you like that! So 
 immodest! 
 
 VICTOR. It is the truth rising and coming out. 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, that's it. Now I repeat: Will you always, 
 always, love me, in spite of ... 
 
 VICTOR. [Quickly] In spite of what? 
 
 ROSARIO. Of this . . . Because your love is what I care for 
 most in the world, and I am condemned [With emotion] to 
 have your hate. 
 
 VICTOR. I? What nonsense! Why . . . you're weeping. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Drying her tears] No, no. 
 
 VICTOR. [Passionately] Ask of me the greatest sacrifices, 
 the hardest service; put me to the test. My love will not 
 be complete unless I can suffer for it. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Sadly] Don't ask for sacrifices. They will come. 
 
 VICTOR. But explain to me . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. I can say nothing. I am going now. 
 
 VICTOR. [Trying to detain her] No. 
 
 ROSARIO. Let me go! I am going to the oven. [Forcing 
 a laugh] You see, I have to take this, [Indicating tlie two pans 
 of cakes] and I want to see how the baking has come out. 
 
 [Exit rapidly, left, upstage. 
 
 VICTOR. [Agitated] Love, yes, love! It is revealed in her
 
 ACT n THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 157 
 
 eyes, in the trembling of her voice. Can I be mistaken? 
 [Doubtful] I wonder. [Thoughtful] What is this intangible 
 mystery that floats about me? Rosario . . . this house . . . 
 my family . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. [Enters, back] I smell something burning. 
 Those crazy girls have let the baking. . . . Ah! Victor. 
 
 VICTOR. [Vehemently] Grandfather, I want to be different. 
 I am different. I declare myself changed, transformed . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. Good. But you must prove it. 
 
 VICTOR. Do you doubt it? Command my acts, my 
 thoughts. I renounce all the ideas that offended you; I 
 surrender.' I will identify myself with tjie family which is 
 about to receive me into its midst . . . 
 
 DON JOSE. In fact, your father intended today . . . Here 
 is Canseco with the papers. 
 CANSECO enters, back. 
 
 CANSECO. My dear patriarch . . . Don Victor. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Looking at the document that CANSECO takes 
 from his pocket] Is that the act? 
 
 CANSECO. Yes, sir. [Gives it to him. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Calling, right] Cesar, my son. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Enters, right, with an expression of confusion 
 and anger, which he restrains with difficulty. VICTOR and 
 CANSECO look at him in surprise] What is it, father? 
 
 DON JOSE. [To CESAR, giving him the document] Look this 
 over. [CESAR snatches it and crumples it convulsively] What 
 are you doing? 
 
 DON CESAR. My duty. 
 
 [Tears the paper and throws the pieces to the ground. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Aghast] Why, my son, what's this? 
 
 DON CESAR. To destroy, annihilate. . . . Oh, fool that I am ! 
 I can easily tear up this paper . . . but the shame, the decep- 
 tion with which I have lived, how can I destroy and remove 
 that? Who will destroy the years, the acts of treachery, the
 
 158 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT 11 
 
 infamous deceit, my stupid blindness? [Overcome, looking at 
 VICTOR, who remains at the left of tJie stage, waiting, troubled 
 and silent, and without understanding what is happening] Ah! 
 There he is! That living sham, my deception through all 
 these years! His person which was pleasing to me but yester- 
 day, now shames and offends me! 
 
 VICTOR. [Aside] God! what is he saying? 
 
 DON JOSE. My son, you are raving. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Wildly, with staring eyes] Oh! if I only were 
 raving, dreaming! But no, no. I have not even the conso- 
 lation of doubt. 
 
 DON JOSE. What? 
 
 DON CESAR. [Aside, to DON JOSE, in a low and mournful 
 tone] It is certain, father, the living truth. It is her hand, 
 her delicate writing, fair and false; it is herself, coming back 
 from the grave to reveal to me her vile imposture. 
 
 VICTOR. [Understanding by DON CESAR'S manner that some- 
 thing serious is happening, but not knowing what it is] What 
 mystery is this? [To CANSECO, who approaches] Have they 
 told him something about me? Slander perhaps . . . 
 
 CANSECO. [Confused] I don't know. 
 
 VICTOR. [Taking two or three steps toward DON CESAR] 
 Sir... 
 
 DON CESAR. [Terrified} Don't come near me. 
 
 DON JOSE. Victor, have you caused sorrow to your father? 
 RUFINA and ROSARIO enter, left, upstage. ROSARIO 
 remains near the watt, and docs not advance until 
 VICTOR is left alone. 
 
 RUFINA. [Running up to VICTOR] Victor, what are you 
 doing? We have been waiting for you. 
 
 DON CESAR. Rufina, come away from that man. 
 
 RUFINA. [Startled] Why, papa? 
 
 CANSECO. Don Csar doesn't want anybody to go near him. 
 
 RUFINA. [To her father] Papa, what has Victor done?
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 159 
 
 DON CESAR. [Aside to RUFINA and DON JOSE] Nothing. 
 He is innocent. 
 
 RUFINA. I don't understand. 
 
 DON JOSE. I do. But explain to us. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Dejectedly] I can't. The truth burns my 
 lips. It is impossible for me to tell my disgrace. [Falls 
 fainting in a chair] I feel very ill. ... I am dying. [All sur- 
 round him except VICTOR] My strength leaves me in this 
 crisis of honor, of conscience. I can only suffer, and curse my 
 fate, and revile heaven and earth. [Nervously sitting up in the 
 chair, supported by DON JOSE and RUFINA] I feel fire, gall, 
 shame, coursing through my veins. 
 
 VICTOR. [Overwhelmed] What is this horrible enigma? But 
 great heavens, of what am I accused? [With rage, clenching 
 his fists] What have I done? 
 
 DON CESAR. Done? Nothing, nothing. No, I can say 
 nothing. My courage fails me. ... I can't, I can't. 
 
 VICTOR. Good God! 
 
 RUFINA. [Embracing her father] Are you ill? 
 
 DON JOSE. Let us take him in. 
 
 CANSECO. And call the doctor. 
 
 DON JOSE. Yes, yes. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Led by DON JOSE, RUFINA, and CANSECO] 
 My daughter. . . . My only true . . . 
 
 [Kisses and puts his arm around her. 
 
 DON JOSE. Come. [Exeunt, right. 
 
 VICTOR. [Angrily, running to the right] No, no! You must 
 tell me . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. [Advances and detains him] Wait. I will tell you. 
 
 VICTOR. You, Rosario? You possess the key to this hor- 
 rible mystery? 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes. 
 
 VICTOR. And you know ... In heaven's name, explain to 
 me. . . . My father . . .
 
 160 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 ROSARIO. Don't call him that. 
 
 VICTOR. Why? 
 
 ROSARIO. Because he isn't. 
 
 VICTOR. [Horrified] He isn't! I am not . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. [Rapidly] Don't ask me anything more. You 
 are not to blame. [Seriously] The guilty ones are no more. 
 God has punished them . . . 
 
 VICTOR. [Covering his face] Oh! [Drops into a chair. 
 
 ROSARIO. Life is a fickle thing, and surprises us with sud- 
 den revolutions and changes. Do not the rich and powerful, 
 and even kings fall? Then if the great fall, why should we 
 wonder if ordinary mortals fall too and disappear, and vanish 
 into nothing? 
 
 VICTOR. [Not listening] The proofs, the proofs of this . . . 
 whatever it is. 
 
 ROSARIO. They are undeniable. 
 
 VICTOR. [Greatly agitated] Who told my father Don 
 Cesar? You? Why? For what purpose? 
 
 ROSARIO. For the sake of truth. I thought that one who 
 loves truth above everything would not reproach me for that. 
 
 VICTOR. [Confused] Yes, but . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. The truth, always the truth! Does your moral 
 standard permit you to accept a name and a position that do 
 not belong to you? 
 
 VICTOR. Oh, I would never do that. 
 
 ROSARIO. And do you regret the loss of the wealth you 
 thought was yours? 
 
 VICTOR. I should be a hypocrite to pretend that this blow 
 does not wound me deeply. Just when I wanted a name and 
 a fortune to be able to aspire . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. To what? 
 
 VICTOR. [Bitter and disconsolate] Can you ask me? You 
 are cruel to impress upon me the distance, now infinite, that 
 separates us.
 
 ACT ii THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 161 
 
 ROSARIO. [Tenderly] Victor, console yourself. How many 
 times, in talking with me, you have protested against social 
 distinctions, cursed property, and even names. Names 
 vain idols, according to you, to which so often the purest in- 
 stincts of the heart are sacrificed! Well, now your ideal is 
 realized ; now you have no property, not even a name. Now 
 you are nobody. 
 
 VICTOR. [Recovering himself] Nobody? Oh! not quite, 
 not so low as that. [Rising abruptly] Away with weakness that 
 is unworthy of me! It is over now, the shock of the fall. I 
 still live. ... I am myself. [With courage] I will accept with a 
 tranquil heart the most difficult and desperate situations. I 
 fear nothing. The abyss into which I have dropped does not 
 dismay me, and its shadowy depths will not cause a shudder. 
 I thought I possessed the riches of the earth all of them, all: 
 those that make life peaceful and happy, that stir the mind, 
 that rejoice the heart. A dream, an illusion! It is my fate 
 a cruel fate. [Boldly] Well, with all its cruelty and pain, I 
 accept it, I face it, I welcome it, and I will go on living. 
 Forward, then. What am I? Nobody? Good! I am a 
 man, and that is enough. 
 
 ROSARIO. A man, yes, of powerful intelligence and firm 
 will. 
 
 VICTOR. My will! That is all I have left. 
 
 ROSARIO. Not quite. [Meaningly] 
 
 VICTOR. I have a sad and hopeless love, more hopeless now 
 than ever. [Vehemently, and with curiosity] But tell me, 
 Rosario, in God's name, what motive had you in revealing to 
 my father to Don Cesar this . . . this . . . thing? 
 
 ROSARIO. A great interest . . . immense. 
 
 VICTOR. What? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Embarrassed] That I wanted to say to you . . . 
 
 VICTOR. [Anxiously] What? 
 
 ROSARIO. Something that I could not say to the son of that
 
 162 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT n 
 
 man, whom I hate. Between the false father and the sup- 
 posed son I have opened an impassable abyss. [Tenderly] 
 And now that you are alone in the world, now that you no 
 longer have over you the despicable shadow of Don C6sar 
 de Buendia, I can say to you . . . 
 
 VICTOR. What? 
 
 ROSAKIO. [With a burst of love and enthusiasm] Son of 
 Adam, outcast of fortune, wanderer in the wide world my 
 poor darling . . . [Pause. She rests her eyes on VICTOR. He, 
 opening his arms, goes toward her] I love you. 
 
 VICTOR. My angel! 
 
 ROSARIO. My love! [They embrace. Quick curtain. 
 
 End of Act Two.
 
 (The Scene is the same as in Act One) 
 
 LOBENZA discovered putting the room in order; RUFINA 
 enters at back, wearing a hat and walking -suit. 
 
 RUFINA. How animated and gay the whole town is! The 
 plaza is full of people, and the whole square of San Roque, 
 and Lantigua Avenue all the way to the church. 
 
 LORENZA. Yes, yes. Rarely lias the pilgrimage of Our 
 Lady of the Sea been so big as this year. Ah! the fifteenth 
 of August, the great festival of this town, is hardly recogniz- 
 able nowadays! Today it is all excitement, and eating and 
 drinking, and lots of people from inland and from overseas 
 . . . but devotion, real devotion don't look for that, because 
 it isn't there. Well, did you girls go as far as the sanctuary? 
 
 RUFINA. It was hard to make our way through the crowd, 
 such pushing, and swaying . . . But finally we got there, and 
 offered to the Holy Virgin the three wreaths, ours and yours. 
 [Anxiously looking toward the right] But Rosario . . . 
 
 LORENZA. Didn't she come home with you? 
 
 RUFINA. No, I thought she had come on ahead. 
 
 LORENZA. I haven't seen her come in. 
 
 RUFINA. In San Roque's square the Lantigua girls kept 
 me talking a few minutes such chatterers and when I suc- 
 ceeded in getting away, Rosario wasn't with me. I looked 
 for her all through the streets and shops of the fair, and 
 couldn't find her. The Duchess of San Quentin had dis- 
 appeared. I thought she had come home, and that I should 
 find her here. 
 
 163
 
 1G4 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT in 
 
 LORENZA. [Alarmed] Do you suppose she is lost in the 
 crowd, and can't find her way home? 
 
 RUFINA. What? Rosario? She can find her way any- 
 where. She is not lost. 
 
 LORENZA. But what has happened to the Duchess, anyway? 
 She doesn't get up early any more; she doesn't work; she 
 spends the morning gathering wild flowers, and the nights 
 looking at the moon, and counting the stars to see if they 
 are all there. 
 
 RUFINA. Just her whims. 
 
 LORENZA. A strange whim to be as gloomy as a funeral, 
 when she ought to be as happy as a lark. 
 
 RUFINA. Oh, you think . . . 
 
 LORENZA. Yes. They haven't told us about it, but every- 
 body in town is talking about it. 
 
 RUFINA. Why, what do they say? 
 
 LORENZA. That you will soon have a handsome stepmother. 
 
 RUFINA. Come, come. Don't talk nonsense. What do 
 you know about it? 
 
 LORENZA. More than you do. 
 
 RUFINA. You don't understand what has happened here, 
 and you can't understand. 
 
 LORENZA. [To herself] My word, the girl is stupid! [Mys- 
 teriously] Since the day of the revolution in this house . . . 
 
 RUFINA. Hush. Don't remind me of it. 
 
 LORENZA. Since the day they repudiated Mr. Victor, 
 leaving him in the class of the sovereign people, strange 
 things have been happening in the house of Buendfa. The 
 poor boy! When we were just becoming fond of him, it 
 turned out that . . . 
 
 RUFINA. [Sadly] That he is not my brother. For me he 
 always will be. I regarded him as my brother from the time 
 he came to the house, and I shall consider him so as long as I 
 live. When I become a nun, and the religious life attracts
 
 ACT in THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 165 
 
 me more strongly every day, I shall pray for him night and 
 morning, asking the Lord to give him some happiness of 
 the little that exists on this earth. 
 
 LORENZA. He deserves it, the dear boy. I shall never for- 
 get that afternoon when I saw him go out of the house, never 
 to return. And don't imagine that he was downcast and 
 dejected. I said then, he seems too haughty for the common 
 herd. 
 
 RUFINA. [With interest] You haven't seen him since? 
 
 LORENZA. No. 
 
 RUFINA. Tell me the truth. 
 
 LORENZA. I assure you I haven't. 
 
 RUFINA. And you haven't heard from him? 
 
 LORENZA. No. I ask ah 1 the workmen I know, and no- 
 body can tell me anything. 
 
 RUFINA. I can't understand it. 
 
 LORENZA. He must have gone away. 
 
 RUFINA. No, no. He is here. Canseco must know where, 
 because grandfather and papa have sent him that I know, 
 I overheard it have sent the notary to propose to him . . . 
 
 LORENZA. They have? What . . . ? 
 
 RUFINA. You shall see. I begged grandfather not to 
 abandon poor Victor and he you'll never guess what my 
 dear old granddaddy said Well, he'll give him the "Rufina," 
 which is now ready to sail, loaded with ore, and with pro- 
 visions for two months. Last night he told the captain to 
 clear for Boston or Philadelphia, with cargo for sale on arrival. 
 They will give Victor the ship, with the papers all in order, 
 on condition that he leaves at once. The ship and everything 
 in it is his, and when he reaches the United States he can sell 
 it, and buy land in the west, and make a big, big ranch. 
 
 LORENZA. Ah! what a man! How he runs everything, 
 and gives everybody his due. He is a regular Providence. 
 And Victor, does he accept?
 
 166 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT in 
 
 RUFINA. We shall know soon, because the captain wants 
 to sail on tomorrow's tide. 
 
 LORENZA. [Seized by an idea] Oh, do you suppose Victor is 
 already on board? 
 
 RUFINA. [Quickly] Oh, that hadn't occurred to me. We 
 must find out at once. 
 
 LORENZA. Yes, John will know my nephew, he is the 
 quartermaster. [Goes to back. 
 
 RUFINA. Listen. Rosario's delay worries me. 
 
 LORENZA. I will send Rafaela to look for her. [Looking out 
 at back] Ah! Here she is. [Enter ROSARIO, back. LORENZA 
 stops on seeing her, as if about to enter into conversation] Have 
 you had a pleasant walk, ma'am? 
 
 RUFINA. Go and do what I told you, and leave us. [Exit 
 LORENZA] Thank heaven! Where have you been? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Downcast] Oh, I wasn't lost. I was . . . [Anx- 
 iously] Tell me, have you heard anything? 
 
 RUFINA. Nothing, dear. 
 
 ROSARIO. And Lorenza, who knows everything and hears 
 everything, hasn't she found out . . . ? 
 
 RUFINA. Not yet. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Very much agitated] I am so uneasy! Since that 
 day, which I shall never forget, we haven't seen him nor 
 heard from him. Why is he hiding? Is he trying to avoid 
 me? 
 
 RUFINA. Oh, no. 
 
 ROSARIO. It would be an inexplicable change. His last 
 words, when he said good-bye to me and left the house, indi- 
 cated tender affection and Christian fortitude. I don't 
 know which touched me more, his love for me or the proud 
 courage with which he faced misfortune. But since then . . . 
 now . . . this disappearance, this flight, if he is really gone. . . . 
 I don't know what to think. If you only knew the things 
 that I imagine!
 
 ACT in THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 167 
 
 RUFINA. What? 
 
 ROSAKIO. That when he was alone, his courage dropped 
 away, and he fell into that dejection that stifles one's energies, 
 and leads to despair, and bitterness, and anger. 
 
 RUFINA. Oh, don't believe that. 
 
 ROSABIO. It may well be that the love he felt for me has 
 been stifled by the memory of the harm I did him. 
 
 RUFINA. Come, come. That is impossible. I can sooner 
 believe that his feelings have been affected by the reports 
 that are current in the town. 
 
 ROSAKIO. That I am going to marry your father? Ridicu- 
 lous gossip! 
 
 RUFINA. That is what my friends were talking about this 
 afternoon, and every one I met on the way home. Now of 
 course, if Victor believes it too . . . 
 
 ROSAKIO. He can't, he won't believe it. Oh, dear, I don't 
 know what to do. If I were only sure he received the letter 
 I wrote to him yesterday ! 
 
 RUFINA. I gave it to the teamster at the factory, and I am 
 sure he is searching the town and the country round to find 
 him. 
 
 ROSARIO. Oh, I hope so! Why do you think I left you this 
 afternoon at San Roque, when you were talking with your 
 friends? I thought I saw him in the crowd. 
 
 RUFINA. Victor? 
 
 ROSARIO. I would have sworn it was he. I ran after that 
 face that appeared for a moment hi the shifting mob. It was 
 not he. With a sudden impulse, I began to run through the 
 whole fair, with the idea, the presentiment, that I should find 
 him. In that turbulent throng, through the excited hubbub, 
 I made my way rapidly people coming and going, dancing 
 here, eating there. All, old and young, men and women, 
 were full of the joy of living, that simple gaiety which is 
 unknown to us who have been born and have lived in a
 
 168 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT m 
 
 world of artificiality, of dry and empty formalities, like pup- 
 pets hung on wires. And I was seeking, seeking, seeking, 
 with anxious eyes, searching the sea of faces, that mass of 
 humanity abounding in joy and flesh and blood and life. 
 I saw weather-beaten sailors, with the look of the sea in their 
 eyes; workmen's faces, marked with the dust of the mines; 
 I saw farmers, teamsters, all kinds of people, but among all 
 those faces I did not find the one I sought. And I was so 
 blindly confident that the Virgin would grant me what I 
 asked! You see, it was such a little tiling I wanted. I have 
 been very unhappy. I have lived in the desert of fashionable 
 life; I prayed that she should let me see again the only man 
 who ever reached my heart and stayed there. 
 
 RUFINA. Oh, she might grant you that! You took the 
 wrong path. Instead of going down to the fair, you should 
 have gone down to the harbor. 
 
 ROSAKIO. I did. I went down to the shore, and went over 
 it from the ore-works to the fishermen's beach. I saw three, 
 four, a dozen boats arriving from the other shore, their masts 
 gay with flags, leaves, and masses of flowering shrubs; they 
 were filled with pilgrims, all bearing branches of laurel and 
 garlands of flowers to offer to the Virgin. He was not there, 
 either. And those people arriving so gaily as if they thought 
 they had discovered a new world as soon as they set foot on 
 shore, passed close to my great grief without noticing it. 
 My grief is so small, so diminutive, so invisible to others 
 and so great to me! 
 
 RUFINA. Be calm. We shall surely know today. For 
 pity's sake, have patience. 
 
 ROSARIO. That is just what I can't do. Recommend to 
 me all the virtues, but not patience. 
 
 RUFINA. Take care. Here are father and grandfather. 
 Enter DON JOSE, leaning on DON CESAR'S arm. 
 
 DON JOSE. Ah! there you are. Have you been to the fair?
 
 ACT in THE DUCHESS^ OF SAN QUENTIN 169 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, sir, and we took flowers to the Virgin. 
 
 RTJFINA. And we prayed to her to give you both good 
 health. 
 
 DON CESAR. To me, too? Did you pray for me? 
 
 ROSARIO. Yes, for you, too. 
 
 DON CESAR. Thanks. But so far the Virgin has not paid 
 any attention to you, for I am no better today than yester- 
 day. 
 
 ROSARIO. Our Lady of the Sea is not very generous this 
 year. She doesn't grant anything we ask. 
 
 DON JOSE. Are you going tonight to the dance at the 
 Casino? 
 
 ROSARIO. I'm not. 
 
 RUFINA. If we wanted to go, would you let us, grandfather? 
 
 DON JOSE. My dear children, I am not the one who com- 
 mands here now. Do you know what I have decided to do? 
 
 RUFINA and ROSARIO. What? 
 
 DON JOSE. Well, considering that my dear son disapproves 
 of the authority that I have exercised in this house for more 
 than half a century, considering that he is determined to 
 follow new paths which are not to my liking, I abdicate. 
 
 [He sits down. 
 
 ROSARIO. Do you really mean it? 
 
 DON JOSE. [Seriously] Yes, and there is something more 
 important, which I ought to say to you today, and which he 
 will tell you. You can settle it yourselves. [DoN CESAR 
 talks with ROSARIO, aside; DON JOSE with RTJFINA] He in- 
 sists upon ruining himself, and he will. 
 
 ROSARIO. But, Don Csar, do you still persist? 
 
 DON CESAR. To be sure. Persistence is my only virtue. 
 Yes, I still persist. 
 
 ROSARIO. In spite of our disagreeable quarrel the other day? 
 
 DON CESAR. In spite of all quarrels, past, present, and 
 future.
 
 170 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT in 
 
 ROSARIO. I thought you would still be angry with me. 
 
 DON C&3AR. Why? Oh, for having revealed to me . . . 
 On the contrary, I ought to be grateful. For what purpose 
 or reason I know not, you saved me from a great mistake. 
 You wounded me, but you told me the truth, and say what 
 you like, one should always be thankful for the truth. You 
 see I speak frankly. Imitate my frankness, and tell me ... 
 
 ROSABIO. [Displeased] If you please, we will leave this for 
 another occasion. I must write to my family I have been 
 very neglectful. 
 
 DON CfisAR. Cruel. You are always fleeing from me. 
 
 ROSABIO. Au revoir. [To RUFINA] Are you coming? 
 
 [Exeunt, right, 
 
 DON Josfe. From what I can see, her disdain does not cure 
 you of your mad infatuation. 
 
 DON CissAR. You are right: blind infatuation, madness. 
 I cannot help it. It is my temperament, my character to 
 seek to overcome obstacles, especially when I know that 
 they are more affected than sincere. She is simply wild to 
 enrich her dried-up aristocracy with the prosperous, if lowly 
 house of Buendia. Only, with the greatest shrewdness she 
 dickers over her consent, to get a better bargain. 
 
 DON Josfe. [Rising angrily] I tell you . . . 
 
 DON CSAR. [Calmly] Father, have you abdicated or 
 not? 
 
 DON Josfe. [Sitting down] Ah! I forgot. Do what you 
 like. I have nothing to say. I have withdrawn from the 
 world, and from my humble cell, watching my own funeral. 
 , I shall see how you govern alone. 
 
 DON CfesAR. I shall rule as best I can. 
 
 DON Josfe. I shall not interfere again except to see the 
 fulfillment of one of the last acts of my reign. Tell me, will 
 Canseco be here soon? 
 
 DON CfesAK. I expect him any moment.
 
 ACT in THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 171 
 
 DON JOSE. And he will tell us whether that poor boy ac- 
 cepts or not. 
 
 DON CESAR. Do you doubt it? What more can he expect? 
 I don't know. We are giving him, for love, a magnificent 
 ship. 
 
 DON JOSE. Yes, rotten in every timber, like us. Well, we 
 shall see if that diligent notary . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. [Approaching the back as if to give some orders] 
 Talk of the devil . . . here he is. 
 Enter CANSECO. 
 
 DON CESAR. What news? 
 
 CANSECO. [Pompously] A great, a stupendous event. 
 
 DON CESAR. Out with it. 
 
 CANSECO. Parenthetically, [Shaking DON CESAR'S hand, 
 effusively] accept my warmest congratulations, my dear Don 
 Cesar. 
 
 DON CESAR. What for? 
 
 CANSECO. They are talking of nothing else all over town. 
 It will be a happy day for all the inhabitants of Ficobriga 
 when we come to greet the new Duke of San Quentin. 
 
 DON CESAR. Oh, there is nothing to that yet. Maybe . . . 
 But come, my friend, what about . . . ? 
 
 DON JOSE. Have you seen him? 
 
 CANSECO. Yes, sir. 
 
 DON CESAR. Where has he been? 
 
 CANSECO. Prepare for a great surprise. [Pause] Are you 
 prepared? 
 
 DON CESAR. Yes, but tell us ... 
 
 DON JOSE. Where is he? 
 
 CANSECO. At Saint Mary's. 
 
 DON JOSE. In the sanctuary? 
 
 CANSECO. In the rectory, at the home of the priest. 
 
 DON CESAR. Father Florencio? 
 
 CANSECO. Yes, it appears they are great friends.
 
 172 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT in 
 
 RUFINA. [Peeping in at the right, hears the last words] Ah ! 
 [She goes back to ROSARIO'S room. 
 
 DON JOSE. Did you speak with him? 
 
 CANSECO. Yes, sir, more than half an hour. 
 
 DON CESAR. Of course, he accepts our aid, and will embark 
 immediately. 
 
 CANSECO. Well, he has not agreed specifically. 
 
 DON CESAR. He hasn't? 
 
 DON JOSE. Well . . . 
 
 CANSECO. Let me proceed in due form. He told me that 
 on the day following his departure from this house, he went 
 to Socartes, summoned by a Belgian engineer, a friend of 
 his, and former comrade at Liege. 
 
 DON CESAR. Ah, yes. Trainard, who is the Belgian con- 
 sul here. 
 
 CANSECO. Accompanied by his friend and his friend's wife, 
 he returned here this morning. 
 
 DON CESAR. And what else? 
 
 CANSECO. Why, nothing. . . . He requests that you give 
 him an interview, and I have come in his name to ask for it. 
 
 DON JOSE. An interview, here? 
 
 DON CESAR. No, no; he must not set foot here. That 
 would be the last straw. . . . Tell him, no, no. 
 
 CANSECO. The petitioner instructed me to say that he has 
 a communication of the greatest importance to make to you. 
 
 DON CESAR. Bah, bah! Tell him to let us alone. 
 
 CANSECO. I presume of course, I do not speak of my 
 own knowledge that it has something to do with the sad 
 revelation made by the Duchess. And, parenthetically, 
 since I have mentioned the lady's name . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. What? 
 
 CANSECO. [Confidentially] Well, when in the course of our 
 conversation the name of the Duchess was mentioned, I ob- 
 served on Victor's face an expression, an emotion. . . . Well,
 
 ACT in THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 173 
 
 ... I understood it instantly. My natural perspicacity leads 
 me to observe and read such things. . . . Clearly, as the noble 
 relative of the house of Buendla was the one who rectified 
 that serious family mistake, it is perfectly logical that the 
 petitioner, innocent victim of the declaration of the deponent, 
 should have conceived a violent hatred for her. It is proper 
 that you should be warned. 
 
 DON CESAB. What? Would he dare . . . ? 
 
 DON JOSE. I don't believe it. 
 
 CANSECO. Have him arrested and taken to Segura. Let 
 us with wise prevention forestall any diabolical plot that 
 his desire for vengeance may have conceived. 
 
 DON CESAR. Oh, it is impossible. 
 
 CANSECO. I do not affirm. ... I suspect. The natural 
 pessimism of an officer of justice who has seen much 
 villainy. And, parenthetically, what do you reply to 
 his request? 
 
 DON JOSE. It is for you to say. 
 
 DON CESAB. I told you no, absolutely. 
 ROSARIO and RUFINA enter, right. 
 
 ROSAKIO. [From the door] Is it a secret, what you are say- 
 ing? 
 
 DON CESAB. No, come in. 
 
 CANSECO. [Advancing to greet her} Dear lady . . . [Offi- 
 ciously and mysteriously] Have no fear. 
 
 ROSABIO. Fear! 
 
 CANSECO. You are quite safe. There is no danger. We 
 are all here to watch over your precious life. The only pre- 
 caution you can take is not to leave the house until . . . 
 
 DON CESAB. But if the petitioner, as you say, is to leave 
 Ficobriga soon anyway. Why it would be absurd . . . 
 
 ROSARIO. Ah! I know whom you are speaking of. 
 
 DON CESAB. And now he comes with the ridiculous re- 
 quest that we grant him an interview.
 
 174 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT m 
 
 CANSECO. An audience, here. 
 
 DON JOSE. He wants us to give him something more. 
 RUFINA. Let him come, grandfather. 
 DON JOSE. I have nothing to say. He will decide. 
 DON CESAR. Receive him here! In my house! 
 RUFINA. Papa, receive him. What difference does it make 
 to you? [To CANSECO] Where is he? 
 
 CANSECO. He is close by. He came with me as far as the 
 door, and is now in the square awaiting the decision. 
 
 ROSABIO. [Aside to RUFINA] Quick, go and call him. [Exit 
 RUFINA, back] As a matter of conscience, Don Csar, re- 
 membering the important part I played in the lamentable 
 affair, I am obliged to intercede for the unfortunate victim. 
 Gentlemen, you are noble and generous; you owe it to your- 
 selves to hear him at least, and find out what he asks. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Excusing himself] Rosario, I am very sorry 
 to ... 
 
 RUFINA. [Enters quickly, back] Here he is. 
 ROSARIO. Let him come in. 
 DON CESAR. You demand it? 
 ROSARIO. And you consent. 
 DON CESAR. W r ell, so be it. 
 
 All sit down. DON JOSE at the right, having on his 
 right, RUFINA, on his left, ROSARIO; opposite DON 
 CESAR, with CANSECO at his side. The center of 
 the stage is empty. VICTOR appears in the door at 
 the back; his dress is that of a gentleman, but un- 
 ostentatious. He stops for a moment in the door, 
 awaiting an invitation to enter. 
 DON JOSE. Come in. [VICTOR does not move] 
 RUFINA. Grandfather says to come in. 
 
 [VICTOR advances and bows gravely to the two groups. 
 ROSARIO. [.4sicfc] How my heart beats! I must control 
 myself.
 
 ACT in THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 175 
 
 CANSECO. You see, these gentlemen have yielded to my 
 persuasion, and consented to receive you in this house. 
 
 VICTOR. I am very grateful for their kindness. I shall 
 return it by making this visit as short as possible, for I 
 realize that my presence cannot be agreeable to all the mem- 
 bers of this household. 
 
 RUFINA. [Zn a low tone, to VICTOR] Sit down. 
 
 VICTOR. Thank you, no. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Alarmed] What did he say? 
 
 VICTOR. Your daughter invited me to be seated, and I re- 
 plied that it does not tire me to stand. 
 
 DON CESAR. Very well. Now if you desire to be brief, so 
 do I. I will save your time by saying in advance that if the 
 assistance which you desire, in addition to the ship, is reason- 
 able . . . 
 
 VICTOR. Oh! I am not asking for assistance. I do not 
 need it. Poor and nameless, alone in the world, I shall be 
 able to find some spring in the midst of the desert that sur- 
 rounds me. Gentlemen, you can give me no assistance, nor 
 can I accept any. An error brought us together. The truth, 
 or an appearance of truth, has separated us forever. Don 
 Ce"sar, I break off all relations with you, leaving you only my 
 gratitude, since to you I owe my education, the little that I 
 know, the little that I am. 
 
 DON JOSE. [To ROSARIO] Not bad. 
 
 ROSARIO. No indeed. 
 
 DON CESAR. Then . . . 
 
 CANSECO. [Aside to DON CESAR] He is not asking for help. 
 Shall I tell him to be seated? 
 
 DON CESAR. No. [To VICTOR] Then what do you want? 
 I don't understand. Have done, for your presence is torture 
 to me. The sight of you, unfortunately, plunges me into a 
 mad frenzy. You are innocent of the harm that you have 
 done me, and still I cannot love ydu; you represent my dis-
 
 176 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT in 
 
 appointment, and still I cannot hate you. To relieve me of 
 this horrible recollection, it is necessary that you go away, 
 [Rises] a long, long way, to the ends of the earth. 
 
 CANSECO. [Forcing 'him to sit down] Calm yourself, my 
 friend. Don't excite yourself unnecessarily. I will continue 
 for you. [To VICTOR] The important thing, sir, is that you 
 should leave Fic6briga, and Spain, and Europe. To that 
 end, the generous gentlemen in whose name I speak, offer you 
 a magnificent ship. 
 
 DON JOSE. Ah! Here is where I come in. This belongs to 
 my reign. Victor, tell me simply whether you are willing to 
 embark for the United States on the ship which I give you. 
 
 CANSECO. That's it. 
 
 VICTOR. I am deeply grateful for the offer of the venerable 
 patriarch, and for the interest which he takes in me. But I 
 do not accept it; I cannot accept. [All are astonislied. 
 
 ROSARIO. [Aside, with emotion] What noble pride! I love 
 you for it. 
 
 DON JOSE. Do you mean that? What reason . . . ? 
 
 RUFINA. [^4swe] Good! He will stay here. 
 
 ROSARIO. That is quite natural. Victor does not wish to 
 withdraw from useful commerce a ship so handsome, so 
 strong and safe. 
 
 VICTOR. The principal reason is that I will die rather 
 than accept from this family, which I respect, the value 
 of a pin. 
 
 CANSECO. Come, come. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Aside] What's that? 
 
 DON Josfc. Then what do you want of us? What have 
 you come for? 
 
 VICTOR. To ask a question of Don C6sar. 
 
 DON CESAR. Of me! 
 
 ROSARIO. [.4 side] Now we have it! 
 
 VlCTOB. I desire that Don C6sar affirm or deny what the
 
 ACT in THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 177 
 
 notary here present has told me a report, moreover, which 
 is current throughout the town. 
 
 CANSECO. [-4swfe] I see. 
 
 DON CESAR. What? 
 
 DON JOSE. What? 
 
 VICTOR. [To DON CESAR] I desire to know whether it is 
 true that you have proposed marriage to the Duchess of San 
 Quentin. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Alarmed and angry] You . . . You . . . What's 
 that to you? 
 
 DON JOSE. How dare you? 
 
 DON CESAR. Why, you . . . 
 
 VICTOR. I, I. I ask you if your proposal is a fact, be- 
 cause, I tell you now, I declare it to all of you, I oppose it. 
 
 DON CESAR and DON JOSE. You! 
 
 VICTOR. Yes, I, with all the will and determination I 
 possess, I protest. The reason is very simple. I love 
 Rosario. 
 
 Astonishment. DON JOSE and DON CESAR jump to 
 their feet. 
 
 DON JOSE. Good Lord! 
 
 RUFINA. [Aside] Heavens! 
 
 DON CESAR. Disgraceful! Be silent, you wretch! [Look- 
 ing at ROSARIO and VICTOR, wildly] Rosario! Victor! Hor- 
 rible, horrible! And you are silent, you do not protest! 
 
 DON JOSE. [To ROSARIO, sitting down again} But you . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. Begone from here. Rosario, crush him with 
 your scorn. 
 
 DON JOSE. Come, girl, speak. 
 
 RUFINA. {Going around to ROSARIO'S side} Answer, Rosario. 
 [RosARio remains seated, motionless and silent. 
 
 DON CESAR. But you ... at least . . . Are you not indignant 
 that this unfortunate . . . ? [Seized by a horrible suspicion] 
 Perhaps . . . God, what an idea! [Overcome by the thought]
 
 178 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT m 
 
 Say that this suspicion which has come into my head is 
 absurd. . . . Speak quickly! 
 
 RUFINA. Speak. 
 
 VICTOR. [Imploring] Speak, in heaven's name. 
 
 DON JOSE. Come, what have you to say? 
 
 ROSARIO. [Rises. All are expectant. Pause. In a solemn 
 tone she speaks as follows] I am of noble race, born in the high- 
 est rank. As a child, they taught me to recite the names of 
 great men, princes, kings, whose heroic virtues adorned the 
 history of my family. Well, my noble birth, the tradition of 
 my race, the spiritual bond which unites my present humble 
 state to the grandeur of my ancestors, makes it incumbent 
 upon me to proceed in all the circumstances of life in accord- 
 ance with the eternal dictates of honor, of justice, of con- 
 science. I deprived this man of all the riches of the earth. 
 He believes that my hand is the only compensation for his 
 ill-fortune, and I give it to him, and with it my heart and soul. 
 
 [Goes to VICTOR'S side. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Beside himself] Him, love him! Impossible! 
 
 VICTOR. [Proudly] She loves me, me alone. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Praying] In the name of the Father . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. [Overcome, drops into his chair] I must be 
 crazy. The world is coming to an end, the universe is break- 
 ing into a thousand pieces. The descendant of kings . . . 
 the nameless son of Sarah! An impossible alliance! Lucifer 
 himself must have had a hand in it. Oh, no! Tell me it is a 
 dream, a lie! 
 
 CANSECO. Be calm, my dear Don Ce'sar, compose yourself. 
 
 VICTOR. Forgive me, it is not my fault. 
 
 DON CESAR. You have invaded my house, you have robbed 
 me, carried off my hope, my happiness. I thank God for 
 showing me that you are not my son! 
 
 [CANSECO tries to calm DON CESAR. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Severely, talcing ROSARIO by the hand] Dis-
 
 ACT in THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 179 
 
 turber of my home, even if my son's madness deserves this 
 disillusionment, yours deserves the madhouse. 
 
 ROSABIO. Yes, my dear patriarch. Victor and I are two 
 maniacs who are about to enter upon the incredible adventure 
 of seeking life and happiness in ourselves. 
 
 DON CESAR. [To CANSECO, anxiously] What are they 
 saying? 
 
 CANSECO. [To DON CESAR] She admits that she is crazy. 
 
 DON CESAR. [.4tom?] And she throws her ducal coronet 
 in the mud. 
 
 ROSARIO. My ducal coronet! The gold of which it was 
 composed crumbled to powder, to a fine, almost impalpable 
 flour. I mixed it with the milk of truth and from that re- 
 fined and delicate mass I have made the bread of life. 
 
 DON JOSE. And now, Victor, since you are not going to 
 America . . . 
 
 VICTOR. I am going. 
 
 DON JOSE and RUFINA. And you? 
 
 ROSARIO. I shall go too. To complete his existence, he 
 needs a family, a well-ordered and tranquil home, the affec- 
 tion and companionship of a woman and I shall be that 
 woman, here, or in the uttermost corner of the earth. 
 
 VICTOR. [Embracing her] Which will be a heaven for me. 
 
 DON JOSE. Praised be the infinite Mercy! 
 
 VICTOR. Yes; ask heaven's favor for those poor emigrants. 
 
 DON CESAR. [To CANSECO] What are they saying? What 
 are they talking about? 
 
 CANSECO. Nothing. It seems they are going together to 
 the other world. [DoN CESAR listens to what follows. 
 
 VICTOR. Through the influence of a Belgian engineer, a 
 friend of mine, I am going to an industrial district in the state 
 of Pennsylvania, as an emigrant. They require that I take 
 my family, and here it is. We embark on the Royal Mail 
 steamer, which stops at this port.
 
 180 THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN ACT in 
 
 HUFINA. She arrives tonight. 
 
 VICTOR. And leaves tomorrow. 
 
 DON CESAR. [Wildly] She goes away with him. . . . She 
 loves him! Hell raised on high, to the zenith, and heaven 
 plunged into the depths of the abyss! 
 
 DON JOSE. You can't go away like that. 
 
 RUFINA. You have no time to get married. 
 
 DON JOSE. Wait, and . . . 
 
 ROSABIO. After what has happened, I cannot remain here 
 an instant. 
 
 RUFINA. Where will you go? 
 
 VICTOR. The Belgian consul and his good wife will receive 
 us, and will be the witnesses of our wedding. 
 
 ROSARIO. That solves it. 
 
 VICTOR. [With emotion, drawing ROSARIO to him] Come, 
 my life, my dream, my inspiration. 
 
 CANSECO. [Approaching the group in the center] It is better 
 that you should withdraw. 
 
 ROSARIO. [To DON JOSE] Good-bye. 
 
 DON JOSE. [Sadly] Farewell, my daughter. [ROSARIO and 
 RUFINA, in the center of the stage, kiss each other affectionately, 
 and remain for a moment in close embrace. Then RUFINA 
 bids farewell to VICTOR, who embraces her. During this mute 
 scene, DON JOSE, taking CANSECO'S hand, says to him] Ah! 
 what desolation in my home! My son half mad; my grand- 
 daughter to become a nun when I pass on. ... So ends this 
 family. 
 
 CANSECO. And all your care and labor comes to naught. 
 
 DON JOSE. [To RUFINA, who, after the farewells, returns to 
 his side, weeping] You are crying? 
 
 RUFINA. Yes, I love them both. 
 
 DON JOSE. My son . . . C6sar . . . 
 
 DON CESAR. [Rising, angrily] Let this horrible nightmare 
 come to an end. [To ROSARIO and VICTOR] Begone from here!
 
 ACT in THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN 181 
 
 [As if seeking consolation at his father's side] Father, it is all 
 over for me. I have no illusion, no hope but death. 
 
 DON JOSE. Come here. [He throws one arm around Ru- 
 FINA and the other around DON CESAR, forming a group] Let 
 us stand close together, that our loneliness may be less sad. 
 
 RUFINA. They are going away forever. 
 
 VICTOR. Over the sea, to a new world. 
 
 ROSARIO. Let us turn our backs on the rums of this one. 
 They go to the door at the back, turn, arm in arm, toward 
 the stage and wave their free hands joyously. 
 
 ROSARIO and VICTOR. [Together in firm, clear voice] 
 Good-bye! 
 
 DON CESAR. They have gone. It is the death of a world. 
 
 DON JOSE. No, my children, it is the birth of a world. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 ANGEL GUIMERA 
 
 ANGEL GUIMERA was born in Catalonia, but went as a 
 young man to Barcelona, where he has since remained. He 
 soon became identified with the nationalist and separatist 
 movements of Catalonia, and has always, at first through 
 the medium of a periodical, then, more or less directly, 
 through the medium of his plays, preached nationality and 
 separation. After Guimera's astonishing success with "Maria 
 Rosa," his plays were translated by Echegaray into 
 Spanish and played in Madrid, many of them by the famous 
 Guerrero and Mendoza company. Of late years, however, 
 for political reasons, Guimera has not been popular outside 
 his native province, where he is held in reverence by his fol- 
 lowers. So great is his belief in nationalism that he never 
 writes nor speaks in Spanish.
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE 
 PLAYS OF ANGEL GUIMERA 
 
 GalaPlacidia 1879 
 
 Judith deWelp 1883 
 
 Lo Fill del Key 1886 
 
 Mar y Cel 1888 
 
 Rey y Monjo 1890 
 
 LaBoja 1890 
 
 L'Anima Morta 1892 
 
 EnPolvora 1893 
 
 Jesus de Nazareth 1894 
 
 Maria Rosa 1894 
 
 Las Monjas de Sant Ayman 1895 
 
 La Feste del Blat 1896 
 
 Terra Baixa (Tierra Baja) 1 1896 
 
 Mosseu Janot 1898 
 
 La Farsa 1899 
 
 La Eilla del Mar 1900 
 
 Arran de Terra (Schivolando culla Terra) 2 .... 1901 
 
 La Pecadora 1902 
 
 Aygua que corre 1902 
 
 Lo Caml del Sol 1904 
 
 Andr6nica 1905 
 
 SolSolet 1905 
 
 LaMiralta 1905 
 
 1 Terra Baixa was translated as Maria of the Lowlands by Wallace 
 Gillpatrick, with an introduction by John Garrett Underbill (Drama 
 League Series, Doubleday, Page & Co., New York, 1914). 
 
 2 Originally produced hi Italian .
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL LIST 186 
 
 L'Eloy 190G 
 
 La Santa Espina 1907 
 
 La Reyne Vella 1908 
 
 LaAranya 1908 
 
 SaynctTrist 1910 
 
 Titayna 1910 
 
 La Reyna Jove 1911 
 
 References: Introduction to Marta of the Lowlands; 
 Manuel Bueno, Teatro Espanol contempordneo (Biblioteca 
 Renacimiento, Madrid, 1909); Joseph Yxart, Prolech d las 
 Poesias de Angel Guimerd, 2d ed., Barcelona, 1905; La 
 Escena Catalana, Barcelona, 1906 et seq.
 
 DANIELA 
 
 (La Pecadora) 
 
 A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS 
 BY ANGEL GUIMERA
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 DANIELA 
 
 ANTONIA 
 
 MONSA 
 
 TOMASETA 
 
 PONA 
 
 HUGUETTE 
 
 JEANNE 
 
 ANNA 
 
 RAMON 
 
 DON JOAQUIM 
 
 M. ALBERT 
 
 RICHARD 
 
 MAX 
 
 ANDREW 
 
 VALENTINE 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 Four girls, playmates of ANNA; also Village People, Men, 
 Women and Children 
 
 The time is the present. The scene is laid in the mountains 
 of northern Spain.
 
 ACT I 
 
 Entrance katt of a farm-house on the outskirts of a small moun- 
 tain village. A door to the right and another to the left. 
 At the rear on the right a door opens upon the highway; 
 at the rear on the left a second door opens upon a broad 
 step or landing. A staircase ascends from this to the 
 second story, and beneath it are placed a table and chairs. 
 Through the outer door a number of whitewashed houses 
 may be seen. Midday. 
 
 When the curtain rises, the stage is empty. The sound of a 
 cradle, rocking, comes from the right and a woman's voice 
 is heard singing: 
 
 Mother of God, a little child 
 
 Is laid upon thy breast, 
 Best of the blessings of the world 
 
 And of life's joys the best. 
 
 Rest, little baby, rest! 
 Rest! Rest! 
 
 After a moment, RAMON enters by the main door, fol- 
 lowed by VALENTINE and MICHAEL. The song con- 
 tinues a little longer. 
 
 RAMON. I knew it would be so. Of course nothing has 
 been done. [To VALENTINE] I told you to be ready before 
 twelve o'clock. 
 
 VALENTINE. Humph! We will be soon enough; we began 
 cleaning the pens and getting the corrals ready for the sheep 
 before daylight. 
 
 189
 
 190 DANIEL A ACT i 
 
 RAMON. Before daylight? You did nothing until then? 
 Is this the way to set an example to the men? What have 
 you been doing all this time? 
 
 VALENTINE. Oh, going on with the spading and setting 
 out the tomatoes; they were all broken down with the rain. 
 
 RAMON. Didn't I tell you to clean the pens out first? Sup- 
 pose the sheep had come last night? 
 
 VALENTINE. They didn't come. 
 
 RAMON. But suppose they had. 
 
 VALENTINE. They didn't, just the same. 
 
 RAMON. But they will come. 
 
 VALENTINE. Yes, and the pens will then be clean. 
 
 RAMON. They will be clean! The pens will then be clean! 
 About it, man, about it! Here, Michael, boy! Run along, 
 run along! To work! To work! 
 
 MICHAEL. [Withcmt moving] To work hungry? 
 
 [He looks wistfully toward the door on the left. 
 
 RAMON. [To VALENTINE] Has any one been in since I went 
 away? 
 
 VALENTINE. No one that is, no one except the doctor. 
 Nobody's sick, though. 
 
 RAMON. [To MICHAEL] What! Are you still here? 
 
 MICHAEL. I I haven't had my dinner yet. 
 
 RAMON. I haven't had mine either. Run along! When 
 there is work to do, about it! 
 
 MICHAEL. Without my dinner? 
 
 RAMON. Pst! As if I didn't hear you! 
 
 Exit MICHAEL, running out at the back. ANNA enters 
 from the right. 
 
 ANNA. Papa! [Running up to him] Papa! 
 
 RAMON. [To VALENTINE] Have they sent for the wine by 
 Sumell? 
 
 ANNA. Papa! Papa! 
 
 [RAMON runs his hand carelessly through her hair.
 
 ACT i DAN IE LA 191 
 
 VALENTINE. Oh, the wine? Yes, they sent for the wine. 
 
 RAMON. Then why didn't you tell me about it? Ola, man! 
 When I ask you who's been here, you stand there like a block- 
 head, tilting back on your heels, without so much as opening 
 your mouth. 
 
 ANNA. [Running to the door on the right] Mamma! Mamma! 
 
 VALENTINE. Of course they sent for the wine. 
 
 ANNA. [Calling] Here's papa! 
 
 RAMON. Who stood by and saw it was measured out? 
 
 ANTONIA enters. She goes straight up to RAMON. 
 ANNA follows, jumping up and down. 
 
 ANNA. Papa! Papa! 
 
 VALENTINE. Why, I did; I never moved from the spot. 
 
 ANTONIA. [To RAMON] How have you been getting on? 
 
 RAMON. Well, Antonia. [To VALENTINE] And who kept 
 the count? How many skins did it make? 
 
 ANTONIA. [Dusting off RAMON with her hand] You are all 
 covered with dust. 
 
 VALENTINE. Anna kept the count. 
 
 RAMON. Anna? [To ANTONIA] So we've been trusting to 
 a child, have we? That is the way things are done in this 
 house. 
 
 ANTONIA. I kept an eye on her, Ramon. 
 
 ANNA. I made a little dot for every skin. 
 
 ANTONIA. The poor dear! 
 
 RAMON. Antonia, I've just bought two droves of sheep. 
 They'll be up from the village this afternoon. 
 
 ANTONIA. I hope they won't turn out like those that you 
 bought last year. 
 
 RAMON. No fear of that. It would take somebody to cheat 
 me now, I can tell you. I have eyes in my head. A man 
 doesn't have to learn a hundred times. That old miser, Par- 
 dinas, came down from the village he knows a sheep from 
 a goat when he sees one and he was looking over the flock.
 
 192 DANIEL A ACT i 
 
 As soon as he turned his back for a moment, up I stepped, 
 and before he knew it I had struck a bargain for the lot. 
 It didn't take me long, I can tell you. 
 
 ANTONIA. It won't take you long to want to get rid of them, 
 either. 
 
 RAMON. [Preoccupied] Where is the boy? 
 ANTONIA. In the cradle. He cried all night. 
 RAMON. Let me see the wine count. 
 ANTONIA. Valentine. Where is the wine count? 
 
 VALENTINE makes a gesture, indicating that lie does not 
 
 know. 
 
 ANNA. Didn't you bring me anything, father? 
 RAMON. Where is the count? It is never safe for a man to 
 go away from home. Everything is at sixes and sevens. 
 Santisimat The count? I won't put up .with it any longer. 
 And then they wonder that a man has a temper! 
 
 ANTONIA and VALENTINE run about looking for the 
 count, opening the drawers of the table, looking in the 
 closets, and in every place conceivable. 
 ANNA retires to a corner and begins to play with an old 
 
 ragged dott. 
 
 ANTONIA. Mercy! But we'll find it. He's in a fine temper. 
 RAMON. That's it. In a temper! lam in a temper! Can't 
 you keep your heads? 
 
 VALENTINE. We'll find it, man. 
 
 RAMON. That fellow will drive me mad. [To ANTONIA] 
 And you, too, running about the house like the rest of them, 
 as if you had nothing at all to think about as if you were all 
 millionaires! 
 ANTONIA. Millionaires? 
 
 RAMON. [Pounding on the table] The count, I say! Why 
 don't you find the count? 
 
 ANTONIA. Do you know where the count is, child? 
 ANNA. What count? [RAMON continues to pound on the table.
 
 ACT i DANIELA 193 
 
 ANTONTA. The count of the wine by Sumell. 
 
 ANNA. I put it in my pocket, mamma. 
 
 [She draws the paper from her pocket, all crumpled up. 
 
 ANTONIA. Praise be to God! 
 
 RAMON. Give it to me. 
 
 [Taking it from ANTONIA, he begins to read. 
 
 VALENTINE. [To RAMON] Now I remember. I gave it to 
 her myself. 
 
 RAMON. [Abstractedly] You did? So. Go out and mind 
 the sheep. [Exit VALENTINE at the rear. 
 
 ANTONIA. [To ANNA] Was there ever such a pother? 
 
 ANNA. [To ANTONIA] He never brought one thing for me. 
 MONSA enters. 
 
 MONSA. Good - morning, Antonia. [Seeing RAMON] So 
 Ramon's home again? 
 
 ANTONIA. [Excusing herself] Just a minute, Monsa. [To 
 RAMON] I have something to tell you. 
 
 RAMON. [With the count] Let me run through this first. 
 Here are twenty loads correct; not a penny more, not a 
 penny less. Ca! Who would ever have expected it would 
 have turned out so, trusting to a child? 
 
 ANTONIA. I told you I was by. 
 
 ANNA. I did just as I was told, mamma. 
 
 [RAMON continues to run through the paper. 
 
 ANTONIA. Of couise you did. 
 
 MONSA. That child has sense. I'd take her to help me with 
 the school, Antonia, if she were only a little bit older. 
 
 RAMON. To help with the school, would you? You would 
 be a likely one to teach her. What do you know, anyway? 
 Because we send the children to you, you think you must be 
 wise. Huh! She'd turn out a simpleton like yourself. 
 
 ANTONIA. That's a nice way to talk to Monsa. When the 
 baby was sick, she came here and gave up everything to 
 help us.
 
 194 DAN I EL A ACT i 
 
 MONSA. I don't mind what he says. 
 
 ANTONIA. You oughtn't to be so rough, either, with the 
 child. She loves her father. 
 
 RAMON. Have I nothing to do but listen to you talk? 
 What a mess! I have been gone four days, and when I come 
 home everything is wrong. [He goes toward the door at the 
 rear, pacing up and down, examining the account] What 
 a mess! 
 
 MONSA. Don't mind him, Antonia. 
 
 [The two women converse apart. 
 
 RAMON. [Aside, still pacing up and down] What? They 
 haven't checked the count? Here, there are four skins short. 
 Was there ever such a mess? 
 
 ANTONIA. [Leading MONSA aside] He's not well today. 
 
 MONSA. [To ANTONIA] What difference does it make? 
 
 RAMON. [In a low voice] Pst! Anna, Anna. 
 
 [The child runs up to him. 
 
 ANNA. Father! 
 
 RAMON. [Aside, still pacing up and down] What a mess! 
 Women, women! [He kisses ANNA] They are no use at all. 
 I'm off to the corrals. 
 
 He disappears. ANTONIA retires for a moment to the 
 room at the right. MONSA stands looking after her. 
 
 ANTONIA. I wanted to see whether the baby was asleep. 
 
 MONSA. He's such a good child. 
 
 [ANNA begins to play again with the doll. 
 
 ANTONIA. It will be no miracle if he takes after his father. 
 
 MONSA. He is very fond of us all. 
 
 ANTONIA. Of course; but he's wrapped up in his work. 
 TOMASETA enters. 
 
 TOMASETA. I just ran in to hear the news about Daniela. 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes. I suppose everybody will be coming now. 
 
 MONSA. Poor Daniela! 
 
 ANTONIA. How did you hear about it?
 
 ACT i DANIELA 195 
 
 TOMASETA. Valentine told Andrew, the shoemaker, while 
 he was working on his shoes. 
 
 ANTONIA. Andrew the shoemaker is a cobbler of gossip. 
 
 TOMASETA. What do you mean? 
 
 ANTONIA. [To MONSA] Some foolishness of Valentine's. 
 PONA enters. 
 
 PONA. I am so busy today that I really haven't any time. 
 
 TOMASETA. So am I. We are whitewashing our house. 
 
 PONA. I had to hear, though, about Daniela. 
 
 ANTONIA. Well, it seems she's alive. There can be no 
 doubt about that though for a long time we never heard a 
 word of her. 
 
 PONA. Valentine says that you've just had word. 
 ANDREW enters, Carrying an unfinished shoe. 
 
 ANDREW. What does Ramon say about Daniela? 
 
 ANTONIA. I haven't had a chance to speak to him yet. 
 You see we really don't know anything at all about her. 
 
 MONSA. [Simply] They were so fond of each other 
 Ramon and Daniela. 
 
 TOMASETA. [Leaving the door] I was looking for Ram6n 
 so as to be able to get out in time. He says that women are 
 a nuisance in this house. 
 
 ANTONIA. Sit down a minute and I'll try to tell you every- 
 thing I know. Yesterday afternoon I was standing out by 
 the gate, when all of a sudden in comes the Doctor, and be- 
 gins straight off to tell me about some letter which he had 
 just received from a French doctor who wanted to know if 
 this place was healthy; because he had a patient, a woman 
 who had come from here, and who was sick, and who wanted 
 to come home again to see if she could regain her health. 
 
 ANDREW. Was that all? 
 
 ANTONIA. I don't think there was anything more. 
 
 ANDREW. Hm! But how do you know who this sick 
 woman is?
 
 196 DANIELA ACT i 
 
 PONA. It may be pst! it may be they want to put up 
 some game on us. 
 
 TOMASETA. Put up some game on us? They'd never put 
 up a game on such a little place. 
 
 ANTONIA. No, for Daniela's name was mentioned in the 
 letter. 
 
 ANDREW. Oh! Then that's a different matter. 
 
 TOMASETA. I supposed she was dead and buried long ago. 
 
 PONA. The hussey! 
 
 TOMASETA. That's what my husband says. I'd better go 
 home to my whitewashing. 
 
 ANTONIA. You must have all known her. I didn't 
 live in the village in those days. Of course she was a 
 friend of yours. 
 
 TOMASETA. [Coldly] Hardly that. 
 
 PONA. [With disdain] We know her. She was a good deal 
 older than we were. 
 
 MONSA. No, Pona; you were older. 
 
 TOMASETA. You ought to know, Monsa. You were a good 
 deal older than she was and than the rest of us, too, for that 
 matter. . 
 
 MONSA. Suit yourselves; it doesn't bother me. 
 
 ANTONIA. Ram6n says she was twelve years old when she 
 went away. 
 
 ANDREW. My wife says twelve or thirteen. 
 
 TOMASETA. She must be thirty-two by this time. Good- 
 bye, girls. 
 
 PONA. Oh, more! More. 
 
 MONSA. She's exactly twenty -eight. 
 
 PONA. And I'm sure she looks it, after the life she 
 has led. 
 
 ANDREW. Maybe it won't show, eh? In France, you know, 
 they say the girls fix themselves up so that they look like 
 new yes, and a good deal fresher.
 
 ACT i DANIELA 197 
 
 ANTONIA. Anna, run out and mind the boy. I thought I 
 heard him cry. 
 
 [ANNA stops playing with the doll and runs out. 
 
 TOMASETA. [To ANTONIA] If she really does come back, 
 don't know what we're going to do about it. 
 
 ANTONIA. That would be for Ramon to say. 
 
 TOMASETA. She's his first cousin; they used to play to- 
 gether. 
 
 PONA. I'd never want to look her in the face again. 
 
 ANTONIA. Nonsense! You don't think she'll ever come? 
 
 ANDREW. Perhaps she's starving to death. 
 
 TOMASETA. Who'd want to take her into their house? 
 
 PONA. Sick, and without a penny! There are places for 
 such people without eating an honest woman out of house 
 and home. 
 
 ANDREW. She might repay you with a "God bless you" 
 at least. 
 
 ANTONIA. When it comes to that, it will be time enough to 
 speak to Ramon about it. 
 
 TOMASETA. What do you think, Monsa? 
 
 MONSA. I? If Daniela should come back and no one else 
 would have her, I'd take her in myself. 
 
 ANDREW. You? With your work? 
 
 MONSA. Yes. 
 
 PONA. I dare say you would take her in. But what 
 would you give her to eat? How would you pay for the 
 medicines? 
 
 MONSA. I'd show you. Everybody would help me. The 
 mothers of the children at the school . . . 
 
 TOMASETA. [Hotly] They'd help you, would they? For 
 that woman? 
 
 PONA. The men might. [Laughing} 
 
 ANTONIA. Don't talk like that, Pona. 
 
 ANDREW. When you took that woman into your house,
 
 198 DAN IE LA ACT i 
 
 I'll tell you what would happen the mothers would take 
 their children away. 
 
 MONSA. But maybe she's penitent. Maybe she's dying. 
 
 ANTONIA. Maybe she's reformed. 
 
 [ANDREW laughs out loud. 
 
 TOMASETA. Penitent? Now I am going! 
 
 PONA. If she is penitent, it's because nobody wants her 
 any more. 
 
 MONSA. I wouldn't let her starve, just the same. 
 
 [They all laugh at her. 
 
 ANTONIA. What are you laughing at? 
 
 MONSA. No, I say no! No, I wouldn't give her up. I'd 
 sooner starve myself, I'd sooner die; that's the way I feel. 
 
 TOMASETA. You could tell she was never married; she 
 talks like a fool. 
 
 PONA. Or worse. Ay, Senor! 
 
 [ANDREW laughs. 
 
 MONSA. I know it. I'm only a poor woman, an unfortu- 
 nate. I'm not like the rest of you. But I would take her in 
 I'd not give her up. [Sfie begins to cry. 
 
 ANTONIA. Don't you mind what they say, Monsa. 
 
 MONSA. No, I don't mind; but I am so tired. I have done 
 my best. I have done the best I could. 
 
 TOMASETA. She always takes things like this. 
 
 ANDREW. Well, Antonia was teasing, too. 
 
 PONA. To hear her you'd think we didn't have any consid- 
 eration at all. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM and M. ALBERT enter. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Thanks be to God, here we are at last! 
 
 ANTONIA. The Doctor! 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Good-afternoon, everybody. . . . What's 
 the matter with Monsa? What's the trouble, child? 
 
 MONSA. Nothing, Doctor. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Nothing? [To the others] What are you
 
 ACT i DANIEL A 199 
 
 making this woman cry for? Shame, shame on you! Isn't 
 she worth all the rest of you put together? [To ANDREW. 
 who is about to speak] Yes, and your prattling wife, too, in 
 the bargain! 
 
 ANDREW. Better include me in the bargain, Doctor. 
 DON JOAQUIM. You idle fellow! . . . Come, come now, 
 what's the matter? What have they been doing to you, 
 Monsa? 
 
 MONSA. Nothing, Doctor; nothing. [Rising] I must be 
 going back to school. There are too many children to be 
 left in the care of a child. 
 
 As she approaches the door, ANDREW and the others pro- 
 test that they did not wish to hurt her. MONSA shows 
 that she is not offended, and passes out, drying her 
 eyes. Meanwhile the dialogue proceeds. 
 DON JOAQUIM. [To MONSA] Adios, adios! [Then to AN- 
 TONIA] Is Ram6n back yet? 
 ANTONIA. Just back, Doctor. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Then I would like to see him immediately. 
 ANTONIA. [Calling] Anna! [To DON JOAQUIM] Have you 
 had your lunch? I hope there's nobody sick, Doctor. 
 
 ANNA enters from the right. 
 ANNA. Mamma! 
 
 ANTONIA. Run and tell your father to come straight here. 
 The Doctor is waiting with a strange gentleman. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. And tell him to hurry. I am very busy this 
 afternoon. 
 
 ANTONIA places chairs for the gentlemen. ANDREW 
 
 and the others continue talking at the rear. 
 TOMASETA. [To ANDREW] I'll do it, Andrew. I'll do it. 
 [To DON JOAQUIM] Sefior Doctor! 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [Thinking she is ill\ Well? What's the 
 matter? What ails you? Come, come! Let me see. 
 TOMASETA. No, Sefior, no!
 
 200 DANIELA ACT i 
 
 PONA. No, Doctor, no; she isn't sick. But we all knew 
 Daniela so well; we're dying to hear sometlu'ng about her. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Hm! I see. Well, I know nothing at all 
 about her nothing whatever. [They retire. 
 
 M. ALBERT. [To the otfiers] Ah! So you knew Mademoi- 
 selle? [With a slightly French accent] 
 
 ANDREW. He's talking to us. 
 
 PONA. Yes, sir; we knew her. 
 
 TOMASETA. Did you know her, sir? 
 
 M. ALBERT. I did indeed! 
 
 The women go up to him to question him. RAMON is 
 heard without, talking excitedly. 
 
 PONA. Here's Ram6n. 
 
 ANDREW. Hush! We want to hear about Daniela. 
 
 [He stops at the entrance of RAMON. 
 Enter RAMON. 
 
 RAMON. God be with you, Don Joaqufm. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Ola, man! How are you? [Aside to AN- 
 TONIA] Send them away; send them all away. I want to 
 speak with you alone. 
 
 ANTONIA dismisses ANDREW and the women, closing 
 the door behind them. 
 
 RAMON. Doctor, I'm expecting a drove of sheep that I've 
 just bought in the village. I wish you could see the state 
 that the pens are in. [Turning to the others, he finds they have 
 gone] Where is everybody? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. If you will let me have your attention for 
 a moment, Ram6n, I shall explain as briefly as I can what has 
 brought us this afternoon. [To M. ALBERT] That is agreeable 
 to you, is it not? 
 
 M. ALBERT. Perfectly, Seftor Doctor. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Then I shall proceed. This gentleman has 
 come from Paris with a message for you from a cousin, 
 from .
 
 ACT i DANIELA 201 
 
 RAMON. From a cousin? From from Daniela? 
 
 M. ALBERT. Precisely. The Senor Doctor received a 
 letter some days ago from a colleague in that city, and, as I 
 believe, he has not yet condescended to answer it ... 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. No; but that was for a good reason. It 
 seemed to me that the question propounded by the Doctor 
 was not likely to meet with a favorable answer. 
 
 RAMON. The question propounded by the Doctor? But I 
 know nothing of any question. 
 
 ANTONIA. I tried to tell you, Ram6n, when you first came 
 in. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Kindly allow me to explain. The other day 
 I received a letter from a physician in Paris, who is a great 
 celebrity, informing me that your cousin had been lying for 
 some time at the point of death, and that, as she was not 
 improving in that city as rapidly as could be wished, it might 
 be that she would make up her mind to return here to re- 
 establish her health in this place. [Addressing himself to M. 
 ALBERT] I believe that is correct? 
 
 M. ALBERT. Quite correct; except that you might add 
 that whenever Mademoiselle makes up her mind to do a 
 thing, it is her habit to do it immediately. 
 
 RAMON. [To DON JOAQUIM] Well? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. I was asked further in the letter concerning 
 the sanitary and climatic conditions of the place. I had in- 
 tended replying to the distinguished physician . . . 
 
 M. ALBERT. Pardon. But you did not reply? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. No. 
 
 M. ALBERT. Then it will be quite useless to do so now. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. I should have to study the conditions first. 
 
 RAMON. [To DON JOAQUIM] Why didn't you speak to me 
 about this letter before? Then you could have answered it at 
 once. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM, But, man, you were away.
 
 202 DAN IE LA ACT i 
 
 ANTONIA. [Speaking for DON JOAQUIM] He's going to tell 
 you about it now. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. It was a matter requiring some investigation 
 in fact, most thorough research. 
 
 RAMON. Then I will reply to the gentleman myself. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. One moment, Ram6n. First let me give 
 you some notion of what my answer is going to be. I mean 
 to explain to the physician that although I do not live in this 
 village, fortunately I am able to assist him in what he de- 
 sires to know because I am accustomed to visit it profession- 
 ally from the neighboring town, which is, of course, my head- 
 quarters, a station on the railway, having telegrapliic com- 
 munication, and so on, and so on. [The others begin to grow 
 impatient] Secondly, regarding the sanitary conditions of the 
 place, considering them carefully from every point of view, 
 I intend to write that I find them to be excellent, and that, 
 take it all in all, I think the invalid may come whenever it 
 may best suit her convenience to do so. 
 
 [M. ALBERT laughs at the DOCTOR. 
 
 RAMON. No, Don Joaqufm, permit me. Not at all. 
 Whether the village is healthy or not does not in the least 
 concern me. But as to this woman's coming again into my 
 house, I refuse absolutely to hear of it. [To M. ALBERT] You 
 have my answer. It is the end of the matter. Say for me 
 to Daniela that she shall never again set foot in my 
 house. If she were in the last extremity, I would bar the 
 door. Do I make myself clear? 
 
 M. ALBERT. I think I understand. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [To RAMON] But, it seems to me, friend, . . . 
 [Wishing to argue the point. They pause] Well, after all, 
 it's none of my business. Family matters are family matters, 
 and that's all there is about it. 
 
 RAMON. Pardon, Don Joaqufm, but this is not a family 
 matter. It is a long time since Daniela was one of our family.
 
 ACTI DANIELA 203 
 
 [With grouting emotion] Why, whole years passed when we 
 supposed that she was dead; then, at the last, along comes 
 some chap and tells us he has seen her dancing somewhere in 
 a hall, in a cafe", in I don't know what town in France . . . 
 
 M. ALBERT. In a cafe"? That must have been a long time 
 ago. [Implying that she has risen in the world] 
 
 RAMON. Yes, before I met my wife. And we have been 
 married twelve years. 
 
 M. ALBERT. I can believe it. But now she never leaves 
 Paris, unless to make some tour through Germany or Bel- 
 gium . . . [RAMON shrugs his shoulders. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Well, well! Can it be possible? Adios, 
 Antonia, adios! 
 
 ANTONIA. Adios, Senor Doctor. 
 
 M. ALBERT. [To RAMON] You see her condition is quite 
 contrary to what you had supposed. [They prepare to go. 
 
 RAMON. [Muck offended, but restraining himself] Then let 
 those cure her who have made her ill. We have been happy 
 here without her; she has been happy there without us. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [To M. ALBERT] Come, come! Let us go. 
 [Going straight to the door] Why argue with such a fellow? 
 
 RAMON. If any one had said that but you, Doctor, I'd say 
 to him . . . 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Ha? 
 
 RAMON. That in coming here he was making extremely 
 free with other people's business. 
 
 ANTONIA. Ramon! 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. How dare you? What right have you to 
 talk to me like this? What do you know of life? You have 
 no more than peeped at the world through the eye of a needle, 
 you foolish fellow! Let me tell you, there are all sorts of 
 creatures in the world creatures that swim, creatures that 
 fly, creatures that walk. We call the man a fool who cannot 
 tell the fowl from the fish or the fish from the birds. But
 
 204 DANIELA ACT i 
 
 there are greater differences between men, far greater! 
 Oh, I could teach you a few tilings ! This fellow believes that 
 we are all like sheep that flock together, one just as the other, 
 living, feeding, dying the same, following the leader like 
 those he buys and sells and herds here upon the mountain. 
 We are all cast in one mould. The only question with him 
 is the care and pasturage of sheep. What's the use of talking 
 to such a fellow? Bah! Bring an unfortunate here? A use- 
 less burden! He's wrapped up in his business. No wonder 
 that he has prospered all these years. It's business, eh? 
 Good business? God bless such good business, man, and by 
 heaven, much may it profit you! Good-day, good-day! 
 
 [M. ALBERT laughs at RAMON. 
 
 RAMON. Stay, Don Joaqufm! Stay! I don't want you 
 to go away like this. If I had spoken out ah! But I hat! 
 no right. We've stood together through a lot of trouble, 
 Doctor; but this man, who does not know me I don't 
 want him to go away and tliink I am a boor. And since he 
 knows that woman, I mean to tell liim now, before he leaves 
 the house, with whom he has to deal. 
 
 ANTONIA. Be calm, Ram6n. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. No, let him speak. I prefer it so. 
 
 RAMON. Then listen. [He shrugs his shoulders} This woman, 
 who has made you believe that we are all unnatural folk, 
 who, alone in misery and distress, has led you to suppose that 
 we have abandoned her . . . 
 
 M. ALBERT [Ironically] But, sir, if she has led me to sup- 
 pose nothing? If we do not in the least concern ourselves 
 about the matter? 
 
 RAMON. It's an absolute lie, the whole story. We have 
 not abandoned her. As a child she was left without father or 
 mother when she was seven years old. Her mother, a good 
 woman, was unfortunate in love, and set her heart on a 
 worthless fellow, one of those glib, smooth-tongued wretches,
 
 ACT i DANIELA 205 
 
 half French, half Spanish, who hail from nobody knows where. 
 Well, one day they were married. Years later, she died 
 from a blow that he gave her, and the man, for he was a 
 smuggler, was found dead one morning in a gully on the 
 French border, hah* across the line from Spain, slain in a 
 drunken brawl. As for the girl, she was brought home to 
 us and she became to me a sister. I was just past six and, 
 as I told you, she became to me a sister. [Becoming more 
 excited] But she was a very strange child, always making a 
 great outcry, passionate and wild, impetuously stamping 
 and weeping about, so that one day my father went to lay 
 hands on her to control her; and, because I defended her 
 and held him off, he became angry with me, till, choking 
 with rage, he could no longer bear to see her in the house. 
 She, seeing how his passion had possessed him, for she was 
 very near thirteen then and seemed much older, one day, 
 when a party of mountebanks or jugglers were passing through 
 the village, disappeared, and when it came to be vesper 
 time we could not find her. Nowhere Daniela! I ran through 
 the streets distracted everywhere about. At first I thought 
 I should go mad, for I feared she had fallen from some cliff 
 or that the rapid current of the river had carried her away. 
 I wanted to kill myself, believing that she was dead. We 
 had lived so much together I did not really know her; I was 
 too young to understand. Like a fool, for days I wandered 
 through the villages and towns, until, at last, one night I 
 learned that she had been seen crossing the frontier in a 
 tartana with those same mountebanks, laughing, chattering 
 there on the seat beside them, carousing in their arms, and 
 shamelessly making merry. And this, this woman this is 
 she, that Daniela you know, for whom I would have given 
 up my life, and who has never once since so much as troubled 
 herself to think of me, no, not once, nor of her home. And 
 now that she finds herself sick and poor, without resources,
 
 206 DANIELA ACT i 
 
 cast-off, rejected, despised, she has the shamelessness to 
 propose to return home again to me and present herself again 
 in my house. Ah! How does it appear to you now, gentle- 
 men? Is it another story? Let her die and be buried in the 
 deepest hole in the ground as befits such a thing, rather than 
 that after what has happened, she should again enter my 
 house. [Much excited] I have my wife, I have my children, 
 we are happy because we believe in God and have done 
 wrong to no man, no, not in all our lives, but good nothing 
 but good and that you all can bear witness, and Monsa. 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes, Ramon, good, nothing but good. They 
 see how it is. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Holy Mother! And all this happened 
 fifteen years ago! 
 
 ANTONIA. [To RAMON] Say no more about it. 
 
 M. ALBERT. I still think that we labor under a misappre- 
 hension. From what I hear, the gentleman takes it that 
 Mademoiselle is poor; that she may become a burden upon 
 him; but it is quite the contrary. Mademoiselle is rich . . . 
 
 RAMON. Rich? So much the worse! What is that to me? 
 
 M. ALBEKT [Cynically] Frankly I do not understand. 
 
 RAMON. How did she make this fortune? 
 
 M.ALBERT. As one makes fortunes. Pst! As best one can. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [To M. ALBERT] My dear sir, we really 
 must be going. 
 
 RAMON. [To M. ALBERT] You attempt to defend her? 
 Now that you know the worst unless it be the life she has 
 led afterward. 
 
 M. ALBERT. But if these things were true, she surely 
 would have told me. Who do you think I am? 
 
 [Turning on RAMON. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [Wishing to lead him away] Senor! 
 
 RAMON. Yes, take him away, Don Joaquim. Take him 
 away. Enough!
 
 ACT i DAN IE LA 207 
 
 M. ALBERT. [To DON JOAQUIM] I see now in what light 
 they regard me. [Always cynically] 
 
 DON JOAQUIM [To M. ALBERT, going] And we had as well 
 understand each other. I receive a letter from a physician 
 in Paris. Very well ! Then you ask me to make arrangements 
 for an invalid who is presently to arrive, and to accompany 
 you to this house. Very well! I have done so, and I have 
 fulfilled my obligation in the matter. 
 
 M. ALBERT. You have, and for my part I wash my hands 
 of it. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. And you do very well to do so. 
 
 Meanwhile RAMON is speaking with ANTONIA, who en- 
 deavors to quiet him. 
 
 M. ALBERT. As a servant of Mademoiselle's I undertook 
 this charge solely in order to oblige her. I have concluded 
 my mission, and I am done. 
 
 RAMON. We are all done. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM [To M. ALBERT] And, my dear sir, we have 
 also concluded our business. [M. ALBERT bows to the DOCTOR. 
 
 M. ALBERT. I have, however, one piece of information 
 for you. [To RAMON] Mademoiselle will presently be here. 
 
 RAMON. You will advise her that she cannot come. 
 
 M. ALBERT. I? When Mademoiselle thinks a thing it is 
 as good as done. By the last advice, she had already left 
 Paris direct for Barcelona. In fact, she may be here now. 
 Let them digest that if they can. [.4swfeJ 
 
 RAMON. Good-afternoon, Doctor. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Good afternoon, Ram6n. 
 
 M. ALBERT. [To RAMON] Good-afternoon. 
 
 RAMON. [^4* they near the back] God give you better em- 
 ployment, gentlemen. 
 
 M. ALBERT [Laughing] Thanks, thanks. 
 
 M. ALBERT offers his hand; RAMON makes a movement 
 to accept it, but then draws back.
 
 208 DAN IE LA ACT i 
 
 RAMON. His hand! What next? 
 
 [Exit, laughing nervously. 
 
 M. ALBERT. [To DON JOAQUIM] I suppose you have no 
 objection to ray returning to the village in your tartana? 
 DON JOAQUIM. [Going] It will not trouble me. 
 
 [M. ALBERT and DON JOAQUIM go out. 
 ANTONIA. Ay, Senor! 
 
 [Exit to tJie room on tlie right. 
 
 Enter MONSA and ANNA by the outer door. MONSA 
 is leading ANNA by tlie hand. Tliey come forward 
 slowly, and are audible before tliey appear. MONSA 
 is repeating some lines of the Song of St. James of 
 Galicia. 
 
 MONSA. [Entering] "It was like a miracle sent from 
 heaven." 
 
 ANNA. Like a miracle sent from heaven. 
 MONSA. "One of God's miracles." 
 
 ANNA. One of God's miracles. Tell me the rest of it, 
 some other day, won't you? 
 
 MONSA. Listen, child. " They untied the young man." 
 ANNA. They untied tlie young man. 
 MONSA. Yes. 
 
 ANNA. Then they tied him? 
 
 MONSA. No, child. They untied him. And the little girl . . . 
 ANNA. Did they untie her? 
 MONSA. She was untied already. 
 
 ANNA. I thought it was the little boy who was untied. 
 MONSA. So it was. But that was after, child. 
 ANNA. After what? 
 
 MONSA. After they untied him. If you don't pay attention, 
 Anna, I won't tell you another word of the story. 
 ANNA. Haven't I been paying attention, Monsa? 
 MONSA. Not a bit of it. And you've fought all day long 
 with Filomena,
 
 ACT i DANIELA 209 
 
 ANNA. Because you asked her to help you. I tell you no- 
 body is going to fight on the days you ask me to help. 
 
 MONSA. Except you and Filomena. 
 
 ANNA. Yes; I know. Untied who, Monsa? 
 
 MONSA. Untied who? [Catching herself] How can I tell, 
 Anna? You ask so many questions. You've got me all 
 mixed up in the story. 
 
 ANNA. [Running up to the doll, which is lying in a chair] 
 Oh, the poor dear! The poor dear! Look, Monsa, look! 
 Here, take her. And here's the stuff for her dress. 
 
 MONSA. Bring it to me, Anna. Poor thing, she'll catch 
 cold. [She takes the doll. 
 
 ANNA. She will catch cold. 
 
 MONSA. Shall we make her coat, Anna? 
 
 ANNA. Yes! A great big coat, because she's so big herself. 
 Here's the scissors; and let's make her slippers, too. 
 
 MONSA. [Busy cutting] Of course! A pair of slippers. 
 
 ANNA. And we'll get her married, Monsa. Who will we 
 have her marry, though? Dearie me! Who will we have her 
 marry? 
 
 MONSA. That will be for her to say. 
 
 ANNA. For her? Oh, she never says anything! She'd 
 marry anybody. Monsa, why won't you let me take her 
 to school? 
 
 MONSA. School is no place for dolls. 
 
 ANNA. I'll tell you who she'll marry, Monsa. [Clapping 
 her hands] That little kid of Andrew's; that little kid on the 
 hill! 
 
 MONSA. No! 
 
 ANNA. What a pair they'd make! But he's littler than 
 she is, Monsa, not half so big. 
 
 MONSA. He won't be able to hurt her then. 
 
 ANNA. Oh, he's lots too little to buck. Monsa, don't you 
 ever mean to get married?
 
 210 DANIELA ACT i 
 
 MONSA. Mean to get married? What nonsense you do 
 talk! 
 
 ANNA. [To the doll] You do talk such nonsense, child! 
 Monsa . . . 
 
 MONSA. [Counting the stitches] Wait, I have only four 
 more stitches. 
 
 ANNA. [To the doll] Wait, you chatterbox! Monsa! 
 
 MONSA. What is it? 
 
 ANNA. Haven't you ever been married, Monsa? 
 
 MONSA. Never. 
 
 ANNA. What? Never? 
 
 MONSA. Never. 
 
 ANNA. Get married then. Get married, Monsa. [MoNSA 
 laughs] Why haven't you ever been married, Monsa? 
 
 MONSA. I I Anna, how can I tell? 
 
 VALENTINE enters by the outer door and goes upstairs. 
 MONSA begins to sew a pocket on the dress. 
 
 ANNA. [Seizing the dress] No, no! I don't want a pocket. 
 No! 
 
 MONSA. Yes, child, yes; she must have a pocket. 
 
 ANNA. No. Because she's a lady, a real lady, Monsa. 
 She wouldn't like it. 
 
 MONSA. Child, let go. [ANNA tries to take the doll. 
 
 ANNA. It'll make her mad! 
 
 MONSA. Mercy, how you pull! 
 
 ANNA. I don't want a pocket! I won't have a pocket. 
 
 [She takes the doll. VALENTINE comes downstairs. 
 
 MONSA. Valentine, where have you been? Your face is 
 all flushed. 
 
 VALENTINE. Eh? Down by the gate, Monsa, making a 
 duro. I never saw such a bright one before. 
 
 MONSA. A duro? A whole duro? 
 
 VALENTINE. A whole duro. Uy! See it shine. A lady 
 gave it to me.
 
 ACT i DANIELA 
 
 MONSA. [Going on with her sewing] Who gave it to you? 
 
 VALENTINE. How do I know who it was? Ramon told me 
 to go down to Pujal and look after the sheep. The first thing 
 I knew, two ladies got out of a carriage . . . 
 
 MONSA. A carriage? [Surprised] 
 
 VALENTINE. Yes, I just told you a carriage. When I 
 got there, there was a carriage at the end of the street and 
 two ladies were just getting out of it. And the handsomest 
 of them called to me and asked me where I came from, and 
 when I told her from Ramon Anglada's, she began to clap 
 her hands and laugh yes, laugh and call out, "A boy from 
 Ramon's! A boy from Ramon's !" as if she'd gone clean crazy. 
 
 MONSA. [Startled] Suppose it should be Daniela? 
 
 ANNA. Who's Daniela? 
 
 [MoNSA gathers up the dolVs clothes. 
 
 VALENTINE. Hm ! Daniela is poor, and this lady gave me a 
 duro for nothing. Now I'm not going back to Pujal to look 
 after the sheep. 
 
 [Exit VALENTINE at the rear. Enter ANTONIA. 
 
 ANTONIA. What's the matter with Valentine? 
 
 MONSA. Antonia, two strange ladies have just come to the 
 village. 
 
 ANTONIA. Two ladies? What do you mean? 
 
 MONSA. If we thought she'd really started, it might be, 
 Antonia . . . 
 
 ANTONIA. Santisima! You don't mean it, Monsa! 
 
 MONSA. But if she hasn't left Paris . . . 
 
 ANTONIA. No, no; it's she; it is she, Monsa. She's right 
 here. That Frenchman said so. 
 
 MONSA. If it should only be! 
 
 ANTONIA. If she comes here, Ram6n won't have her. God 
 help us! 
 
 MONSA. If it should only be! It must be, it must be, 
 Antonia! She asked for Ramon immediately.
 
 DANIELA ACT i 
 
 ANTONIA. Monsa! 
 
 ANNA. [At the door] Mamma! Mamma! Two ladies arc 
 coming up the road. 
 
 MONSA. I'd better go, Antonia. 
 
 ANTONIA. No, don't leave me, Monsa. [ANNA starts to run 
 away] Anna! Don't you go. 
 
 MONSA. She always loved me because I was lonely like 
 herself. [Meanwhile ANNA lias gone back to the door. 
 
 ANTONIA. Anna! 
 
 ANNA. Here they are! Mamma, here they are! They're 
 coming in! 
 
 MONSA. [By the door] It is she. What a lady she has grown 
 to be! 
 
 [She makes a movement to go, but is detained by ANTONIA. 
 
 ANTONIA. Don't leave me, Monsa. Ramon . . . 
 
 MONSA. Shall I tell them not to come in? 
 
 The LADIES are heard talking, without, Jiowcver, being 
 seen. 
 
 ANTONIA. For mercy's sake, not before me! Say nothing. 
 
 MONSA. I wouldn't have known her. How good it is to 
 see her back! 
 
 ANTONIA. Hush! They're here. 
 
 ANTONIA draws MONSA to the right, away from the door. 
 ANNA remains where she is, further to the front. 
 Enter DANIELA and JEANNE. 
 
 DANIELA. No, I don't know. I can't say for certain. . . . 
 It looks just the same as it used to outside, except that 
 everything seems so much smaller. [Abruptly, with pleasure] 
 Ah! Yes! This is the place. Yes, yes! One day I fell 
 down those stairs. I remember it as if it had been yesterday. 
 Ram6n's father, my uncle, used to thump down them so 
 slowly one step at a time pam, pam, pam! It took 
 Ramon just four leaps, and then we would be off together, 
 in rooms and out again, all over the house. Ah! How good it
 
 ACT i DANIELA 213 
 
 feels to be back again ! But what a dreadful journey ! [ANNA 
 bursts out laughing} Who is this child laughing? [She notices 
 the others also] Ah! 
 
 MONSA. Good good-afternoon. 
 
 ANTONIA. Good-afternoon, lady. 
 
 DANIELA. Good-afternoon. Do you know I wouldn't let 
 anybody show me the way? We left the carriage at the head 
 of the street. I said, see if you can find the house yourself, 
 and I did find it myself. Didn't I find it, Jeanne? 
 
 JEANNE. You did, Madam. 
 
 DANIELA. But I know that it has grown smaller. Why, 
 it used to be so big there never was any end to it! Where is 
 Ramon? 
 
 ANTONIA. He's coming, lady. 
 
 [She speaks with MONSA, uneasily. 
 
 DANIELA. [To JEANNE] You didn't think that it would 
 look like this, did you? But there is health here. [Looking 
 about and breathing deeply] Health in every breath! 
 
 ANTONIA. Anna, run and call your father. 
 
 [ANNA stands as transfixed, looking at DANIELA. 
 
 DANIELA. {Raising her voice} Ramon! Ramon! [To AN- 
 TONIA and MONSA] You can't imagine how good it feels to 
 call that name again. Ramon! 
 
 MONSA. We didn't know, SefLora . . . 
 
 DANIELA. That I was coming? No, of course not. [To 
 JEANNE] My heart just leaps within me. Why, I can remem- 
 ber a thousand things that happened when I was so liigh! 
 
 ANTONIA. [To MONSA] I'm going out. [Exit ANTONIA. 
 
 DANIELA. [To JEANNE] I lived here many years. [Laugh- 
 ing] Who ever would have thought it? I never could have 
 died happy without coming here again. Look! See her 
 standing there. [To ANNA] Come here, child! 
 
 MONSA. Go and speak to the lady. 
 
 [ANNA goes up to DANIELA.
 
 214 DANIELA ACT i 
 
 DANIELA. She is well brought up. 
 
 ANNA. Yes, ma'am. 
 
 DANIELA. What is your name, little girl? 
 
 ANNA. I'm Anna. [Evidently astonished that there is any 
 one who does not know her] 
 
 DANIELA. [Laughing] Anna! [To JEANNE] She says she's 
 Anna. 
 
 MONSA. She's Ram6n's daughter. 
 
 DANIELA. Ah? Has he so old a child? He is married, 
 then? 
 
 MONSA. Yes. 
 
 DANIELA. And you you are his wife? 
 
 MONSA. Oh, no! I'm don't you remember me? I'm 
 Monsa at the school . . . 
 
 DANIELA. [Trying to recollect] Monsa, Monsa Ah! I 
 have such a memory! 
 
 MONSA. [Disappointed] You don't remember? 
 
 DANIELA. No. As a child were you always very pert, 
 very precocious? 
 
 MONSA. No, I was always very poor. But I used to think 
 
 a great deal of you, a very great deal. You don't remember? 
 
 [ANNA makes a sign, asking permission to show her doll. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, of course. Bring it here. [Laughing] If 
 it doesn't look just like a person! Anna, I am going to buy 
 you a fine doll, a very fine doll. [To JEANNE, smiling] She's 
 Anna! [Then seriously] But it doesn't seem that it can be. 
 Here I am again happy, and yet I can scarcely keep from 
 bursting into tears. So many years passed when I never 
 once thought of this place, and now it seems to me that if 
 I don't see Ram6n directly something will happen to me. 
 
 MONSA. Sit down. Here's a chair. 
 
 DANIELA. Jeanne, quick, quick! 
 
 JEANNE gives DANIELA a bottle of salts, which she takes 
 from a bag which she carries with her. Enter ANTONIA.
 
 ACT i DANIELA 215 
 
 ANTONIA. He's coming, Monsa; they've told him. 
 
 [She is much agitated. 
 
 MONSA. Does he know she's rich? 
 
 ANTONIA. He'll send her away. 
 
 MONSA. He couldn't do it! 
 
 [A voice at the door. MONSA pauses. 
 
 ANTONIA. Here he is. 
 
 MONSA. I'd better go. 
 
 DANIELA. Eh? Ramon? [They nod their heads] Is it 
 Ramon? Happiness at last! [Breathing heavily] 
 Enter RAMON. 
 
 RAMON. Where is she? Where? . . . 
 
 DANIELA. Ramon! [Throwing her arms about his neck and 
 giving him a kiss] Ramon of my soul! Ramon! 
 
 RAMON. [Throwing her off] What is this? God! 
 
 [MoNSA prevents DANIELA from falling, supporting her. 
 
 DANIELA. Oh! 
 
 MONSA. [Aside] The brute! 
 
 ANTONIA. Ramon! What have you done? 
 
 RAMON. Now she remembers her home now, when 
 there's no place for her in it! 
 
 MONSA. [To JEANNE] Help her help her here. The 
 brute! Let her sit down. 
 
 [ANTONIA also goes to help DANIELA. 
 
 DANIELA. He pushed me away! He threw me off! What 
 did I ever do to him? It cannot be Ramon; no, for he loved 
 me, and when they used to vex me he would defend me; yes, 
 and he would cry with rage himself! Jeanne, why didn't I 
 stay in France to die? You told me not to come here no one 
 would want me here. And they do not want me! No, no! 
 [With desperation] No, I'll not die here. Out, out! I must 
 leave this house! Into the free, the open air! . . . [She drops 
 back, fatting into the chair] I cannot ; I am too weak ! I cannot. 
 
 MONSA. [.4sick] Has the man no heart?
 
 216 DANIELA ACT i 
 
 ANTONIA. [To MONSA] Speak to him, Monsa. 
 
 MONSA continues helping DANIELA, without hearing 
 ANTONIA. ANTONIA turns to RAMON and endeavors 
 to dissuade him from sending DANIELA away. 
 DANIELA. [To MONSA] Are you crying, too? What makes 
 you cry? 
 
 MONSA. They hurt you so. 
 
 DANIELA. Look at me now; look at me straight in the eye. 
 MONSA. Poor Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA. Now I know you when you cry I know you. 
 You were always crying in the old days when you used to 
 help me. Monsa! Monsa! [They embrace, weeping. 
 
 ANNA. [Speaking lowly} Papa! 
 MONSA. Yes, yes. It is I! It is I! 
 DANIELA. Monsa! Monsa! 
 
 ANNA. Papa! Don't let that lady go away; she's going to 
 buy me a new doll. 
 
 ANTONIA. [To RAMON] You see how weak she is; let her 
 stay a little while. 
 
 [RAMON is seated; his features arc rigid. 
 MONSA. [Going up to RAMON] Ram6n, Ram6n! [He does 
 not move] Listen, Rum cm! 
 ANNA. [To ANTONIA] She's not going away? 
 ANTONIA. [To RAMON] For pity's sake, Ram6n, don't be- 
 have like tliis. Say something to comfort the poor woman. 
 RAMON. Abandoned woman! 
 
 ANTONIA tries to divert DANIELA so tJiat she may not 
 
 hear the words of RAMON. 
 MONSA. Hush! 
 
 RAMON. [To MONSA] Abandoned yes! You'll never know 
 the havoc she has wrought with me. No, nor will she ever 
 know! 
 
 DANIELA leaves the chair, supported by JEANNE. 
 ANTONIA endeavors to console tier.
 
 ACT i DAN IE LA 217 
 
 MONSA. But she's ill, she's faint, Ramon. [RAMON shrugs 
 his shoulders} Let her stay a little while! Till tomorrow! 
 
 RAMON. You don't know what you are asking, Monsa. 
 Better she were dead! 
 
 MONSA. Have you no feeling, man? 
 
 RAMON. How do you know what I feel? 
 
 MONSA. Think of your cliildren, the love that you bear 
 them . . . 
 
 RAMON. My children? Ay! You don't know what you 
 are saying, Monsa. Let her go! Let her go! 
 
 As he finishes speaking, in a low voice, his eyes meet 
 those of DANIELA, who is approaching him. 
 
 DANIELA. Say nothing more to him, Monsa. I am going 
 away. [To RAMON] But before I go, I must have one look 
 at you, for it is fourteen years since I have seen you. [He is 
 about to speak, but she prevents him} Yes it was my fault, I 
 know it; all the fault was mine. I do not wish to excuse 
 myself. All those years after I had left you I knew that I did 
 not deserve to have you take me back. And now you need 
 not take me back. 
 
 RAMON. But woman! 
 
 DANIELA. Woman? Yes, woman, say it, say the worst! 
 I do not care. But do not turn your eyes away to insult me. 
 Look at me; for I like to have you look at me, for then I 
 know it is the old Ramon! Yes, you you, the Ramon 
 that was a boy with me! [RAMON makes a gesture of dissent 
 and seats himself, turning his face away, scarcely conscious 
 that he does so] The old Ramon of former years with whom I 
 used to play, and who used to run and romp with me, and 
 tumble over and over until we had to stop for want of breath, 
 and lie there exhausted, laughing, on the ground. How I 
 used to call you when you came home past the aloes from the 
 wood! Ramon! Just like that Ramon! 
 
 RAMON makes a gesture as if tfie old affection were reborn.
 
 218 DANIEL A ACT i 
 
 MONSA. [Fearing that he is about to strike DANIELA] For 
 pity's sake! 
 
 DANIELA. And then, when he came, that old Ramon, how 
 I always ran to meet him! Ram6n, how many violets I have 
 picked with you! Ramon, what cherries from the trees! 
 And then I always made them sweeter by first tasting them 
 myself. And then the partridge nest! Rara6n! The par- 
 tridge nest! How the little birds ran out, splashing in the 
 water down the stream, and how we used to skip after them, 
 poor little tilings, to catch them through the tall marsh grass! 
 And when we caught them, Ram6n, do you remember? 
 we always let them go again, to play there, happy, under- 
 neath the trees. And then, and then one day, there came 
 a time when I too ran out and fled down the stream as they. 
 And it seemed to me that I had wings and I soared I know 
 not where! And at last I felt myself wounded, crippled and 
 sore and sad, and then, Ram6n, like them I turned, and flew 
 back home again to my nest, as they would have done 
 home again to my nest straight, straight home! 
 
 RAMON. Straight home? There came a time when you 
 ceased to care for your home, or for my father, or to re- 
 spect yourself. And now, when misfortune overtakes you, 
 back you come. Through all these years you never so much 
 as once thought of tin's house no, not once! Don't look at 
 me like that; that is the way you used to look at me before 
 you went away! [Growing excited] Daniela! Unhappy woman ! 
 Ungrateful, unkind! [He goes up to fier as if to strike her. 
 
 DANIELA. Don't say that! Don't abuse me; no, Ram6n. 
 No, I am going away, I am going now. You will never see 
 me any more. Be happy happy as you always were! 
 
 MONSA. [Going up to her] Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA. Jeanne, take me back to the train to Paris. 
 Take me back to Paris! For Hainun will have it. He 
 turns me away; he will have it so!
 
 ACT i DANIELA 219 
 
 ANNA [To ANTONIA] And my doll? 
 MONSA. Ramon! He is crying! 
 
 RAMON. [To MONSA] Let her stay, but don't tell Antonia 
 that I told you so. [MONSA runs to tell DANIELA. 
 
 ANTONIA. [Going up to RAMON] She can stay? 
 RAMON. [To ANTONIA] I don't know. Settle it among 
 yourselves. But at most until tomorrow; only till to- 
 morrow. 
 
 DANIELA. [To MONSA] Ay, Madre mial But I am glad 
 to hear it! Where is Ramon? 
 MONSA. Say nothing to him now. 
 
 Enter VALENTINE. 
 VALENTINE. The sheep are here. 
 
 RAMON. The sheep? Good! Antonia, where's the boy? 
 I haven't seen him. 
 
 [He covers his face with his hands, as though dazed. 
 
 ANTONIA. This is the way that a man falls in love. [Aside. 
 
 [Exeunt RAMON and ANTONIA to the room on the right. 
 
 DANIELA. Ah! I am so happy! Jeanne, where are the 
 
 trunks? The trunks ought to be here. 
 
 JEANNE disappears at the back, returning a few minutes 
 later. TOMASETA, PONA, ANDREW and other vil- 
 lage people enter. 
 
 TOMASETA. Ay! Is this the lady, Monsa? 
 MONSA. Yes. Don't say a word; she's rich. 
 ANDREW [To MONSA] Hm, I thought so she must be 
 very rich. There's a whole cart - load of boxes at the 
 door. 
 PONA. [To DANIELA] God keep you, Seiiora. 
 
 [DANIELA returns a formal bow. 
 TOMASETA. Good-afternoon. 
 DANIELA. [To MONSA] It seems I was expected. 
 MONSA. A strange gentleman brought word that you were 
 coming. He was here with the Doctor this afternoon.
 
 220 DANIEL A ACT i 
 
 DANIELA. Gracious! But what has become of him? I 
 have not seen him anywhere. 
 
 Two men enter, carrying a large trunk. The townspeople 
 comment to one another upon the luggage as it is brought 
 in, moving hither and thither examining the boxes 
 and bags, always with the greatest curiosity. MONSA 
 endeavors to restrain them. 
 
 PONA. [To MONSA] If we can do anythingfor theSefiora . . . 
 MONSA. No, nothing. 
 M. ALBERT enters. 
 
 M. ALBERT. Thank heaven! I have found her at last! 
 DANIELA. [Reproving him] So, you are here, are you? Do 
 I send you ahead so that you will leave everything for me to 
 do? You attend to nothing. Why were you not at the station? 
 M. ALBERT. I did not think that you would be on that 
 train. 
 
 TOMASETA. [To DANIELA, who takes no notice of her] If we 
 can do anything . . . 
 
 DANIELA. [To M. ALBERT] You never think, you never 
 act, you never accomplish anything. 
 
 [More trunks are carried in. 
 
 M. ALBERT. Pardon. But I saw the physician . . . 
 DANIELA. What do I care about the physician? I am here 
 now. Dismiss the carriage, go to your lodgings and bring me 
 Frou-Frou immediately; yes, bring me Frou-Frou. I was 
 homesick for her the whole journey. 
 
 ANDREW. If you should happen to need a large house . . . 
 TOMASETA. Or one just whitewashed today, Senora, till it 
 looks like new ... < 
 
 DANIELA draws out some banknotes which sJie hands to 
 
 M. ALBERT. 
 
 DANIELA. Here, take these, and see that everybody is paid. 
 I shall remain where I am for the present myself. Later I 
 mean to build a chalet near by; I noticed a splendid site oa
 
 ACT i DANIELA 221 
 
 the road from the station. "Villa Daniela!" [Addressing the 
 company, much pleased] How does that sound to you? "Villa 
 Daniela!" Tomorrow I shall see an architect, for we must 
 make haste. We have no time to lose. [Everybody approves 
 of the plan] On the day it is completed the whole village shall 
 be there. Ay, but we shall have a festival! [She pauses, 
 seeing RAMON at the door on the left, to which he has come 
 looking for MONSA] We shan't be enemies? No, Ramon? 
 
 [Coaxingly to RAMON. 
 RAMON. [Much moved] No. 
 DANIELA. But friends? 
 RAMON. Yes, friends. 
 DANIELA. Forever. Friends forever? Yes? 
 
 [Still pleadingly. 
 RAMON. Yes yes. Forever. 
 
 Enter ANTONIA from the room on the rigid. She goes 
 
 straight up to RAMON and DANIELA. 
 RAMON. This is my wife Antonia; the mother of ... 
 
 [He points to ANNA and to the room where the cradle is. 
 DANIELA. [To ANTONIA, deeply moved] We shall be friends, 
 I know. 
 
 ANTONIA. [Also much affected] I only want to please Ram6n. 
 MONSA goes up to DANIELA. ANTONIA opens the door 
 of tlie room at the back and directs JEANNE to have the 
 trunks carried in. 
 
 RAMON. [To VALENTINE] WTiat was that you told me 
 about the sheep? [Looking straight at DANIELA. 
 
 VALENTINE. The sheep are here. Shall I send them to the 
 pens? 
 
 RAMON. Yes, to the pens. Good, good! Monsa! Monsa! 
 MONSA. What is it, Ramon? 
 
 Great confusion at the back while the boxes are being 
 carried into the other room. Much curiosity on the 
 part of all.
 
 222 DANIELA ACT i 
 
 RAMON. [To MONSA] God grant that no harm may come 
 of it of Daniela's being in the house, I mean. 
 
 DANIELA. [Taking leave of M. ALBERT] Above everything, 
 remember Frou-Frou, for I must have her; remember, I must 
 have her. [M. ALBERT goes out. 
 
 MONSA. [Surprised] Why, Ram6n! 
 
 RAMON. You're a good woman, an angel, Monsa! [En- 
 joining silence] I loved Daniela. 
 
 MONSA. But that was a long time ago. 
 RAMON. I loved her! I loved her! I tell you I loved her! 
 MONSA. [Horrified] Ramon! 
 
 RAMON. [Rushing up to DANIELA] Daniela! What do you 
 want, Daniela? What is it you desire? 
 
 DANIELA. [Surrounded by the people] I have come home to 
 stay. We will sit together at dinner. [Radiantly happy] 
 It will be a feast day for us all! 
 
 MONSA. [Apart] But he loves Antonia. I know he loves 
 Antonia! 
 
 As the curtain is about to fall, a man enters by the outer 
 door, carrying a trunk that stands as high as his 
 shoulder. Above the chatter of the people rise the 
 excited tones of RAMON and the happy voice of 
 DANIELA. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 ACT II 
 
 The same. TJie cradle stands to the right with the child sleeping 
 in it. It is late afternoon. ANTONIA is seated beside the 
 cradle, sewing. Presently MONSA enters from the rear. 
 When DANIELA is heard speaking, it is from the porch, 
 outside upon the left, without, however, being seen. As 
 the curtain rises a number of workmen may be heard at a 
 distance, busily cutting stone. MONSA hesitates a moment 
 after entering before presenting herself. 
 
 MONSA. Why do you let the baby sleep all day, Antonia? 
 He'll surely keep you awake tonight. 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes, I'm afraid he will. 
 
 MONSA. Of course he will. 
 
 ANTONIA. Yesterday Ram6n told me the same thing. 
 
 MONSA. Whenever a man finds something interfering with 
 his sleep, it doesn't take him long to complain about it. 
 
 ANTONIA. It isn't that, Monsa; Ram6n never complains 
 about anything any more. 
 
 MONSA. Don't you believe it, Antonia; it's because he's 
 so taken up with the new house. He's had to tend to every- 
 thing himself; that's what makes you think so. No wonder, 
 either, with Daniela so impatient to get into it! 
 
 ANTONIA. Humph! Maybe. Is school over yet? 
 
 MONSA. Yes, for today. I just finished taking the little 
 children home, and now I'm done till tomorrow. Where's 
 Anna? I didn't see her at all this afternoon. 
 
 ANTONIA. Oh! She's busy with Daniela and Ramon. I 
 told her I wanted her to stay with me, too. I never saw any- 
 
 223
 
 224 DANIELA ACT H 
 
 thing like it, Monsa that woman runs away with everything 
 that comes near her absolutely everything. 
 
 MONSA. The men are working in double shifts. How have 
 they ever been able to get through so much in such a little 
 while? It's only a month today. 
 
 The click of the stone-cutting becomes less frequent and 
 presently dies away. 
 
 ANTONIA. Only a month? They have done a good deal. 
 
 MONSA. Daniela wants to hire everybody. By the way, 
 she told me when I came in to tell you they were at supper; 
 they're waiting for you. 
 
 ANTONIA. [Significantly] Yes, now we have supper in 
 broad daylight, and out on the porch, because she wants it 
 there, so as to be able, she says, to see the sun set! Every 
 meal is a party. 
 
 MONSA. She's certainly a good deal better. 
 
 ANT.ONIA. I dare say you're not so sorry for her now, 
 Monsa. 
 
 MONSA. I'll always be sorry for Daniela, not because she's 
 rich, but on account of all the trouble that she's had to go 
 through. 
 
 ANTONIA. And aren't you sorry for me, Monsa? 
 
 [Bursting into tears. 
 
 MONSA. For you? Why should I be sorry for you? 
 
 ANTONIA. Because I am the unhappiest woman in the 
 world, Monsa! Because Ram6n is no longer the same to me 
 he's another man. That woman has stolen him away 
 like a thief! 
 
 MONSA. For pity's sake, Antonia! 
 
 ANTONIA. No, I don't know Ram6n any more. He was 
 always hasty, he had a temper, but he was kind to me; but 
 now he never even looks at me, he never speaks to me, he 
 doesn't care for anything in all this house except that 
 woman! That woman! She is all he thinks about,
 
 ACT II 
 
 DANIELA 225 
 
 MONSA. Nonsense, Antonia! But it isn't so. He only 
 wants to finish the house so that she can get away to 
 live in it. 
 
 ANTONIA. You're trying to console me, Monsa. No, it is 
 so. You don't like the way Ram6n behaves any better than 
 I do. 
 
 DANIELA. [Calling outside] Antonia! Come to supper! 
 
 MONSA. There! She's calling you. Go along. 
 
 ANTONIA. Let her call. I don't mean to go. I can't be 
 pleasant to that woman any longer. 
 
 MONSA. That's not the way to talk. 
 
 ANTONIA. I'm going to tell Ramon that he's got to send 
 her away, or I'll take the children and go back to my father's. 
 I'm tired of pretending to be nice. To think that we should 
 have all this trouble because she's staying in the house! 
 
 [Crying bitterly. 
 
 MONSA. Whatever else you do, don't be foolish enough to 
 say anything to Ram6n about it. Sleep on it till tomorrow. 
 It won't seem so serious then after all. 
 
 ANTONIA. Are you trying to defend Ram6n? 
 
 MONSA. [Offended] Pshaw! I'm only trying to prevent 
 you from making yourself unhappy. Go on out to supper. 
 
 ANTONIA. But Monsa, what have you to say about her? 
 
 MONSA. A good deal that I don't mean to tell you. 
 But remember this; she never knew how to deceive, and 
 if she loved Ram6n, poor thing, she'd be quite capable 
 of saying so before everybody! You've hurt her so many 
 times. 
 
 ANTONIA. Poor thing, eh? Now I see! I understand. 
 Because she's rich . . . 
 
 MONSA. And I haven't anything? Now you hurt me, 
 Antonia. You must be very unhappy to talk like that. 
 
 ANTONIA. I am unhappy, Monsa! Very, very unhappy! 
 So unhappy that I want to die, to kill myself!
 
 226 DANIELA ACT n 
 
 MONSA. Stop crying some one is coming. The Doctor! 
 ANTONIA endeavors to control herself. Enter DON 
 JOAQUIM. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [Sympathetically] What's the matter with 
 Antonia? 
 
 ANTONIA. Good-afternoon, Doctor. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. When I found that you weren't at supper 
 with the others, I made up my mind that I'd stop in and 
 say how do you do to you. 
 
 ANTONIA. Thanks, Doctor. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. But what's the matter? What are you 
 crying for? 
 
 ANTONIA. Nothing, Doctor. 
 
 MONSA. How did you find Daniela? Does she seem better 
 today? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. She seems much happier, and certainly 
 that is something. She would be the happiest woman in the 
 world, I think, if you would all only help a little. 
 
 MONSA. You don't think she's better then? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Better? Oh, dear, no! Poor woman! far 
 from it. What she needs is rest. We must be careful to 
 keep her from every sort of worry or excitement she must 
 not be disturbed or crossed in anything. That is absolutely 
 essential. Do you understand, Antonia? 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes, Doctor. 
 
 MONSA. But you don't mean that she is seriously ill? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. I do. Very, very seriously. I may as well 
 tell you. Daniela can never be cured. The day after her 
 arrival I received a second letter from Paris, from her physi- 
 cian, in which he informed me that her malady was mortal, 
 and, as I have since discovered for myself, that she was even 
 then in a most critical condition. 
 
 MONSA. Maria, Santisima! Doctor, what is to be done? 
 What is the trouble with her?
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 227 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. What is to be done? It's a question of her 
 heart; I don't know how to explain it. When a person has 
 a heart like hers . . . 
 
 MONSA. Cure her, Doctor, cure her! 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. My dear woman, you might as well say to 
 me, turn young again, Sefior Doctor, turn young! 
 
 ANTONIA. That French doctor says this to make himself 
 appear important. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. No, Antonia. I have studied her case my- 
 self, and I say so too. But not a word of this to any one. 
 If she should hear of it ... 
 
 MONSA. Not a word. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Remember! She is not to be excited or 
 disturbed. I cannot impress that upon you too strongly. 
 Above all, Antonia, I must caution you. 
 
 ANTONIA. Me? Why me more than the others? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Don't be offended; it is the advice of a 
 physician. 
 
 ANTONIA. Very well. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [Laying his hand on her shoulder as he takes 
 leave of MONSA] Ah, Monsa! You're a lamb of God's flock! 
 A lamb of the true flock! 
 
 MONSA. Oh, Doctor! 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. And you're one too, Antonia, though some- 
 times you mayn't show it. But remember, I want you to 
 be careful! Be very careful what you do. [He turns to go. 
 
 ANTONIA. But, Doctor this that you've told me have 
 you spoken to Ramon about it? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. I have, and he asked me to speak to you. 
 
 ANTONIA. He did? To speak to me? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. That's the reason that I have talked so 
 plainly. Now remember you have promised to be good. 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes. 
 
 MONSA. Good-afternoon, Don Joaquim.
 
 228 DANIELA ACT n 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [Aside, going] Adios! I have still three 
 calls to make. [Exit to the rear. 
 
 ANTONIA. Now, I see. She isn't sick nor anything else. 
 
 MONSA. She isn't sick? 
 
 ANTONIA. Of course she isn't! Don't you see? Ram6n 
 has been talking to the Doctor. They want to have me eat my 
 heart out, to die with grief. 
 
 MONSA. But didn't you hear what the French doctor 
 said? 
 
 ANTONIA. The French doctor! Yes, Ram6n wants me to 
 wait on her and be her maid. That's the reason that they 
 tell me that she's sick. What right has he to talk about me 
 to the Doctor, and have him tell me that I have no heart? 
 
 MONSA. He didn't say that. 
 
 ANTONIA. And that you're better than I am? And that I 
 must make Daniela happy! 
 
 MONSA. Listen, Antonia . . . 
 
 ANTONIA. And that my husband, the wretch, wants me 
 to nurse her and take care of her, and all the time with them 
 here, right before my face the fools! 
 
 DANIELA is heard laughing outside. Presently another 
 laugh, in which DANIELA and ANNA join. 
 
 MONSA. Hush! She's coming. 
 
 ANTONIA. I won't have her see me crying; she shan't have 
 that satisfaction, anyhow. 
 
 MONSA. Not another word, do you hear? for your own 
 sake and for everybody's! 
 
 ANTONIA. No, no, I'll be cheerful now. I can laugh just 
 as well as she can. [She laughs] Why shouldn't I laugh? 
 
 MONSA. Hush! Of course! [ANTONIA resumes her sewing. 
 
 DANIELA and ANNA enter from the rear. ANNA is 
 
 carrying a large new doll. As they enter, MONSA 
 
 picks up a part of the baby's dress and pretends to 
 
 busy herself with it.
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 229 
 
 DANIELA. We waited for you as long as we could, Antonia. 
 I do believe now I couldn't hold another thing. 
 MONSA. Supper in broad daylight! 
 ANNA. Oh, mamma, we had such funny things to eat. 
 DANIELA. Everything is new to her. 
 
 ANTONIA. Anna, come here to me. Didn't I tell you that 
 I wanted you today? Why didn't you go to school? 
 ANNA. Oh! I was with father. 
 DANIELA. It was all my fault. 
 
 ANTONIA. Your place is here with me, child do you hear? 
 Here with me and the baby. 
 
 MONSA. Antonia, do be careful; you'll prick her with 
 your needle. 
 
 ANNA. Ah, do be careful, mamma, you'll prick the doll! 
 DANIELA. Did they tell you, Monsa? I had to send 
 Jeanne away. 
 
 MONSA. No! [ANNA tries to take DANIELA'S parasol. 
 
 ANNA. Let me have it! I'll run and put it in your room. 
 
 ANTONIA makes a gesture so as to prevent her from taking 
 
 the parasol. 
 ANTONIA. Anna! 
 
 As soon as ANNA hears her mother call she runs off and 
 puts the parasol in DANIELA'S room, returning im- 
 mediately. It is evident that she prefers to be with 
 DANIELA rather than unth her mother. DANIELA is 
 patently in high spirits. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, I had to send her away. She was always 
 fretting and crying and you know I don't want to have 
 anybody crying about me. I want to see everybody happy. 
 Light, Monsa, light! I must have that to be satisfied. 
 There isn't anybody in the world who can bear a grudge 
 against me I never did anybody any harm. If people 
 would only show me a little love and a little kindness, Monsa 
 for I am so hungry for love, and so jealous of it when I see
 
 230 DANIELA ACT n 
 
 it anywhere! [As she speaks to MONSA she directs her remarks 
 at ANTONIA] I wanted you all to love me here in a different 
 way, not as they did in Paris, but dear me, I don't know 
 why it is, you all seem to find so many faults in me! [She 
 steps back to look at the boy in the cradle] Ah! he's asleep; 
 the boy's asleep. How beautiful he is! A second Ram6n 
 Ramon all over again. Ah, Monsa! Look! Look! He's 
 asleep, fast asleep. And there now, he's going to turn over. 
 He's waking up! He's waking up! [She rocks the cradle 
 gently] Ah! Ah! Ah! 
 
 ANTONIA. [Running toward her] No, don't wake him up. 
 
 [MONSA detains ANTONIA. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, yes! [Laughing] Don't make a sound. 
 
 MONSA. Let her alone, Antonia. 
 
 ANTONIA. [To DANIELA, controlling herself] Let the child 
 alone, he doesn't know you. [DANIELA leaves the cradle. 
 
 DANIELA. [To MONSA] How I love to run my hands under 
 the quilt! He feels so nice and warm. Look at Antonia! 
 [Aside, under her breath] Look at her! How I envy her; how 
 I envy Antonia! [Then to MONSA] Look at her now. How 
 happy she is with that child! 
 
 DANIELA and MONSA stand for a moment apart, looking 
 at the cradle without speaking a word. 
 
 MONSA. She's very, very happy because it is her child. 
 
 ANTONIA. [By the cradle] Go to sleep, little boy, go to 
 sleep! Oh! Oh! Oh! Go to sleep, go to sleep! He's 
 asleep. 
 
 MONSA. [Aside to DANIELA] How good it must be to be a 
 mother ! 
 
 DANIELA. A mother! Pshaw! How should I know? I 
 shall never know! 
 
 [With a shudder she turns away from the cradle to MONSA. 
 
 ANNA [To DANIELA, placing the doll in her hands] Here! 
 Take her! Put her to sleep!
 
 ACT ii DANIELS 231 
 
 DANTELA. The years nave tied by and I feel that I 
 am old. And there is nothing in the world that I can 
 call mine! 
 
 The doll is about to fall without DANIELA'S being con- 
 scious of it. 
 
 ANNA. Ay! But you'll kill her! The poor dear! 
 
 [MoNSA, also pensive, remains silent. 
 
 MONSA. [Sighing deeply, then rousing herself] Ah! Daniela, 
 how about the chalet? Don't you think they've been working 
 fast? 
 
 DANIELA. Fast? I don't think so. It seems to me they 
 don't do anything at all. I wanted you know to have it 
 ready for the fiesta. But ... 
 
 [Her attention wanders back to the cradle. 
 
 MONSA. They'll have to hurry to get it ready for the 
 fiesta. 
 
 DANIELA. That's what makes me angry! It's first one 
 stone, then another, while I have to wait I who have al- 
 ways done everything myself at once like that! 
 
 She accompanies the sentence with an emphatic gesture. 
 Meanwhile ANTONIA has resumed her sewing. 
 
 MONSA. But it's only a month since you came. 
 
 DANIELA. Only a month? [Brightening up] So it is! Tell 
 me, Monsa, don't you think I am quite another person? [Much 
 moved and nervous] Sometimes it seems to me that I never 
 went away, and then sometimes, when I think of those days, 
 all at once a pain comes over me. . . . When I took the train 
 to come here I thought I should go mad with joy, and would 
 you believe it, in half an hour I was wanting to turn back 
 again? 
 
 MONSA. No? 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, I was. I thought I ought to have waited 
 till tomorrow or the next day. Yes, I did ! And then I missed 
 Frou-Frou. Oh, I couldn't bear the thought of losing Frou-
 
 232 DANIELA ACT 
 
 Frou! Poor thing! And then Richard and Huguette and the 
 others had to console me. [Laughing] 
 
 MONSA. Who did you say they were? 
 
 DANIELA. Of course you don't know. [Laughing because 
 MONSA does not understand her] Why, they were the players 
 in my company the people who used to act with me. I 
 told you that they came on the same train. On their way 
 back to Paris they promised to stop off and see me, but, 
 Monsa, they are such flyaways! You can't believe one 
 word they say. They never remember promises at all. 
 The poor dog wouldn't have left me, though. I thought 
 that if they didn't bring her immediately I should die of 
 grief. [She laughs at herself] And now, just think of it, I've 
 had a letter that they've- lost her, and I have scarcely 
 shed a tear. 
 
 MONSA. Poor Frou-Frou! [ANTONIA laughs sarcastically. 
 
 DANIELA. [To MONSA] But don't think that I am heart- 
 less. [Laughing] I did cry for a minute. Antonia doesn't 
 seem to think that I cried. 
 
 ANTONIA. I think . . . 
 
 MONSA. Of course she thinks you cried. 
 
 ANTONIA. I think that when you left this house you cried 
 for the man you left in it! [Laughing] That time you ran 
 
 away 
 
 MONSA. Why, Antonia! 
 
 DANIELA. [After a pause] Yes, I did cry when I left this 
 house. [Emphatically] And I shall leave it again before you 
 make me cry again. Yes, I shall leave it immediately! [AN- 
 TONIA laughs] I shall go away! [Much overcome] 
 
 MONSA. Antonia! 
 
 DANIELA. I went before because Ram6n's father struck 
 me. [ANTONIA laughs] I know it and because I was half 
 mad in those days. 
 
 ANTONIA. Only hi those days?
 
 ACT ii DANIEL A 233 
 
 DANIELA. No, not only in those days; but I was half mad 
 then, and I know now that I am not like the rest of you. 
 No, for sometimes I change, and what pleases me today I 
 hate I hate tomorrow. But that doesn't give you the right 
 to dislike me, Antonia. You ought to respect me and try 
 to help me, because I want to change. 
 
 ANTONIA. Want to? 
 
 MONSA. [Aside] Holy Mother! 
 
 DANIELA. [With decision] No, not want to, for I have 
 changed. I am like the rest of you now. I only want to 
 live here in peace and to be happy with those I love and who 
 love me, and who have learned to respect me. And then I 
 want and I mean to do it too I want to dress like the 
 rest of you, and wear the same clothes that you do, and have 
 some work to do myself, like you. 
 
 [She wanders back to the cradle. 
 
 ANTONIA. Poor Frou-Frou! 
 
 DANIELA. Don't say that, Antonia. No, it isn't true. I 
 have a heart. Oh, I cry sometimes ! I cried a great deal when 
 I was coming home a very great deal. And then what did 
 I do? I began to laugh and talk and forget myself when I 
 saw you, until I was alone again; and then I cried again. 
 Oh, how many times I've thought of coming back and it 
 was always so! And then my courage failed me, and at last 
 I passed years without ever allowing myself to think of this 
 place at all. [Burying her face in her hands] And then, then 
 sometimes, I I . . . 
 
 MONSA. [Wishing to divert her] Yes, yes, Daniela, no won- 
 der. No wonder. But you're better now; you're much 
 better. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes! When no one is unkind to me. Then I 
 became worse, very much worse. But now I have the medi- 
 cines I brought with me from Paris, and Don Joaqufm comes 
 every day to see me, and you're here with jne too, Monsa,
 
 234 DANIELA ACT 11 
 
 So I am better. [To ANTONIA] What are you going to do, 
 Antonia? 
 
 ANTONIA. [Takes a baby's dress from a drawer] Nothing; 
 dress the boy. 
 
 DANIELA. What fun! Let me dress him, Antonia. 
 
 ANTONIA. Ah, no! 
 
 DANIELA. I'll show you. You'll see if I don't know how. 
 
 Give me the dress. Look, Monsa! Look! Isn't that the way? 
 
 [ANTONIA goes on preparing to dress the child. 
 
 MONSA. That's it. Let her do it, Antonia. 
 
 DANIELA. [Seated] Bring him to me. Do! Quick, Antonia! 
 Hurry! 
 
 As ANTONIA passes in front of her to reach the cradle, 
 DANIELA catches hold of her skirt. 
 
 ANTONIA. Let go! Woman, let go, I say. 
 
 DANIELA. No, no; I want to dress the boy. Do let me 
 have him, Antonia, and then I'll rock him to sleep in the 
 cradle. 
 
 ANTONIA. Let go, I tell you. 
 
 DANIELA. What makes you talk to me like that? Let go, 
 woman, let go! [Laughing] Then I'll take him anyhow. 
 See now what I am going to do. 
 
 [Running up to the cradle. 
 
 ANTONIA. [Trying to push her off] Go away! 
 
 DANIELA. I am here first. [Laughing softly] You'll see now 
 if he knows me. 
 
 ANTONIA. [Pushing her away] Go away, he's mine! This 
 child has a father and mother. He doesn't know you. Get 
 somebody else's to nurse your own, if you have one! 
 
 DANIELA. Ah, how she hurts me! 
 
 [She lays her hand on her heart, overcome. 
 
 MONSA. Take care, Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, Monsa, yes. She is right it is her childt 
 But she ought not to have hurt me so,
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 235 
 
 MONSA. Come away. [Diverting her attention. ANNA, who 
 has gone out through the door on the right with her doll, has 
 re-entered a moment before] 
 
 ANTONIA. Here, you, Anna. [ANNA does not hear] Come 
 help me. Take hold of the cradle. By the foot by the foot, 
 I tell you ! [ANNA lays the doll across the foot of the cradle] Drag 
 it into the other room. Quick! Go along, go along! 
 
 Exeunt ANTONIA and ANNA, dragging out the cradle 
 through the door on the right. When ANTONIA dis- 
 appears she is pushing the cradle from behind. Her 
 last words are said behind the scene. 
 
 DANIELA. [To MONSA] My heart goes out with that child. 
 MONSA. Poor Daniela! 
 
 She passes her hand through DANIELA'S hair, holding 
 
 her in half embrace. 
 
 DANIELA. She's very bitter against me. 
 MONSA. No. 
 
 DANIELA. [Impetuously] I am going to ask her why she 
 treats me so. 
 
 MONSA. [Detaining her] Don't do that. 
 DANIELA. It's because she doesn't want me to touch her 
 child. [Sadly] Ay, how she hurts me, Monsa! But Ram6n 
 has a great heart. 
 
 MONSA. Come, we've got so many things to talk about. 
 DANIELA. Have we, Monsa? Monsa, tell me! Why do 
 you take such an interest in me? 
 
 MONSA. Pshaw! I've always had it. That's the way I'm 
 made. 
 
 DANIELA. [After a pause] As I am made not like the rest! 
 But that woman will kill me, Monsa. She can't even bear 
 to see me in the house. What harm would I do to her boy? 
 I should like to know that. Listen, Monsa. [Turning abruptly 
 to her] Didn't you ever have a lover? 
 t A lover?
 
 236 DANIEL A ACT n 
 
 DANIELA. Yes. 
 
 MONSA. A lover? Oh, yes! One. 
 
 DANIELA. One? I thought so. Tell me about him. Some 
 one who promised he would marry you and to whom you gave 
 your love, and who afterward flew away like the birds? 
 
 MONSA. [Laughing sadly] Oh, no, no! Nothing like that. 
 It was nothing like that. 
 
 DANIELA. Monsa, never believe in any man. Men do 
 not love, you know they do not love! Where is he now? 
 
 MONSA. In another village far away. 
 
 DANIELA. And how was it that you didn't marry him? 
 
 MONSA. He wanted me to marry him and I loved him 
 dearly; but one day I found that he had deceived another 
 girl, and that she had had a child by him, and then I 
 didn't want well, I wanted him to marry her. 
 
 DANIELA. You did? And you? 
 
 MONSA. I was alone and poor, and I remained alone and 
 poor as before. And then I began to teach the children, so 
 now I pick up a crumb here and there like the birds. But 
 sometimes it is cold and I have nothing for fire; and some- 
 times I am discouraged and downhearted, and then the 
 children come and they run up to me and kiss me and hug 
 me, and then, before I know it, I look up, and I find that all 
 the bitterness is gone. 
 
 DANIELA. You do? But what did you say to each other 
 when you found it out? 
 
 MONSA. Adios, Manuel. Adios, Monsa. That was all. 
 
 DANIELA. Why don't you marry some other man? 
 
 MONSA. Oh, no, never another! I shall never love again. 
 
 DANIELA. [Incredulously] Never again, never again? [She 
 bows her head in shame; then, after a moment, she throws her 
 arms around MONSA'S neck and imprints a kiss on her forehead] 
 Monsa! You are an angel! An angel, Monsa! You are just 
 my age, and it seems to roe that I have kissed a. child, But
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 237 
 
 I am old myself. I see now that I have grown old. [A pause] 
 Pst! [Looking straight at ANTONIA'S room] She has done me 
 a great wrong. 
 
 MONSA. A wrong? I? Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA. Antonia first and you afterward but you more 
 than she, poor Monsa! I am going away. 
 
 MONSA. Going away? 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, I am going away. I ought never to have 
 come back to my home. 
 
 MONSA. Don't say that! 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, I must go. To Paris, back to Paris! My 
 mind is made up. 
 
 MONSA. What is the matter? 
 
 DANIELA. I don't want to be old, I don't want to be sad; 
 I want to put it all behind me. I have only made myself un- 
 happy by coming here again. Here I am a hated tiling, and 
 there I was still beautiful and young! 
 
 MONSA. But the chalet? 
 
 DANIELA. Don't remind me of the chalet! I can't bear 
 to think of it now that it's going up so fast! The porch 
 is almost done. 
 
 RAMON and VALENTINE enter. The latter carries a 
 roll of plans and a small book under his arm. 
 
 RAMON. They'll put the balustrade on the porch tomorrow. 
 
 DANIELA. [Happy at once} The balustrade? On the porch? 
 The middle one? 
 
 RAMON. I have a letter from the mason. [He has the letter 
 in his hand] It is ready now. 
 
 DANIELA. Are they going to put it up tomorrow? 
 
 RAMON. Tomorrow. [Implying that he means to attend to it. 
 
 DANIELA. Then can we use it immediately? [RAMON as- 
 sents] Ram6n, we'll go out on it tomorrow, and we'll invite 
 all those dreadful old people who never give us a minute's 
 peace, to see it; and we'll have them all stand below in rows
 
 238 DANIELA ACT n 
 
 and clap their hands, and then we'll bow and smile and call 
 out: Thanks, thanks, slanderers and backbiters! Thanks, 
 thanks, you tongues of scorpions, thanks! [She laughs] 
 
 RAMON. [Laughing also] Yes; indeed we will! [To VALEN- 
 TINE] Put down the papers; that's all for today. 
 
 Making a sign to VALENTINE, who leaves the papers on 
 the table and then goes out. 
 
 DANIELA. [Laughing] Now, Monsa, I am not going away. 
 
 MONSA. Daniela! 
 
 RAMON. [Before the table] We've got a good deal to do 
 this afternoon. 
 
 MONSA. [To DANIELA] I want to speak to you about 
 Antonia and about him soon. 
 
 DANIELA. What? Tell me now, tell me now. 
 
 RAMON. Is that Monsa here yet? 
 
 MONSA. When we're alone. Good-bye. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, afterward. 
 
 MONSA. Don't be long. [Exit MONSA. 
 
 RAMON. [Busily engaged with the papers] Come, come. 
 You've got to have your say about these things. 
 
 DANIELA. Now I am yours. You're a good boy, Ram6n. 
 
 RAMON. Look at that carefully. 
 
 [Showing her a drawing of the facade of the chalet. 
 
 DANIELA. I am looking at it. 
 
 RAMON. Senor Felip wants to know whether you want the 
 tower like this, or whether you'd rather have it finished. . . . 
 Wait! I have it here. [Unrolling another paper] 
 
 DANIELA. Higher, higher! I want it a great deal higher. 
 [Speaking of the first plan] 
 
 RAMON. Wait till I show you. [He finishes unrolling the 
 second paper] Here it is. What do you think of that? 
 
 DANIELA. Let me see it ... [Measuring the drawing] One 
 palm and a half. Now let me see the other. Hold the paper 
 open wider open. [DANIELA gives RAMON a pat on the head.
 
 ACT ii DAN IE LA 239 
 
 He starts involuntarily, and she bursts out laughing; he remains 
 quite serious] Oh, higher, higher! We must have a higher 
 tower. What does Senor Felip have to say? 
 
 RAMON. Higher? Then it will be almost as high as the 
 church tower. 
 
 DANIELA. Do you mean to tell me that my tower won't 
 be as high as the church tower? Pshaw! [Striking the paper 
 with her fist] Take it away! Tell them to draw me another; 
 I want to look down on the church tower. I'll show you. 
 See! A white tower with gilded tiles like that, 'way up there, 
 and the church tower 'way down below here, all huddled up 
 and black, just as if it were the child of my tower and pro- 
 tected by it. [Laughing] There! What do you think of that? 
 
 RAMON. I don't know. People will talk. [Rolling up the 
 paper] But Senor Felip will do as you please, and let them 
 talk. 
 
 DANIELA. What do you mean? 
 
 RAMON. Let them talk. Everybody seems to think that 
 they have a right to mix themselves up in it. 
 
 DANIELA. In what? 
 
 RAMON. Nothing. Let's go on to something else. 
 
 DANIELA. No, I want to know. 
 
 RAMON. Why, it's this way then. The priest says that 
 he doesn't intend to have the tower of your house taller 
 than the church tower, so that it will be cast into the shade. 
 
 DANIELA. He doesn't intend to have it? I'd like to know 
 if he thinks that he owns the air? Maybe he's afraid that by 
 mounting up higher, I am going to get away from him. 
 
 RAMON. I wouldn't laugh about it; it's not a laughing 
 matter. 
 
 DANIELA. Oh, dear! 
 
 RAMON. I told him that the tower, its height . . . but never 
 mind about the tower. We've talked too much about it 
 already. It's none of his business. If he hadn't been who
 
 240 DANIEL A ACT 11 
 
 he is, and I hadn't had to respect him, I'd have knocked him 
 down. 
 
 DANIELA. For talking about me? 
 
 RAMON. Yes and other things. 
 
 DANIELA. Maybe he'd like to see me go away too? So 
 you defended me to the priest? Eh, Ramon? Don't defend 
 me. Believe me, don't defend me. It isn't worth the trouble. 
 
 RAMON. Well, never mind. Let's go on to something else. 
 I paid the bills today. Here they are. [Producing several 
 papers, also some money] This is what is left over a good 
 deal too. Take it. 
 
 DANIELA. No, keep it yourself; you'll need it soon. 
 
 RAMON. No, no, take it. 
 
 DANIELA. What did the priest say to you that makes you 
 not want to take it? 
 
 RAMON. [In a low voice] I would have respected myself 
 more if I had never touched a penny. 
 
 DANIELA. [Taking it herself] Poor Ramon! You who 
 used to think so much of me! 
 
 RAMON. Yes, I did. [He rises] And I still think much of 
 you. [He moves off. 
 
 DANIELA. Still? What do you mean by still? Senor 
 Cousin, come here! Come right here! I want you to explain 
 yourself. Still? You don't bear a grudge against me any 
 more? 
 
 RAMON. I? A grudge? I am nobody, Daniela. 
 
 DANIELA. [Affectionately} Imperious always since you were 
 a boy! The bristles ought to be sticking out all over you, 
 Ram6n; you are just like a hedgehog, and have been all 
 your life. Why, when I first came home I ran up to you and 
 threw my arms about your neck, laughing, because I was so 
 glad to be back again, and you drooped your head and 
 turned your face away until I thought that you were going 
 to assassinate me yes, with a look from your eye! Just
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 241 
 
 like that, now! Ouf! What's the matter with you, man? 
 Are you afraid? 
 
 RAMON. Do you dare to say that? [Aside] I am no longer 
 afraid. 
 
 DANIELA. We were to be friends, Ramon, friends, as we 
 always used to be. [Tenderly] 
 
 RAMON. Yes. 
 
 DANIELA. And we always must be friends. Let us under- 
 stand each other. Promise me, Ram6n, that you'll never 
 abuse me again, as you did that day? 
 
 RAMON. [Interrupting her] Never! I promise. And you 
 will promise me that you'll never go away? 
 
 DANIELA. I promise; never! I'll never go away. 
 
 RAMON. Thanks, Daniela, thanks. Daniela . . . [He pauses 
 a moment] Thanks, thanks. 
 
 DANIELA. What is it? [RAMON remains silent, not wishing 
 to speak] No, no, what is it? 
 
 RAMON. Nothing. Your word that's enough. 
 
 DANIELA. You didn't mean to say that. No, no! Tell me 
 at once; what is it? 
 
 RAMON. Well, I didn't mean to say that. But that is all 
 that I mean to say. 
 
 DANIELA. Why? Is it something unpleasant? [RAMON 
 shrugs his shoulders] No, I want you to tell me. 
 
 RAMON. I can't tell you, Daniela. When we were young, 
 I I couldn't have told you, and I can't tell you now. [She 
 draws back, serious] Come! Let's go out. [He gathers up the 
 plans] We've finished our business. 
 
 DANIELA. Then I'll run over and see Monsa. 
 
 RAMON. [Dropping the plans] No, not yet, wait here a 
 minute longer. [Nervously] I've still some things left to do, 
 and, meanwhile, we can talk. 
 
 DANIELA. [Very seriously] About what? 
 
 RAMON. Oh about what you please. [He sits down] Don't
 
 242 DAN I EL A ACT 11 
 
 go away. [Springing up violently] I don't want you to go 
 away. 
 
 DANIELA. But we were not going to talk about that any 
 more. 
 
 RAMON. [Violently] I don't want you to go, I say. [Plead- 
 ingly] For if you do, I know this time you never will come 
 back. [Beside himself] You shall not go! 
 
 DANIELA. [Looking at him for a moment] Ramon! [He 
 strides in front of her witJiout speaking] I want to ask you a 
 question. [She pauses] When I went away, it cannot be that 
 you were in love with me? Answer me, Ram6n. 
 
 RAMON. I I in love with you? What makes you say that? 
 
 DANIELA. I don't know. It occurred to me. I'd be very 
 sorry to think it had been so. Then I should never have 
 come back. [Daylight is fading from the sky. 
 
 RAMON. You'd be sorry? Why? 
 
 DANIELA. Oh! For no reason. Let's talk of something 
 else. 
 
 RAMON. For no reason? Humph! I thought so. You'd 
 not be sorry, then. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, Ramon, I would be sorry. I would be 
 very, very sorry, because if you had loved me, it might have 
 been that I would have loved you, and then we should have 
 grown up together, and I should never have gone away. We 
 should have been married then, Ram6n, and Anna and this 
 boy would have been our children our children, Ram6n, 
 yours and mine! But now they are not mine, no, and they 
 do not want to have them love me. What a pity! 
 
 She speaks with the deepest feeling, but without any out- 
 ward manifestation of love for RAMON. 
 
 RAMON. What a pity! Yes, what a pity and a shame! 
 I can no longer keep it from you, Daniela I loved you! 
 And when I missed you first, a great flame shot through my 
 brain, a wild burning to find you out wherever you might
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 243 
 
 be the whole world through, to kill you perhaps, to kiss 
 you, to seize you, embrace you, to die or to live with you 
 I don't know which, nor what, nor how! And then I 
 left this house, and like a lightning flash my heart flew after 
 you along the rails to France. But I had no money. I 
 could not follow you I was too poor; and with the little 
 that I had, I set myself to play, to get more money for the 
 journey. And I lost. Then I fell, for to play more one night 
 I forced open the drawer of my father's desk with a knife, 
 and took what I wanted there; and with the little that I 
 took, I returned to play, and again I lost. Then I returned 
 again to the desk, each time more disgraced! At last, one 
 day, in the gray of the early morning, my father surprised 
 me as I was forcing open the drawer for you, Daniela, for 
 it was for you; and do you know what he did? He put the 
 key into my hands and said to me, smiling sadly: "Why do 
 you take it like that, my boy? For, see, it is all yours!" And 
 then he left me, and I saw that he was crying. And I flung 
 the key down on the desk, and the veil fell from my eyes, 
 and with all my soul I cursed you! 
 
 DANIELA. Oh! [She stands looking at him, bewildered] And 
 you never told me this before? 
 
 RAMON. I didn't know it. I didn't know how! I didn't 
 know it myself! 
 
 DANIELA. [Laughing sadly] In love with me and silent so 
 many years? Who would have thought it! And others who 
 never really loved me, have told me, oh, so quickly! What, 
 Ramon? Wait fourteen years to say it! 
 
 RAMON. [Offended because she laughs] Pshaw! I was right 
 to wait. [She laughs again] I was right. For you you 
 never deserved it. 
 
 [He goes straight to the door at the back to go out. 
 
 DANIELA. [Offended] I never deserved it? Will you tell 
 me why not?
 
 244 DANIELA ACT n 
 
 RAMON. [Bitterly] Because you were what you were. 
 And now when I tell you my disgrace, you laugh at me! 
 
 DANIELA. I laugh at you? Ramon! And doesn't it make 
 your heart bleed to see how I laugh? 
 
 RAMON. Bleed? No. Why should it? Does your heart 
 bleed? You never bled for anything. [Again she laughs 
 sadly; again RAMON is disturbed by her laughing] I was a 
 fool to pity you. Go! Go where you please, Daniela! If 
 we had been married, it would have been the same you 
 would have left me some day to follow the glad life, and 
 laugh at me; and no wonder for we are what we are! No 
 wonder that you laugh. 
 
 She begins to tear up tlie plans of the house, one by one, 
 very deliberately. 
 
 DANIELA. No wonder that I laugh. No wonder! I see 
 it all now. The priest was right. I see it all. We are what 
 we are. No woman ought ever to be what I have been, but 
 after she has been, all the avenues are closed; it is impossible 
 for her to turn back ever, ever to turn back! 
 
 RAMON. What are you doing, Daniela? Those are the plans. 
 
 DANIELA. The priest was right. I give everything to you, 
 Ram6n the house, everything. Pull down what has been 
 finished and let them build the church tower as high as they 
 please. I wanted to raise myself into the air, but it is not to 
 be. I must return again to the ground to grovel again on the 
 ground! 
 
 RAMON. Why do you say that? 
 
 DANIELA. Because I am alone in the world alone and 
 without a home! Where I come I only bring disgrace. I 
 despise myself, and I have made you despise me. 
 
 [It grows darker. 
 
 RAMON. Daniela, do you think that I despise you? 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, I think so, and I always want to think so 
 you hate me, you despise me. Hate! Disgust!
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 245 
 
 RAMON. But I don't despise you. I ... 
 
 DANIELA. You think you pity me. 
 
 RAMON. Not pity. No, Daniela, no; not pity. I don't 
 mean that. When I speak with you . . . 
 
 DANIELA. [Quickly] Not another word! 
 
 RAMON. When I speak with you . . . 
 
 DANIELA. [Stopping her ears] I won't hear you, Ram6n. 
 No, no, I tell you I won't hear you! No, no, Ram6n! [With 
 decision] Ramon! 
 
 RAMON. [Also with decision] Very well. But I won't let 
 you go away. 
 
 DANIELA. Not another word, or this minute, just as I am, 
 I walk out of this house! I see it all now. In one minute you 
 have made me understand it all. I am in the way, you do 
 not believe in me. And I who have lived that life . . . [He is 
 about to protest] Yes, for I have lived it I may be as repentant 
 as you please, but I have lived it I came here to be a good 
 woman, in so far as I could, but you will not let me be one, 
 and I cannot bear the disgrace! I wanted to find repose, to 
 be received like a mother, like an elder sister, burdened with 
 years and kind, and to be respected . . . [RAMON again en- 
 deavors to speak] Yes, to be respected by you and your wife 
 and by the children, more than all; and to cleanse myself 
 but it was not to be! I have not deserved it. 
 
 RAMON. Daniela, don't say that. 
 
 DANIELA. I have not deserved it. For you have hurt me, 
 Ram6n, more than all the others you have hurt me more 
 than all the other men I have ever known. For I came here 
 to seek oblivion and healing, and to rise and build my tower, 
 and you have only seen in me the woman that I was, and that 
 I do not want to be. 
 
 RAMON. The woman that you were? No, no, Daniela 
 the reverse. I don't know how it happened the reverse, I 
 didn't mean to say that.
 
 246 DANIELA ACT 11 
 
 DANIELA. I don't want to be it! 
 
 RAMON. Have I hurt you, Daniela? 
 
 DANIELA. I don't want to be it! I don't mean to be it! 
 
 [She is about to go. 
 
 RAMON. [Seizing her by the arm] Stay! Stay here, I tell 
 you! You promised not to go away. 
 
 DANIELA. It cannot be, Ram6n. It cannot be. 
 
 RAMON. Why not? We will never speak of this again. 
 
 DANIELA. I know what we are, Ramon, better than you do. 
 
 RAMON. I know myself. 
 
 DANIELA. And I too know myself and you would be lost! 
 Poor Hum on! You would be lost! 
 
 RAMON. [Firmly] Lost? Well, let me be! ... 
 
 DANIELA. Be still! 
 
 [.4 light is seen approaching from the room on the right. 
 
 RAMON. I would be lost! 
 
 DANIELA. [In a whisper\ Look! Look! 
 
 Enter ANTONIA from the right, a light in her hand. 
 
 ANTONIA. Ram6n! 
 
 DANIELA. Antonia! 
 
 ANTONIA. Daniela, eh? If I disturb you . . . 
 
 [She stops sliort with the light in her hand. 
 
 DANIELA. No, no, Antonia . . . 
 
 RAMON. [Striking the table] Set down the light. 
 
 [ANTONIA sets the light on the table. 
 
 ANTONIA. [To RAMON] Have you forgotten the market at 
 Vallclara tomorrow? 
 
 RAMON. No. 
 
 ANTONIA. If you're going you'd better answer that letter 
 of your friend Guillemas; he's expecting you . . . 
 
 RAMON. I'm not going to Vallclara; I don't mean to go. 
 
 ANTONIA. I wanted to speak to you about it, because I'm 
 thinking myself of going for a few days to my father's. 
 You haven't been doing anything all the month . . .
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 247 
 
 RAMON. Ha? 
 
 ANTONIA. You know my father hasn't been well for some 
 time . . . 
 
 RAMON. No. Go if you like. Who'll look after the 
 boy? 
 
 ANTONIA. Oh! I'm going to take the children with me. 
 
 RAMON. No, you're not. The children will stay here with 
 me. They fret you, Antonia. You know you'd find them a 
 trouble on the journey. 
 
 ANTONIA. A trouble?" To me? the children? You've no 
 right to talk like that, Ramon. 
 
 RAMON. Then I'll take the right. The children shall not 
 leave this house. 
 
 DANIELA. [Impetuously] Antonia, I've something to say 
 to you to you alone. 
 
 ANTONIA. To me? Tell Ram6n, woman, what you want 
 to say to me. 
 
 RAMON. No, Antonia, there are no secrets between us. 
 Daniela, sit down. Aren't you better now? 
 
 DANIELA. Much better. {Going up to ANTONIA] Antonia, 
 don't go away. [RAMON taps the table nervously with his fist. 
 
 ANTONIA. No! I won't go away. What? Leave my chil- 
 dren? With him? A mother never leaves her children, no! 
 But a father . . . 
 
 RAMON. A father? What nonsense! They love me better 
 than they do you. 
 
 DANIELA. Ramon! 
 
 RAMON. I'll not have it said that my children don't love me. 
 She is wearing out my patience with her sour face. It's a 
 perfect hell in the house all day. 
 
 ANTONIA. I am the mother of your children, Ramon! I 
 I and no one else is their mother! 
 
 [The last remark she directs at DANIELA. 
 
 RAMON. What is the use of saving that?
 
 248 DANIELA ACT n 
 
 DANIELA. Antonia! Antonia! Listen, Antonia! 
 
 [ANTONIA bursts into tears, tearing nothing. 
 
 RAMON. [Aside] But she is right! They are her clu'ldren. 
 
 DANIELA. I have made up my mind. I am going away. 
 Listen, Antonia! [RAMON is about to interrupt; DANIELA 
 turns upon him] I am going away, [To ANTONIA] but before 
 I go I want to ask you not to hate me, for you have no right 
 to hate me. 
 
 ANTONIA. Pst! 
 
 DANIELA. No, for I have been a good woman here. I have 
 been your friend. I have lived here just as you have done. 
 Yes, better than you have done, because it has cost you 
 nothing. And now you drive me out of the house, and it 
 may be that it is just as well! 
 
 [She says this with the implication that she might revenge 
 herself upon ANTONIA. 
 
 RAMON. She drives you out? 
 
 DANIELA. Yes. 
 
 RAMON. She does? It is not I, is it? I do not drive you out? 
 
 DANIELA. [To RAMON] Yes, and you, too! You more than 
 Antonia. You drive me out. 
 
 [ANTONIA shrinks away from DANIELA. 
 
 RAMON. I'll not have it! I ... 
 
 [He stops short, ANTONIA coming up to him. 
 
 ANTONIA. Who, you? You'll not have it? See if you dare 
 to say it? No, you don't dare to say it! But even if you don't, 
 you don't deceive me. And she doesn't deceive me either. 
 [Laughing} For I know her! 
 
 RAMON. [Enraged] Stop! 
 
 DANIELA. Let her talk. 
 
 ANTONIA. You're the one who's deceived you! For she's 
 inflamed you! Like a boy, she's inflamed you. Wanton! 
 
 RAMON. [Furious] Antonia! 
 
 ANTONIA. Wanton!
 
 ACT II 
 
 DANIELA 249 
 
 DANIELA. No, no, Ramon! Ramon! It's true! 
 ANTONIA. [Laughing] She knows herself. She's had ex- 
 
 perience 
 
 DANIELA. Experience? I, the woman of the world, who 
 never once thought of this place when she was well and all 
 the sky was bright! 
 
 ANTONIA. [Laughing sarcastically] No, no! Not once! 
 
 DANIELA. And now that I am sick and old, I come back here 
 to rob you of Ramon? Eh? 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes, because you're a thief! 
 
 RAMON. Antonia! 
 
 DANIELA. [Indignantly to ANTONIA] And don't you see 
 anything in me that is good? No honorable thought, nothing 
 that pleases you? 
 
 ANTONIA. What should I see in you that pleases me? Get 
 out of my house! 
 
 DANIELA. Ah yes, yes! [Resigned] 
 
 RAMON. [To ANTONIA, furious] You! You to your room! 
 
 ANTONIA. [Without moving] Get out of my house! 
 
 RAMON. In, into your room, I tell you! 
 
 ANTONIA. Strike me! Kill me! I have borne too much. 
 
 RAMON. [To DANIELA] I'll not let you go. [To ANTONIA, 
 who is about to speak} Another word, and I will kill you. 
 
 [Threatening tier with his clenched fist. 
 
 DANIELA. No! Ramon! 
 
 ANTONIA. Don't you defend me! Don't you dare! Get 
 out of my house! Wanton! Thief ! 
 
 DANIELA. I am going, I am going now. [She turns to the door. 
 
 RAMON. [Detaining tier] Daniela! 
 
 ANTONIA. [Laughing] You're going now? Ha, ha! He 
 can't do without a woman, and he'll not soon get such another! 
 
 DANIELA. [To RAMON] No, let me go, for if I don't, I shall 
 revenge myself on her! Then, alas! for her. 
 
 [Menacing her with her fist.
 
 250 DAN IE LA ACT n 
 
 RAMON. [To DANIELA] No! 
 
 [DANIELA sinks back into a chair. 
 ANTONIA. [Furious] She threatens me! Me! 
 DANIELA. [Rising and advancing upon ANTONIA] Yes, I 
 threaten you because I can hear no more! 
 
 Enter VALENTINE from the rear. 
 
 VALENTINE. Here's some company for Daniela. Some 
 people who want to see her. 
 
 RAMON. [Seeking to drive him out] Out of the door! Get 
 out! [^4 number of voices are heard approaching outside. 
 
 VALENTINE. [Going] Here they are. They're coming in. 
 MAX. [Without, almost voiceless] Where is Daniela? 
 HUGUETTE. [Without] Daniela! Daniela! 
 DANIELA. [Composing Jiersclf] Oh, they're the players! 
 Let them come in, Valentine! Valentine! Let them come in. 
 ANTONIA. [Going to her room] They shall not take my 
 children from me! I'll not let them take them from me! 
 
 Exit ANTONIA to the right. Exit VALENTINE. MAX 
 
 enters. 
 MAX. Ah! Here's Daniela! 
 
 Enter HUGUETTE. 
 
 HUGUETTE. Here she is! Our Daniela! 
 DANIELA. How glad I am to see you ! Come in! Come in! 
 [Seeing RICHARD enter] And Richard too! 
 
 Enter RICHARD. 
 
 RICHARD. [Laughing] Ah! Your hand, Mademoiselle! How 
 are you? [Great chatter and rejoicing among the players. 
 
 DANIELA. Splendid, Richard, splendid! Thank you so 
 much for coming. 
 
 HUGUETTE. But you have turned brown. It is the country. 
 DANIELA. [Frantically] Yes, I never felt so well never in 
 all my life. 
 
 Meanwhile RAMON is nervously gathering up the papers 
 on the table.
 
 ACT ii DANIEL A 251 
 
 RAMON. [Aside] She shall not go away. I'll see to it that 
 she shall not. [Exit RAMON by the back. 
 
 MAX. We have done famously everywhere, my dear. At 
 Barcelona, at Valencia, at Madrid everywhere the same. 
 The applause was stupendous! And now, you see, we are 
 going home. 
 
 HUGUETTE. We said to ourselves, we must stop off and 
 keep our promise to Daniela. 
 
 DANIELA. You who all love me! 
 
 MAX. Tell me, how do you think I am? In excellent voice, 
 eh? 
 
 DANIELA. Oh, excellent! 
 
 HUGUETTE. He sings like a nightingale, and he has more 
 notes, too, when he sings. 
 
 MAX. We took the mail train, so we have four hours to 
 wait for the express. 
 
 DANIELA. You can't imagine how glad I am to see you! 
 [She drops her eyes for fear that they will see that she has been 
 crying} Now that everything is over with me! That it is 
 the end I say the end! [Laughing] Eh? What do you 
 think of that? [General surprise. 
 
 MAX. Why what is this? If it is inconvenient . . . 
 
 DANIELA. No, not in the least! No! Most opportune, 
 most opportune if you only knew it! 
 
 HUGUETTE. Be frank with us, Daniela. 
 
 [DANIELA laughs, forcing herself to appear gay. 
 
 RICHARD. [Rising] . No, no, let us go. 
 
 DANIELA. For God's sake, don't leave me now! 
 
 MAX. If you are in trouble . . . 
 
 DANIELA. I have nobody, nobody but you in all the world; 
 you know that. And you are all my family. 
 
 [With great feeling. 
 
 HUGUETTE. Do calm yourself, Daniela. You don't know 
 how excited you are.
 
 252 DANIELA ACT n 
 
 DANIELA. You find me in great trouble in very great 
 trouble I don't know how to tell you. 
 
 MAX. [Confidentially] Are you out of money? 
 
 HUGUETTE. [Confidentially] I hope that you haven't fallen 
 in love? 
 
 DANIELA. Oh, dear, no! I came here to rest quietly to 
 be myself again, and now I find I find that I have only 
 brought disgrace upon this house, because they see in me 
 well, what they have never seen before. 
 
 HUGUETTE. The hypocrites! And so they want to drive 
 you out? 
 
 MAX. Just take my advice, Daniela. Return to Paris and 
 live again. If they had begun to tire of you there, and to 
 give you the cold shoulder, I should say, of course, stay here, 
 and if you happen to have money, seek out some man who 
 hasn't any, and who doesn't concern himself much about his- 
 tory, settle down, and get married. 
 
 DANIELA. [Weeping] But it isn't that way! 
 
 HUGUETTE. [Interrupting] Ah, no, Max! [To DANIELA] 
 If you get married, marry for love, for without love there is 
 no happiness. [Retrospectively] I've always found it so my- 
 self. 
 
 RICHARD. Invariably, as you might say. 
 
 HUGUETTE. But a country fellow! Oh, my dear! I 
 wouldn't think of it! For what is yours then will be his, as 
 it lias been with all the others. Some day you'll be wanting 
 to travel to Italy or some other place, like little Fanny Mairi 
 who married the Marquis of Rigolat. Poor fellow! He was 
 so poor that he hadn't a sou to his name. And then what do 
 you think he told her? That he intended to travel no further 
 than up the fifth flight where they lived! And what help 
 was there then for poor Fanny Mairi? Next year she ran off 
 with somebody else. 
 
 DANIELA. You don't understand me,
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 253 
 
 MAX. Richard, what would you do if you were in Daniela's 
 place? 
 
 RICHARD. Before everything else, Mademoiselle, I should 
 do whatever came into my head. For you are sovereign, 
 supreme! [To DANIELA] What is the question? Look! Throw 
 a louis into the air. As it falls, it is impossible to tell how it 
 is coming down. Is it to be heads or is it to be tails? But 
 it is no matter it is all the same. Chance ordains, my dear, 
 that some of us shall live this life wearing the veil, our eyes 
 raised up in prayer to heaven; and some of us shall live it 
 on the stage, our toes raised up, without the veil, toward the 
 ceiling. 
 
 DANIELA. I am not that way, Richard. I reflect. 
 
 RICHARD. Yes, the moment the louis is in the air! 
 
 [RAMON appears at the door, watching DANIELA. 
 
 DANIELA. [After seeing RAMON] No! It is not that way. 
 I have decided. I am going back to Paris. 
 
 RICHARD. Ah, heads, heads! The coin is on the floor. 
 
 [They all laugh except DANIELA. 
 
 HUGUETTE. Good! Back to Paris! 
 
 MAX. And I will find you a manager. 
 
 DANIELA. Oh, I have always had more managers than I 
 knew what to do with! When they hear that I am in town, 
 you will see them come. 
 
 She takes her position on the right, tapping the floor 
 proudly with her foot, because she sees RAMON outside. 
 
 RICHARD. The war-horse hears the trumpet! See how she 
 spurns the ground at the scent of battle in the air! Brava! 
 Brava! [All talk to her at the same time} But let me tell you 
 something. Eh, shall I tell her? [Turning to the others. All 
 say "yes." DANIELA laughs wearily] You are going away, 
 my dear because you are afraid of falling in love! 
 
 [DANIELA makes a sign to him to be silent. 
 
 HUGUETTE. [Laughing loudly] "What ! Daniela in love?
 
 254 DANIELA ACT 11 
 
 MAX. [To DANIELA] You in love? Oh, oh! 
 DANIELA. It isn't true! [They make a great noise] Do be 
 quiet. Hush! 
 
 As she says this, RAMON decides to enter with VALEN- 
 TINE. The players continue to laugh hilariously. 
 RAMON. [To VALENTINE] You must be tired. Go to bed; 
 I'll lock up. 
 VALENTINE. Good. Good-night. 
 
 VALENTINE goes upstairs. RAMON, after closing the 
 door of ANTONIA'S room, takes his place by the table, 
 while DANIELA leads the otfters a little way off, en- 
 deavoring to make them speak lower. They follow, 
 laughing among themselves, quite unconscious of 
 RAMON'S presence. DANIELA continues to watch 
 RAMON. 
 
 MAX. But what do you mean, Richard? Explain yourself, 
 my boy. 
 RICHARD. Oh, I am an old fox, I am! 
 
 [RAMON seats himself at the table. 
 HUGUETTE. [To DANIELA] Tell me about it. 
 DANIELA. But it isn't true! To prove it, listen to me. 
 [Leading MAX to one side] I am going straight back with you 
 to Paris now. Tonight! [General satisfaction] 
 MAX. Tonight? [She assents] 
 
 HUGUETTE. There is decision for you. As you are? 
 DANIELA. Say nothing. How did you come? 
 
 RAMON throws himself into a chair, absorbed in his 
 own thoughts, not hearing what they say. RICHARD, 
 smiling, separates himself from tlw others and ap- 
 proaches RAMON. 
 
 MAX. In a carriage from the station. 
 DANIELA. Is it waiting outside? 
 
 RAMON springs up violently and then sits down again, 
 oblivious of the others.
 
 ACT ii DAN IE LA 255 
 
 MAX. At the door. The express leaves at midnight. 
 
 [DANIELA continues to talk with MAX. 
 HUGUETTE. [To RICHARD] I'd like to see the lover. 
 RICHARD. Would you like to see him? Look over there. 
 HUGUETTE. [Laughing] A country fellow? Oh! 
 DANIELA. [To MAX] When you are ready, I will go with 
 you to the station. 
 
 MAX. Good ! We are ready now. 
 
 RICHARD draws nearer to HUGUETTE. They stand be- 
 hind RAMON. 
 
 RICHARD. [ To HUGUETTE] Leave him to me. I'll show you. 
 [Raising his voice so that RAMON may hear, but speaking as if 
 he were carrying on a conversation with HUGUETTE] Daniela 
 is very wise to go back with us to Paris. 
 
 RAMON strikes the table a blow and turns sharply upon 
 
 them. 
 RAMON. What? That's a lie! 
 
 [Astonishment on the part of every one. 
 RICHARD. I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to disturb you. 
 DANIELA. What's the matter? 
 
 RAMON. Nothing. I thought I heard him nothing 
 these papers . . . I've got some things to do about the 
 building. We have to see how we stand, you and I. 
 
 DANIELA. [Coldly] There is no hurry. The papers can 
 wait. I have my friends with me. 
 RAMON. Very well, then. We'll wait. 
 DANIELA. Yes, they are going now. [To the players] I'll 
 see you to the carriage. When I come back, I shall have 
 time for you. [To RAMON] 
 
 RAMON. No, for I am going too. And since the night is 
 dark, maybe you'll have need of this. 
 
 He takes a revolver from the drawer and places it upon 
 
 the table. 
 HUGUETTE. Ay! A revo'ver! [Frightened]
 
 256 DAN IE LA ACT 11 
 
 DANIELA. No, no, put up the revolver and wait here. 
 [Very significantly] I am not afraid. 
 
 RAMON. I'll not wait here. There! It's in the drawer. 
 [Returning the pistol to tJie drawer] I have strength enough 
 hi my arms. [Laughing fiercely] In my arms that have 
 tossed you in the air so many times, like a bird, before you 
 knew how to fly! [To HUGUETTE] And you, lady, do not be 
 afraid; I shall not harm you nor these gentlemen. 
 
 [DANIELA sinks into a cJiair. 
 
 MAX. Harm us? Of course not! [Laughing and feigning 
 the bravo] We are two to one. 
 
 HUGUETTE. [Laughing] Look at Max! Max is brave. 
 
 RAMON. Brave? You? Why, you are pale with the light 
 of the stage. But here the winds sweep down on us from the 
 mountains; no fox nor wolf can make us turn pale. You 
 slay and are slain to cause a smile the roar of a cannon is the 
 pop of a gun. The curtain falls, the dead rise up, throw off 
 their shrouds, and live again. 
 
 RICHARD. Capital! I like this fellow. 
 
 HUGUETTE. [Forcing a laugh] He frightens me. [Aloud] 
 Come! let us go. 
 
 RAMON. Yes, as soon as you like. [Talcing down a lantern 
 without lighting it, however] I'll give you a light. And you, 
 Daniela, don't leave the room. [She rises] The night is cold. 
 [With great violence] The night is cold, I tell you. 
 
 [DANIELA tries to speak, but RICHARD prevents her. 
 
 RICHARD. Must we wait at the station? We shall be bored 
 to death. 
 
 DANIELA. No, no, for I am going too. This lias lasted too 
 long. 
 
 RAMON. What has lasted too long? 
 
 DANIELA. Everything everything between us has lasted 
 too long. I am going to leave this house. 
 
 [HUGUETTE turns to go. RICHARD detains her.
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 257 
 
 RICHARD. We have plenty of time. 
 
 RAMON. Now, gentlemen, you see what this woman is. 
 Before God, she has had the grace not to attempt to feign 
 before you. [To DANIELA] But you shan't go away this time! 
 By heaven, you shall not go this tune! 
 
 DANIELA. Ramon, there is nothing for me to do but to go. 
 
 RAMON. That is a lie! You shall not go because you have 
 deceived me, because you told me that you had changed your 
 life, but now, at the sight of these, you become what you were 
 again. 
 
 DANIELA. No, Ram6n. 
 
 RAMON. Yes, at the sight of these. Confess. For you have 
 lived in the world, and now the world passes before you and 
 calls you again. Confess it! Confess it! And I'll let you go 
 yes, and by the Lord, I'll see that you go quickly! 
 
 [DANIELA looks toward the door of ANTONTA'S room. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, I confess it. I am what I am, and I mean 
 to remain so! I want to live, to enjoy myself, to die among 
 my people! Among you, my friends! Take me away! Take 
 me away in your arms. 
 
 [Embracing MAX and HUGUETTE. 
 
 MAX. Come on. 
 
 RICHARD. [Enjoying himself] Wait the curtain! 
 
 RAMON. Now I see! Now I know you! That is the smile 
 you wore when you went away the other tune. And I I 
 believed that you . . . [Laughing hysterically] 
 
 DANIELA. That I was a viper? A viper more infamous 
 than I am? 
 
 RAMON. No, Daniela, for you are another person; since 
 you have been here, you have been another person. 
 
 DANIELA. [Indignantly] Another person! Reformed? By 
 you? [To the others] And do you know how he meant to 
 reform, to regenerate me? By making me his mistress 
 here, in the face of his wife! Reformed! Reformed!
 
 258 DANIELA ACT n 
 
 s 
 
 RAMON. No, no! 
 
 He keeps repeating the words while DANIELA is speaking. 
 
 The others laugh, discreetly. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes! Reformed! That is the way he would 
 have reformed, have regenerated me! 
 RICHARD. Is this mountain honor? 
 
 {With pretended indignation. 
 
 RAMON. How can you know what is passing in my soul? 
 HUGUETTE. [To MAX, laughing] Oh, the scandals of Paris! 
 RAMON. You have no hearts. You cannot feel. You can- 
 not sympathize with my disgrace! 
 
 [DANIELA sinks into a chair. 
 
 RICHARD. [With mock concern] What will the priest say to 
 this? 
 
 RAMON. I don't care what the priest says. A curse has 
 fallen on me a curse that this woman has brought! 
 
 RICHARD. [Laying his hand on RAMON'S shoulder] Calm 
 yourself, calm yourself! 
 
 HUGUETTE. This is the love of a tiger, Daniela. 
 RAMON. [To RICHARD] You don't know how long I have 
 waited for her! 
 
 RICHARD. I don't wonder you complain. 
 RAMON. For fifteen years I have lived only for this woman. 
 She has been sacred to me! 
 
 RICHARD. Sacred! That interests me. 
 
 MAX follows RAMON at a distance, containing himself, 
 
 but smiling at the doleful appearance of RICHARD. 
 RAMON. I respected her like a saint from heaven! I wor- 
 shipped, I adored her, and to see her happy I would have 
 given up my life, the blood of my veins, my very soul itself! 
 DANIELA has risen and stands with her arm about 
 HUGUETTE, who can scarcely keep from laughing at 
 RICHARD, who pretends to weep sympathetically. MAX 
 is unable to restrain his laughter.
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 259 
 
 MAX. [Aside] Oh, oh, this mountain honor! 
 RICHARD. [To RAMON] It's a shame! 
 
 RAMON. And now you see, she has no heart! For, gentle- 
 men, this woman has no heart. [He weeps wiih rage] And if I 
 let her go, my life will surge out after her, because I will 
 kill myself. I will die with despair, for I am dying with grief 
 and despair. 
 
 RICHARD begins to weep, and the other players break out 
 laughing. DANIELA, much affected, remains in the back- 
 ground because of the situation of RAMON, who falls back 
 also, without comprehending the reason for the laughter. 
 MAX. There could be nothing finer than this. 
 HUGUETTE. It is exquisite. 
 
 RICHARD. [Wiping his eyes] It will break my heart. 
 Bravo! Bravo! 
 
 DANIELA. [Rising and coming forward indignantly] What 
 do you mean? Are you laughing at him? What right have 
 you to laugh at this man? [RAMON stands as one dazed. 
 RICHARD begins to weep again. The others laugh] Don't you 
 see that all that he says is true? Fools! 
 RICHARD. [To DANIELA] Brava! Brava! 
 
 [Clapping his hands. 
 
 DANIELA. Don't you see that it is torn from the very bottom 
 of his soul? 
 
 RAMON. For you! It is for you. [Beside himself] Take 
 care! I can bear no more. 
 
 [Like a beast he makes a leap toward them. 
 DANIELA. [Interposing] Fools! Fools! [They go on laugh- 
 ing} Don't laugh any more! 
 
 RAMON. [About to throw himself upon them] I must kill 
 some one! I want blood! 
 HUGUETTE. Ah! 
 
 With a cry, she takes refuge behind MAX. DANIELA 
 endeavors to restrain RAMON.
 
 260 DANIELA ACT n 
 
 DANIELA. Km mm, Ram6n! 
 
 RAMON. Blood ! Blood ! [He opens the drawer for tfie re- 
 volver] 
 DANIELA. No, no! 
 
 RAMON thrusts the revolver back into the drawer. The 
 others approach the door slowly, still laughing, but 
 now from fear. 
 
 RICHARD. Curtain! Curtain! 
 DANIELA. Get out of the house! 
 RAMON. Oh, what disgrace! 
 MAX. [Still laughing] But Daniela . . . 
 DANIELA. Fools! Get out! 
 
 HUGUETTE. [To DANIELA, laughing] But I didn't laugh! 
 RAMON. I can bear no more. 
 
 Burying his face between his arms on the table; then lie 
 
 jumps up again, wildly. 
 
 DANIELA. [To HUGUETTE] You go, too. You are no better 
 than the rest! [They are already at tlie door. 
 
 HUGUETTE. [Brazenly] Nor than you. 
 DANIELA. Go! Go! 
 RICHARD. [Going out last] We are all the same. 
 
 [He bows ceremoniously. 
 MAX. [Already outside] We beg your pardon. 
 
 [With a great laugh. 
 DANIELA. Away! 
 
 HUGUETTE. [Without, while DANIELA closes the door] Re- 
 member us when he fires the shot! 
 
 [They are heard laughing as they disappear. 
 DANIELA. [Turning to RAMON] There! I stay! 
 RAMON. Thanks,, Daniela, thanks. 
 
 DANIELA. I stay because I pity you. You have what you 
 want; I pity you. 
 
 She is much exhausted and supports herself with the 
 aid of the table, breathing with great difficulty.
 
 ACT ii DANIELA 261 
 
 RAMON. Yes, Daniela, and I thank you for it. I am mad 
 with joy. See, all is still about there is no sound. They 
 are gone, Daniela, gone! And we find ourselves alone after 
 so many years of waiting! 
 
 DANIELA. What? [Fatting back] No, Ram6n, no! Good- 
 night, good-night! [She staggers toward her own room. 
 
 RAMON. [Seizing her and holding her fast] Daniela! 
 Daniela, listen! 
 
 DANIELA. [Turning] No, not one word! I know now that 
 I have to die. My hours are numbered. My life has ebbed 
 today. 
 
 RAMON. No! Ah, no! 
 
 DANIELA. And I must die alone. 
 
 RAMON. You are going to fall. Lean on me. 
 
 DANIELA. Let go! [She is about to fall. 
 
 RAMON. I'll hold you up. [He catches her] See! Now I 
 hold you up. 
 
 DANIELA. Let go! Let go! 
 
 RAMON. [Carrying her to her room] I love you! I love you! 
 
 DANIELA. [Repulsing him] Your wife! Your children! 
 
 RAMON. Be still! 
 
 DANIELA. Ramon! God! [Indignantly] 
 
 RAMON. I do not hear! I am mad! I do not hear! 
 
 They reach the door of DANIELA'S room. As they do, 
 holding her in his arms, he is about to give her a kiss. 
 
 DANIELA. [Avoiding him furiously] I won't have it! I 
 won't have it! 
 
 RAMON. [After having kissed her] In! In! 
 
 DANIELA. [Breaking away from him] No! No! Help! 
 Help! [Running toward ANTONIA'S room. 
 
 RAMON. [Running after her] Be still! Be still! 
 
 DANIELA. Help! 
 
 She throws open the door of ANTONIA'S room. ANTONIA 
 is heard singing:
 
 262 DANIELA ACT 11 
 
 "Mother of God, a little child 
 Is laid upon thy breast." 
 
 RAMON. Oh, God! 
 
 In a voice of agony, but stifled for fear that ANTONIA will 
 
 hear. 
 DANIELA. In there! [Pointing to the room. He hesitates an 
 
 instant} In, into your own! 
 RAMON. Ah! Wretch that I am! 
 
 [He rushes headlong into the room. 
 
 DANIELA. To suffocate! To die! [Moving away] To die! 
 To die! To die alone! 
 
 She staggers across the stage into her own room and 
 closes the door behind her. ANTONIA continues her 
 song. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 ACT III 
 
 The same. It is a cloudy morning. The door of DANIELA'S 
 room is closed; ANTONIA'S room stands open. The cradle 
 occupies the same position as in the previous act, but with- 
 out the child. 
 
 When the curtain rises the stage is empty. Presently a number 
 of little girls pass at the back, talking. Other children follow, 
 who stop at the door; and later, other children, who stop 
 also. 
 
 FIRST CHILD. Hurry up, it's late! 
 
 SECOND CHILD. I'm not going to run. 
 
 THIRD CHILD. [Calling from the door] Anna! Anna! 
 
 FOURTH CHILD. What's the matter with Anna? 
 
 THIRD CHILD. What will Monsa say to you, Anna? 
 
 FOURTH CHILD. Anna, are you asleep? 
 
 ANNA. [Within] I'm coming as soon as I finish my choco- 
 late. 
 
 CHILDREN. Anna, Anna! . . . Monsa will fix you, Anna! . . . 
 Wait and see! 
 
 ANNA enters. 
 
 ANNA. I've just swallowed my chocolate. For goodness' 
 sake! 
 
 CHILDREN. Here she is! Here she is! Anna's just got up! 
 She's just got up! 
 
 ANNA. No, I haven't either. Shame on you! [Enter AN- 
 TONIA] Mamma, oughtn't they to be ashamed of themselves? 
 
 ANTONIA. Come here and get your 'kerchief. What a 
 child! 
 
 263
 
 264 DANIEL A ACT in 
 
 ANNA. I'm coming! I'm coming! In a minuted 
 
 To the children who are jumping up and down at the 
 
 door. 
 
 ANTONIA. [Adjusting the 'kerchief] Can't you stand still? 
 Some of the girls run away from the door, others promptly 
 take their places. There is constant bustle among the 
 children who are playing, jumping up and down, 
 nibbling at candy, romping and striking one another, 
 but always with the utmost good-nature. 
 THIRD CHILD. [To ANNA] I dressed myself and fixed my 
 hair all by myself. [Other children say tlie same. 
 
 ANNA. You did? Now my hair-ribbon. 
 ANTONIA. Can't you keep still? 
 
 ANNA. They're trying to tease me, mamma! Hurry up! 
 ANTONIA. There! Now give me a kiss. 
 ANNA. And one for the baby! [Running up to the cradle. 
 ANTONIA. The baby isn't there. 
 
 ANNA. Where is he? [Running to the door of the room. 
 
 ANTONIA. No, child, he's at your aunt's. 
 ANNA. [Stamping] At my aunt's? [Running out] I'm com- 
 ing, I'm coming! 
 
 CHILDREN. Here she is! Here she is! She's ready now! 
 ANNA. I had two cups of chocolate. Mamma didn't want 
 me to have them either! 
 
 The children rush up to her and form a ring, circling 
 about and singing as they disappear. Gradually their 
 voices die away in the distance. TOMASETA enters with 
 a basket on her arm. 
 
 TOMASETA. Good-morning, Antonia! I ana late today. I 
 should have gotten out before this. 
 ANTONIA. Good-morning. 
 
 TOMASETA. I'm going down to the village, and I thought 
 I might stop in and see if there was anything you wanted me 
 to do.
 
 ACT HI DANIEL A 265 
 
 ANTONIA. No, nothing this morning, Tomaseta. I was at 
 the village day before yesterday, and tended to everything 
 myself. 
 
 TOMASETA. I suppose you did. You have to lay in such 
 lots of stuff for Daniela. I daresay, though, she pays for 
 everything herself. 
 
 ANTONIA. You'll have to ask Ramon about that. 
 
 TOMASETA. It takes my breath away to think of so much 
 money being spent at every meal. Do you suppose Daniela 
 wants anything this morning? 
 
 ANTONIA. She isn't up yet. 
 
 TOMASETA. She isn't up? Perhaps I'd better wait and see. 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes, wait as long as you like. 
 Enter ANDREW. 
 
 ANDREW. Antonia, where's Ramon? 
 
 ANTONIA. He's up at the house, working. 
 
 ANDREW. Oh! Never mind then. I've just finished break- 
 fast and thought I'd drop in. Hello! Who's here? 
 
 TOMASETA. When you are supposed to be busy, what 
 you are really doing is gossiping with the neighbors. 
 
 ANDREW. It began to rain as I was coming along the 
 road. 
 
 TOMASETA. What? And I haven't been to the village. 
 
 ANDREW. The masons finished the porch this morning. 
 
 TOMASETA. I hear you had company yesterday actors. 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes, I think they were; something of the sort. 
 
 TOMASETA. What did they have to say? 
 
 ANTONIA. Nothing. 
 
 ANDREW. [Laughing] Oh, they had something to say! 
 PONA enters, carrying a basket of cherries. 
 
 PONA. Good-morning. Your wife's looking for you, An- 
 drew. I'm all wet through. 
 
 ANDREW. My wife? Where is she? 
 
 PONA. Didn't you hear her call?
 
 266 DANIELA ACT in 
 
 ANDREW. She can wait. Don't tell her I was here, An- 
 tonia. 
 
 TOMASETA. Why not? 
 
 ANDREW. You know. She's jealous! 
 . [Pointing to DANIELA'S room. They all begin to laugh. 
 
 PONA. You're a perfect devil, Andrew! [To ANTONIA, 
 showing the cherries] Aren't they fine cherries? I made up 
 my mind I'd better get them off the trees before it began to 
 rain. Perhaps Daniela would like some. 
 * ANTONIA. I'll ask her when she gets up. 
 
 PONA. What? Isn't she up yet? 
 
 ANDREW. Oh, that's the French of it; they turn day into 
 night. [To PONA] Don't you want to look and see if my wife's 
 there? [PoNA goes to the door to look. 
 
 TOMASETA. I must go on to the village. 
 
 ANTONIA. Call her if you like. 
 
 TOMASETA. No, I'll wait . . . [To ANTONIA] Caramba! 
 Those actors! [Laughing] 
 
 [ANTONIA moves away from TOMASETA, uneasily. 
 
 PONA. [To ANDREW] She's sitting down by the gate, 
 sewing. [Looking out of tJie door] 
 
 ANDREW. Well, I haven't done anything anyway. [He 
 puts down a shoe which lie had taken up] She might sew up her 
 tongue. 
 
 TOMASETA. [To ANTONIA] Do you tliink Daniela is going 
 to get well? 
 
 ANTONIA. How should I know? 
 
 PONA. She's building a house. 
 
 TOMASETA. That shows she likes it here. 
 
 PONA. Yes. But I seem to be wasting my time. 
 
 ANDREW. [To PONA] Will you do me a favor when you go? 
 
 PONA. What is it? 
 
 ANDREW. When you pass my wife, stand in front of her 
 so that I can slip out,
 
 ACT in DANIELA 267 
 
 PONA. Go along, holy man. 
 
 TOMASETA. I'm going to tell her you're here. 
 
 ANDREW. I'll get even with you if you do. 
 
 ANTONIA. [Surprised] What's the matter? 
 
 Returning from her room into which she has stepped for 
 a moment. 
 
 PONA. He's afraid his wife will find him out. 
 
 ANDREW. I'm afraid of her? The trouble is that she's 
 afraid of me. 
 
 PONA. I'm going to call Daniela. [To ANTONIA] We can't 
 wait any longer. 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes, call her. 
 
 PONA. [Going up to the door] Daniela! Get up, Daniela! 
 I've brought you a basket of cherries from the garden. 
 [Leaving the door} Now she'll get up. 
 
 TOMASETA. What time is it? 
 
 ANDREW. It must be eight o'clock. 
 
 PONA. A quarter to nine. [Going back to the door] Daniela! 
 Daniela! [Coming away again] I've got a day's work to do 
 and two boys who don't do a thing but wear out their shoes. 
 
 ANDREW. Thank God I haven't got any girls! 
 
 PONA. Do you hear what he is thanking God for? 
 
 [TOMASETA goes up to DANIELA'S door and listens. 
 
 TOMASETA. I can't hear any tiling; she must be asleep. 
 Daniela, don't you want anything from the village? [Listen- 
 ing at the door] If you want anything from the village, it's 
 I I, Tomaseta. 
 
 [Making a sign to tne others that she doesn't hear anything. 
 
 ANDREW. There now! 
 
 TOMASETA. No not a sound. 
 
 PONA. See if she'll hear me. Daniela! Daniela! [Knock- 
 ing loudly} Daniela! 
 
 TOMASETA. [At some distance from the door] Wait a 
 minute . . ,
 
 268 DANIELA ACT in 
 
 ANDREW. Keep still! 
 
 [PoNA lays her ear against the door, listening. 
 ANTONIA. What can the matter be? 
 
 PONA. Something must have happened. [She knocks again. 
 The children can be heard in the distance, singing at 
 
 school. 
 
 ANDREW. She can't be in bed. She must have gone out. 
 TOMASETA. Oh, of course! 
 ANTONIA. She always gets up late. 
 
 PONA. Monsa will be sure to know. [Exit PONA, running. 
 TOMASETA. Come right back, Pona. 
 
 ANDREW. Now I know where she is where she spends all 
 her time. Up at the house with Ramon! 
 
 TOMASETA. To be sure! She told me to come up there 
 this morning and see her, and since it's raining she is afraid 
 to come down. Why didn't we think of that before? 
 
 [The children have stopped singing. PONA re-enters. 
 PONA. Monsa says she hasn't seen her pass. 
 ANDREW. Why should Monsa see everything? 
 
 Enter MONSA. 
 
 MONSA. No, Daniela hasn't gone out. 
 TOMASETA. Then she'd be in her room, and she isn't there. 
 MONSA. I don't know what to make of it. Let's see if she 
 isn't there. [After looking through the keyhole] Daniela! 
 
 The others converse among themselves. MONSA listens 
 
 after having ca Ued. 
 PONA. It's very strange. 
 ANTONIA. Pona! [So as to be able to hear} 
 MONSA. [Again looking through the keyhole] Everything is 
 dark. If she'd gone out, she'd have opened the windows. 
 
 PONA. But if she hadn't, she'd be in there, and then she'd 
 answer. 
 
 ANDREW. And she doesn't. That's what makes all the 
 trouble.
 
 ACT in DANIELA 
 
 MONSA. Daniela! Daniela! What has happened? [She 
 runs her finger into the keyhole] The door's locked and the 
 key's inside. Daniela's in there! 
 ANTONIA. Holy Mother! 
 PONA. How are we ever going to get in? 
 MONSA. Get some tools a hammer and chisel, quick! 
 ANTONIA. And call Ram6n. 
 PONA. Hurry! 
 
 [Exit TOMASETA at the back. 
 MONSA. [Banging on the door] Daniela! 
 
 Re-enter TOMASETA with RAMON. 
 RAMON. What's the matter? 
 
 TOMASETA. Daniela hasn't opened the door. She doesn't 
 answer. 
 
 MONSA. Daniela's in there and doesn't answer. 
 RAMON. Have you called her? Out loud? 
 
 ANTONIA draws a little to one side at the entrance of 
 
 RAMON. 
 
 MONSA. Yes. [Shaking the door] It's locked on the 
 inside. 
 RAMON. Daniela! Daniela! 
 
 [Throwing himself against the door, 
 MONSA. Bring a hammer, an ax! 
 RAMON. No, no I'm here. 
 
 Thrusting his shoulder against the door, preparatory to 
 
 forcing it open. ANDREW comes to help him. 
 MONSA. Now both together! Push! 
 TOMASETA. [To ANTONIA] Poor Daniela! 
 ANTONIA. Yes. 
 
 MONSA. Push! Now! [By the door] 
 RAMON. Wait! Now push, man. There! 
 
 [The door opens wiih a crash. 
 MONSA. Daniela! [Entering first] 
 ANTONIA, No, me! let me go first.
 
 270 DANIELA ACT in 
 
 She runs in oefore PONA and TOMASETA, who follow her. 
 RAMON starts to enter, but falls back. The women are 
 heard talking within the room. 
 ANDRKW. [ To RAMON] Maybe she's . . . 
 RAMON. [Trying to listen] Don't talk to me! 
 MONSA. [From the room] Daniela! 
 ANTONIA. Lift up her head. 
 MONSA. Hold her. Hold her so. 
 TOMASETA. Daniela! 
 RAMON. Oh, Andrew! [Anxiously] 
 
 MONSA. She doesn't answer. She doesn t speak a word. 
 PONA. Don't let her fall. 
 
 [RAMON, greatly distressed, is about to enter the room. 
 ANTONIA. [Confronting him at the door] No, Ram6n! 
 RAMON. How is she? [Wishing to know if she is dead] 
 ANTONIA. [Sympathetically] She's alive! She has opened her 
 eyes. I came out to tell you. [RAMON falls back] The Doctor! 
 RAMON. [To ANDREW] Run for the Doctor and Valentine, 
 too. Hurry! [Exit ANDREW. 
 
 PONA. [To ANTONIA, coming out of the room] Quick, An- 
 tonia! Salts have you any salts? 
 ANTONIA. They are on the table in my room. 
 
 ANTONIA re-enters DANIELA'S room; PONA runs into 
 
 ANTONIA'S. 
 
 RAMON. [Going up to the door of DANIELA'S room] I must 
 see her. 
 
 [To MONSA, who appears, waiting for the return of PONA. 
 MONSA. [Severely] You can't come in. Why doesn't she 
 hurry? [Impatiently] 
 
 RAMON. [To MONSA] If you let her die! ... 
 PONA. [Re-entering with the bottle] Here they are. 
 MONSA. Give them to me. 
 
 [She takes the bottle and runs back into DANIELA'S room. 
 PONA. [To RAMON] We were sitting here all the while just
 
 ACT in DANIELA 271 
 
 as calmly as you please. Who would ever have believed that 
 she was in there like that? 
 
 RAMON moves away so as not to hear her; she disappears 
 into DANIELA'S room. 
 
 MONSA. [In the room] It's I, I Daniela. 
 
 PONA. Now she knows us. 
 
 MONSA. [Laughing] Yes, we're all your friends. Yes, this 
 is Antonia; she loves you, too. [RAMON starts. 
 
 TOMASETA. [Re-entering; to RAMON] She's better now. 
 
 PONA. [Re-entering] Why do people have to suffer so? I'm 
 all a-tremble. 
 
 TOMASETA. [To RAMON] Perhaps you'd better take some- 
 thing and Antonia too. We'd all better take something 
 on account of the shock. 
 
 Enter VALENTINE, carrying an umbrella. 
 
 VALENTINE. Here he is! 
 
 RAMON. At last! 
 
 TOMASETA. But I am glad! 
 
 Enter ANDREW, also vrith an umbrella. 
 
 ANDREW. He's here! The Doctor! 
 
 PONA. I'll run and tell them. [Exit into DANIELA'S room. 
 
 TOMASETA. Not too much noise! [Exit, running after her. 
 
 RAMON. [To VALENTINE] Wait by the door; let nobody in. 
 Exit VALENTINE. DON JOAQUIM enters with an um- 
 brella. 
 
 RAMON. Don Joaqufm, Daniela is dying. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. So soon? You surprise me. 
 
 RAMON. For God's sake, Doctor, hurry! If she should 
 die ... 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. How? [Surprised at his manner of speaking. 
 
 RAMON. You mustn't let her die! 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [Pausing] Why, Ram6n! What is this? 
 
 RAMON. Quick, quick! 
 
 TOMASETA. Ay, Senor Doctor! [Within]
 
 272 DANIELA ACT in 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. I'm coming. I'm coming. 
 
 [He goes into DANIELA'S room. 
 
 PONA. [Coming out as the doctor enters] She's resting more 
 quietly. 
 
 ANDREW. [To TOMASETA, who is at the door] How do you 
 think she is, Tomaseta? 
 
 TOMASETA. Much better. She's trying to raise herself up. 
 
 PONA. Now we'll see what the Doctor will do to her. 
 
 ANDREW. Humph! Doctors always come too late. The 
 patient's either dead or well already. 
 
 TOMASETA. Now he'll try to make us believe he's cured 
 her. 
 
 PONA. If I hadn't stopped in with the cherries . . . 
 
 TOMASETA. If I hadn't called Ramon to break down the 
 door . . . 
 
 ANDREW. If I hadn't helped him break it down . . . 
 
 [RAMON paces anxiously to and fro across tlie room. 
 
 TOMASETA. [To RAMON] I wonder what could have given 
 Daniela such a shock? 
 
 RAMON. Leave me alone! Don't you see how I feel? . . . 
 [TOMASETA endeavors to interrupt him] That's right stand 
 there and stare! Amuse yourselves with our misfortunes. 
 You've always amused yourselves with the misfortunes of this 
 house. [He turns away from them and continues talking to him- 
 self] Why was I ever born? To suffer? Never to be happy 
 from one year's end to the next hating and despising my- 
 self, like one lost! For I am lost, damned utterly, through 
 this world and the next! I care for no man! My hand is 
 against them all! [To ANDREW, who is following him] Yes, 
 talk! That's right talk! 
 
 TOMASETA. Ay, Ram6n! 
 
 PONA. But we ... 
 
 ANDREW. I ... 
 
 RAMON. I tell you, I am not myself. But I've got to know
 
 ACT in DANIELA 273 
 
 what is going on in that room. If she's going to die I've got 
 to know it. 
 
 He rushes up to the door, but halts at the entrance of 
 MONSA. They all surround her, excepting only 
 RAMON, who draws back for fear of bad news. 
 
 MONSA. She's talking alone with the Doctor as if she 
 wanted to confess. 
 
 PONA. How is she? 
 
 MONSA. Better, I told you. 
 
 TOMASETA. [To PONA] Of course she's better. 
 
 MONSA. [To TOMASETA] Go and look after the children. 
 There is nobody to take care of the school. 
 
 TOMASETA. I'll see to them. 
 
 MONSA returns to the room. TOMASETA prepares to 
 leave. 
 
 ANDREW. [To TOMASETA] Take my wife with you, do you 
 hear? 
 
 TOMASETA. Get out! [Exit. 
 
 ANDREW. That's it. I can't get out! 
 
 PONA. Here comes the Doctor. 
 
 RAMON. [Aside] What will he say now? [Enter DON 
 JOAQUIM] What is it, Doctor? How is she? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [Reserved] Resting quietly. 
 
 PONA. She's not in any danger, Doctor? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. No! [Forbidding them to speak] I tell you no! 
 
 RAMON. Thanks, Don Joaqufm! Thanks! You don't 
 know how glad I am to hear you say so. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Not so fast. [To the others] I must ask you 
 all to leave to leave immediately. It is absolutely essential. 
 [To RAMON] Let no one else in. There has been far too much 
 confusion already. 
 
 RAMON. No one shall come in, I promise you. 
 
 PONA. Very well, Doctor. [To RAMON] If we can do any- 
 thing . . .
 
 274 DANIEL A ACT in 
 
 RAMON. Thanks. 
 
 ANDREW. [To DON JOAQUIM] Must I go too? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Certainly. 
 
 ANDREW. Wait, Poiia! 
 
 PONA. What's the matter? 
 
 [She is already outside the door. 
 
 ANDREW. Stay on this side. 
 
 PONA. On this side? 
 
 ANDREW. And don't run too fast. 
 
 [PoNA and ANDREW retire. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [To RAMON] Why didn't you go into the 
 room with me? 
 
 RAMON. Because Doctor, I cannot go into her room 
 I am not the man you think. You do not understand. I 
 am not myself. I ... [With desperation] 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Yes, I understand. You're a ... 
 
 [He is about to use a disagreeable word. 
 
 RAMON. A wild man, Don Joaquim! A beast! Disgraced! 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. No, you are a man whose heart is evil. 
 I wouldn't have believed it possible tliat you could have 
 changed like this. One finger of that woman's hand is worth 
 more than your whole body. 
 
 RAMON. I am disgraced. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. She has shown more feeling than you have, 
 more sense of right. It is not she who has wished to dishonor 
 this house. Can you deny it? 
 
 RAMON. No. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. You have persecuted her, you have humili- 
 ated her. You have done everything in your power, both 
 you and your wife, to make it impossible for her to enjoy that 
 peace of which she stood so sorely in need. You have killed 
 her. 
 
 RAMON. Killed her, Don Joaqufm? Daniela? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. You have killed her. She is as dead as the
 
 ACT in DANIELA 275 
 
 dead in their graves already. Remember, I charged you a 
 hundred times, and Antonia too, not to excite her, not to 
 cross her in anything. In any case death would have ensued 
 before long the French doctor predicted it and I foresaw it 
 clearly, but it lay hi your power to prolong her life a little, 
 and to render her days happy and peaceful at the close. 
 Re-enter MONSA and ANTONIA. 
 
 MONSA. How is she, Doctor? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Dead, unless for a miracle. 
 
 [ANTONIA looks at RAMON. 
 
 MONSA. Don Joaquhn! 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. And you must not expect me to work 
 miracles. 
 
 MONSA. But, Doctor, she's sleeping quietly . . . 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. It makes no matter. Oh, if I only had it 
 to do over again! 
 
 RAMON. What would you do? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. When they wrote to me that they were 
 going to send her here, I ought to have forbidden it. Her 
 stay in this village was sure to prove fatal. I felt it from the 
 beginning. With your narrow-mindedness she was certain 
 to be hounded to death. 
 
 ANTONIA. Doctor, but I I thought . . . 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. You thought? Have you ever once thought 
 of showing a land heart? You have persecuted her with 
 insults I have seen it myself repeatedly. And when I took 
 you to task for it, you imagined that I was conspiring against 
 you. 
 
 MONSA. Doctor! 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. Poor woman, you are the only one who has 
 not considered yourself, who has had the grace to be true. 
 I don't know what we'd do without you, either. 
 
 ANTONIA. [Weeping] But, Doctor, I was a stranger in my 
 own house, and I'm Ram6n's wife, and she . . .
 
 276 DANIELA ACT in 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. She? What did she ever do to you? She 
 has respected you. Another woman I should have liked to 
 see it another woman in her place might not have returned 
 good for evil; she might have revenged herself. 
 
 MONSA. Shall we wake her for the medicines? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. No, let her sleep while she is able. And 
 don't let these people disturb her! [He is about to go. 
 
 ANTONIA. Doctor, I'll never disturb her. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. I'll call again this afternoon; meanwhile 
 continue with the medicines as before. 
 
 MONSA. Don't delay, Don Joaqufm. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. I repeat, don't let these people disturb her. 
 
 ANTONIA. I'll lock the door. [Standing beside it. 
 
 RAMON. [Drawing near Hie door] Do you mean to tell me, 
 Doctor, that there is no hope cost what it may? 
 
 [DANIELA appears at tfic door of her room. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. I have just told you she is as good as 
 dead already. And you are the cause of her death you and 
 your wife! 
 
 RAMON. But if we want a consultation? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. A consultation! 
 
 MONSA. Suppose she tries to get up? 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. It makes no difference. In the end it will 
 be the same. 
 
 RAMON. [Going out with the doctor] But, Doctor, a consulta- 
 tion . . . [Tlicy are already outside. 
 
 DON JOAQUIM. [Without] She is dead, I tell you. She is 
 dead already! [MoNSA closes the door behind them. 
 
 ANTONIA. Daniela! 
 
 MONSA. [Running up to her] What did you get up for? 
 
 DANIELA. Because I wanted air and light. Because I 
 want to live. [They help her to a chair. 
 
 MONSA. You're better now, Daniela, much better. It was 
 only an attack of weakness. The Doctor said so.
 
 ACT in DANIELA 277 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, I am much better. 
 
 [She turns around to look for RAMON. 
 
 MONSA. What is it? What do you want? 
 
 DANIELA. I want . . . [Looking at ANTONIA] Nothing, 
 nothing. 
 
 MONSA. Are you more comfortable now? 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, yes, more comfortable now. I passed a 
 horrible night. 
 
 MONSA. Why didn't you call? 
 
 DANIELA. Call? Whom? [With desperation] 
 
 MONSA. Anybody. 
 
 DANIELA. [To MONSA, aside] Hush! [Then aloud] I I 
 heard you when you knocked on the door but I wasn't able 
 to open my lips and reply. Daniela! Daniela! And I 
 was lying there in bed not able to move, not even to open 
 my eyes. Maybe when death comes I shall be lying there, 
 all wide awake and still, and I will hear you call, Daniela, 
 Daniela! and not be able to reply. Will you kiss me, 
 Monsa, when I die? My Monsa since I was a child! Will 
 you kiss me when I die? 
 
 MONSA. But you are better. You are not going to die. 
 
 DANIELA. [Irritated, like a child] No, don't tell me that. 
 Will you kiss me when I die? 
 
 MONSA. Yes, yes. Of course. 
 
 DANIELA. And Antonia will you still hate me, after I am 
 gone? 
 
 ANTONIA. [Much affected] No, Daniela! No. 
 
 DANIELA. Will you treat me the same then? Will you 
 still call me what you've called me so many times? 
 
 ANTONIA. No, no! Never again! 
 
 DANIELA. Wanton, eh? 
 
 MONSA. You must be quiet, Daniela. 
 
 ANTONIA. No, Daniela, I don't wish you any harm; I 
 want you to get well. [Weeping]
 
 278 DANIELA ACT in 
 
 DANIELA. Will you kiss me then, Antonia? 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes, just like Monsa! Just the same as she. 
 
 DANIELA. When I am dead, eh? But not the same as she! 
 It will not be the same. For Monsa will kiss me as she used 
 to do when we were girls together, and she will try to shield 
 me now from death because she wants to have me live. But 
 you will kiss me because I have to die, and they are coming 
 to make the cross upon me the cross upon the dead! 
 
 MONSA. No, no, you mustn't talk like that, Daniela. The 
 Doctor wants you to be quiet. 
 
 ANTONIA. Yes. 
 
 DANIELA. Everybody will forgive me after I am gone. My 
 sins will be washed out; I shall be white as snow. And 
 since I have to die without confession . . . [They try to speak, 
 but she prevents them] . . . you think you'll pardon me a little 
 in advance, and let me know beforehand that I'll be forgiven 
 and absolved. [She looks at ANTONIA] 
 
 MONSA. [Forcing herself to laugh] But, Daniela, you're not 
 going to die. 
 
 DANIELA. I am going to die. The Doctor said so. 
 
 ANTONIA. He didn't say so. 
 
 MONSA. He said just the opposite. 
 
 DANIELA. Oh, no, no! I was there, and I heard him say 
 so. [Pointing to the door of the room] And when he said so, 
 [To ANTONIA] I looked at you and you looked at Ramon, 
 and you smiled. 
 
 ANTONIA. No! That would have been a mortal sin. 
 
 DANIELA. [Laughing] You didn't see that you smiled, but I 
 saw! I saw! 
 
 MONSA. [Compassionately] You're so weak, Daniela. 
 
 DANIELA. [Overcome] Yes! I am dying. In all the world 
 there is no help for me. [With sudden resolution] But all men 
 have pity on the dying, and now you have to pity me, because 
 I can do no one any harm. Like a broken, withered branch,
 
 ACT in DANIELA 279 
 
 I am clinging to the tree. [She rises from the chair, supported 
 by the women] I'll not do you any harm. [Sadly, to ANTONIA] 
 Be happy with your children. Lay your boy in the cradle 
 and rock him to sleep. I'll not be here to come near you nor 
 disturb you nor to kiss your boy. I'll let you be. I am alone 
 in the world, and I must go alone. [Pointing to the sky. 
 
 MONSA. Nonsense, Daniela. 
 
 ANTONIA. Daniela, you mustn't treat me so. I hated you 
 because I believed what wasn't true I was afraid. Ramon 
 hated me. You would have done the same in my place. 
 You would have done the same. 
 
 The children are heard singing at school; only DANIELA 
 notices the song. 
 
 DANIELA. They are singing singing! You live in them, 
 in the children, Monsa! Listen, listen! You've a corner 
 hi the heart of every one. Listen! Ah! It's like a great 
 choir! 
 
 ANTONIA. [Pleadingly] Daniela! Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA. Don't speak to me, I hear them singing. I 
 am breathing in their song! Then* life fills my breast. Ah! 
 [To ANTONIA] Leave me, leave me! For now I envy you. 
 For you are going to live on in the world and be happy, 
 afloat on an ocean of joy ! [She looks at her] But for me there 
 is nothing nothing! No laughter nor smiles any more, for 
 I am dying of thirst, and look! there is so much water 
 everywhere. 
 
 ANTONIA. Daniela! 
 
 MONSA. Leave her, Antonia. 
 
 DANIELA. But I know where there is water for me, and I 
 mean to have it. I mean to drink. [She laughs hysterically] 
 Yes, I mean to drink. I will have it, too! [Aside, to MONSA] 
 Send her away! Monsa, send her away! 
 
 MONSA. Leave us for a little while. 
 
 ANTONIA. If you think best,
 
 280 DAN I EL A ACT in 
 
 MONSA. I'll calm her; then you can come back. 
 ANTONIA. I'll run after the boy. 
 MONSA. Do. 
 
 Exit ANTONIA to Hie rear. MONSA follows lier to the door 
 
 and closes it behind her. 
 
 DANIELA. [A side] Now to be happy! I must be happy, too! 
 MONSA. [Returning] You must be quiet, Daniela, very, 
 very quiet. I want to tell you about the house. 
 
 DANIELA. The house? I give it to you for the school. It 
 shall be yours. 
 
 MONEA. No. [Wishing to change Hie subject 
 DANIELA. Yours and the children's. And everything I 
 have shall be yours and the children's. With it, you will 
 be so much richer than I! [MONSA weeps] Has Antonia 
 gone? 
 
 MONSA. Yes. 
 
 DANIELA. Then call Ram6n. Quick! For I want my share 
 of happiness, my hour of life! All ought not to be for others. 
 Through the scenes which follow, DANIELA becomes de- 
 lirious from time to time, in greater or less degree, 
 as is apparent from her manner and speech. 
 MONSA. What do you say? 
 DANIELA. Ram6n! I want Ramon! Call him. 
 MONSA. He's coming, Daniela. 
 
 DANIELA. [Becoming impatient] But I've no time to lose. 
 I want Ram6n! 
 
 MONSA. Listen to me! 
 DANIELA. Ram6n! 
 MONSA. But he's coming, I tell you. 
 DANIELA. Ram6n! Ram6n! 
 MONSA. Ay, but he'll soon be here! 
 
 * [Not knowing what to do. 
 
 DANIELA. Ram6n! Ramon! I want Ram6n! 
 [Enter RAMON.
 
 ACT in DANIELA 281 
 
 RAMON. Daniela! [He closes the door. 
 
 DANIELA. Ah, he's here! You heard me call? 
 
 RAMON. Yes, I heard you. 
 
 DANIELA. My Ram6n! Ramon of the old days! Ram6n 
 that used to be a boy with me! 
 
 RAMON. Yes, it is I! I your Ramon, who will never leave 
 you any more! 
 
 DANIELA. Never! . . . 
 
 RAMON. Daniela, how are you? Courage! See, the tower 
 of the chalet is mounting higher and higher, and the church 
 tower will soon be left far below. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes. But I must make haste. I must make 
 haste! [Breathing with great difficulty. 
 
 MONSA. You'd better let me get you something. 
 
 DANIELA. No, I want to talk to Ram6n. I want to tell 
 
 him so many things about my journey; for I am going. 
 
 Leave us, leave us, Monsa! I'll call you, Monsa! Monsetta! 
 
 {Throwing her arms about her neck. 
 
 MONSA. Daniela. Daniela! [Embracing her. 
 
 DANIELA. Thanks for every thing! Thanks! 
 
 MONSA. [To RAMON] I'll be with the children when you 
 want me. 
 
 RAMON. I'll call you soon. 
 
 [Exit MONSA. RAMON closes the door. 
 
 DANIELA. Ram6n, Ramon, Ramon! [RAMON turns to her] 
 Ah! [With satisfaction] Listen! 
 
 RAMON. What is it, Daniela? 
 
 DANIELA. You have never left this village? You have 
 never traveled very far? 
 
 RAMON. No. Why? 
 
 DANIELA. Suppose that I should say to you, Ramon, that 
 there is still one way left to save my life one way, and only 
 one: to carry me away, and let me live. 
 
 RAMON. Then I would do it. Anything to save your
 
 282 DANIELA ACT in 
 
 life. I have been acting for so many years. All the while I 
 yearned to come to you I said to myself to kill you, but I 
 knew it was not so. I was only trying to deceive myself, to 
 find an excuse to go. For I was always yours, and I would 
 have ended at your side, your slave. How many times your 
 voice has called to me, yet at the moment that I most longed 
 to go my heart held back; I could not. On the brink my 
 head turned, I sickened with disgust. I don't know how. 
 But if I would have gone with you then, Daniela, how much 
 more would I go with you now now, to save your life! 
 
 DANIELA. It is the brink. Do you know, it is the brink? 
 And the deeper the chasm the louder it calls, and the more 
 surely it sucks us down. Ramon, what is there left to me of 
 life, if I should want to live? 
 
 RAMON. You must live. I want you to. 
 
 DANIELA. Then let us fly together. 
 
 RAMON. Fly? You say, let us fly together? 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, for as I am now, no one would deny me 
 anything no more than they would a condemned man. 
 
 RAMON. But you are not ill, Daniela. 
 
 DANIELA. No no. [Firmly] Listen ! What difference does 
 it make to you? If I am ill out of my head, mad, what of it? 
 You said that you loved me and wanted to make me happy. 
 Then let me be happy. Let me be happy, then, with you! 
 [With delirious excitement] Come! Let us fly far away to 
 Paris! to live, to intoxicate ourselves with life! For here 
 something gnaws at my heart, and with every look you re- 
 venge yourself on me. 
 
 RAMON. I revenge myself? 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, you assassinate me! But quickly, Ram6n, 
 quickly, while we may. Throw me over your shoulder when 
 I cannot walk, catch me up in your arms, fling me about your 
 neck I do not care snatch me away from death! We 
 will fly with our heads bowed to the ground like the criminal
 
 ACT in DANIELA 283 
 
 faster, faster, through the dark, speaking to no man. And 
 it may be that we can hide from death, and that he will come 
 and look for us, and look in vain, and that we will laugh at 
 him because he cannot find us! 
 
 RAMON. Daniela, be calm! Daniela, I want what you 
 want. When I am with you, there is nothing else in all the 
 world for me. There is nothing else but you. I would give 
 everything I have to save your life. 
 
 DANIELA. Then fly fly with me from death. Look! 
 Look! [She moves backward, with a hoarse cry, seeming to 
 avoid the apparition of death] Fly, fly! 
 
 Terrified, she embraces RAMON. Her delirium seems to 
 communicate itself to him. 
 
 RAMON. Fly? Ah! I give my word. Nothing shall hold 
 me back. I swear it. 
 
 DANIELA. Then it must be quickly. Now! My time is 
 growing short. 
 
 RAMON. [Distracted] What? Now, Daniela? 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, now, for unless we cheat death, he will not 
 let us go, and she will prevent you! [Meaning ANTONIA] 
 
 RAMON. She will prevent me! You are right. [Wildly] 
 It must be now. 
 
 DANIELA. Now! 
 
 RAMON. Come on! Ah! wait. [Looking around] No! I 
 can't allow myself to think. [Running to the door and calling] 
 Valentine! 
 
 DANIELA. They'll stop us! 
 
 RAMON. Not now! Come on. 
 
 VALENTINE enters. RAMON leaves DANIELA, She re- 
 tires into her room. 
 
 VALENTINE. Did you call? 
 
 RAMON. Fetch the tartana like lightning. Quick! Do 
 you hear? 
 
 VALENTINE. Yes.
 
 284 DANIELA 
 
 ACT III 
 
 RAMON. And let no one come in. Daniela's well again. 
 [Exit VALENTINE] I'll send back word from the village 
 I can't write now, not now! Daniela! Where are you? 
 Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA re-enters from her room carrying a wrap, but 
 without having put it on. 
 
 DANIELA. [Aside] Here! This will do. [Aloud] I am ready. 
 I have everything. 
 
 RAMON. And so have I everything. At last we are to- 
 gether! My money ah, no money! [Ransacking his pockets 
 and examining his papers] I can get it at the village. I can 
 get what I need there. [DANIELA meanwhile tries to put on the 
 wrap] Let me help you. [Assisting her. Both are greatly ex- 
 cited] We have to wait for the tartana. 
 
 DANIELA. [Impatiently] Ah, this delay! 
 
 RAMON. [Frenzied] Don't think, I say! I am ready now 
 for anything, and if they try to hold us back, I'll kill them. 
 By the Lord, I'll kill them! [Looking out] The tartana is 
 here. Quick! Quick! 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, yes; I am coming. [Gasping] But wait! 
 Wait a moment! Wait! [Falling into a chair. 
 
 RAMON. [Running up to her] What's the matter? 
 
 DANIELA. Nothing, it's nothing. It's the joy of taking 
 you with me! 
 
 RAMON. [Much affected] Yes, it's the joy! The joy! . . . 
 
 DANIELA. The past will fly behind us, like an evil thing. 
 And all the world will fly, fly far behind, and call out to us as 
 we pass, abandoned, wanton, lost! I hate you! 
 
 RAMON wrings his hands; his voice is choked with 
 anguish. 
 
 RAMON. Yes, the past will remain behind. And all the 
 world will remain behind. All, all will remain behind! 
 
 [The children are heard singing at school. 
 
 DANIELA. Ah! That song! That wretched song! . . . [Stop-
 
 ACT in DANIELA 285 
 
 ping RAMON'S ears with her hands] Don't hear it, Ramon. 
 Come away! Come away! 
 RAMON. Courage! Courage! 
 
 [She rises, RAMON supporting her. 
 
 DANIELA. Help me with the wrap. Ah! I can do it so. 
 No, hejp me! [Then, referring to the children] They are sing- 
 ing, still singing . . . [She speaks very loudly so that the chil- 
 dren may not be heard] There, that's it so! That way! 
 
 RAMON. Quick! [Running to look out of the door] There's 
 no one here. [At the door] Come! Come! 
 
 [Wiping his face to hide a tear. 
 DANIELA. I'm coming! I'm coming! 
 
 [Unable to move from where she stands. 
 RAMON. Don't delay! Quick, I say! 
 
 Without looking at her, so that she may not see how 
 
 much moved he is. 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, yes I'm coming now! 
 RAMON. But what is this? 
 
 DANIELA. [Bursting into tears] Ay, Ramon, I cannot! [He 
 runs up to her] Help me! Help me! 
 RAMON. Great God! 
 
 DANIELA. Carry me, Ramon! Carry me in your arms! 
 RAMON. I am mad! 
 DANIELA. I am cold as the grave. 
 RAMON. I am mad! 
 
 He bundles her into her wrap as best he may. It falls to 
 her feet. What with dragging her behind him and lifting 
 her in his arms, they reach the outer door together. 
 DANIELA. I want to live! I want to live! 
 RAMON. [Like a wild man] You are mine! Mine! I claim 
 you now! 
 
 DANIELA. Life! Life! To live! To live! I will not die! 
 The children have stopped singing. Enter 
 She pauses in the doorway.
 
 286 DANIEL A ACT in 
 
 MONSA. What's this? Where are you going? 
 
 RAMON. Out of my way! 
 
 MONSA. Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA. We are going away. 
 
 MONSA. Going away? Where are you going? 
 
 RAMON. Stand back! 
 
 Meanwhile DANIELA has slipped from RAMON'S arms, 
 
 supporting herself with difficulty against the wall. 
 MONSA. [Placing a hand on each jamb of the door] No! 
 Where are you going? . . . 
 RAMON. Come, Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA. To be happy with him, like the woman I am! 
 I have not been able to become like you. 
 MONSA. I am happy in another way. 
 DANIELA. Out of my sight! Ram6n, take her out of my 
 sight! 
 
 RAMON. [To MONSA] Out! Out! 
 MONSA. Let go; I'll call! 
 DANIELA. Ram6n! Ram6n! 
 
 RAMON leaves MONSA and runs up to DANIELA to carry 
 
 her away. 
 
 RAMON. Come! Come! 
 
 MONSA. You shall not go! [To DANIELA] You shall 
 not go! 
 
 RAMON. Because you are too good? 
 
 [He struggles with MONSA, trying to seize her by the throat. 
 MONSA. No, no you'll strangle me! 
 DANIELA. Ramon, no, no! 
 
 [RAMON has thrown MONSA to the floor. 
 MONSA. Don't go! Don't go! 
 
 [She catches RAMON about the knees so that he cannot go. 
 RAMON. Come! Be quick! 
 
 [DANIELA, meanwhile, has staggered to the door, 
 MONSA, Not though you kill me!
 
 ACT in DANIELA 287 
 
 RAMON. [Infuriated] Fool! I see blood! 
 
 [With his hands at MONSA'S throat. 
 MONSA. [Loosening his grip] Anna! 
 DANIELA. [To MONSA] No, for God's sake! 
 RAMON. [Falling back] Hush, hush, I say! 
 MONSA. [Getting up] Anna! Anna! 
 
 Enter ANNA. 
 
 ANNA. What's the matter? 
 RAMON. [To MONSA] Be still! 
 
 MONSA. Your father's running away! Hold him, Anna! 
 ANNA. Father! Where are you going, father? 
 
 [Bursting into tears. 
 MONSA. [To DANIELA] Better you had died! 
 
 DANIELA lays her hands upon her heart, apparently suf- 
 fering great pain. 
 
 RAMON. [To ANNA, wildly] Let go! Let go! 
 MONSA. No, Anna, hold him tight! They're taking your 
 father away! 
 
 RAMON. Monsa! [Seeking to quiet her.] 
 ANNA. Father! 
 
 MONSA. Hold him tight! Hold him tight! Don't let him 
 go! 
 
 ANNA. Father! Father! [Throwing her arms about his neck. 
 RAMON. My child! My child! 
 
 [Pressing her to his heart and bursting into tears. 
 MONSA. [To DANIELA] Now take him away if you are 
 able. 
 
 DANIELA. I? I? I must go ... [RAMON makes a move- 
 ment toward her] Alone! [She takes a step toward the door and 
 comes face to face with ANTONIA] Antonia! [DANIELA pauses. 
 ANTONIA. What is this? [All are silent. To DANIELA] 
 Where are you going? Alone! 
 
 ANNA, still in her father's arms, hugs him convulsively. 
 DANIELA. To find a home in the earth that is warm, for I
 
 288 DANIELA ACT in 
 
 am chilled to the bone. A home in the heart of the earth 
 my mother! 
 ANTONIA. But what's the matter? 
 
 To the others, seeing tliat no one helps her. DANIELA is 
 about to fall. ANTONIA runs to catch her; MONSA 
 comes up at the same time. 
 MONSA. Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA. Nothing, it s no matter it's no matter if I fall. 
 I am dying! 
 
 ANTONIA. Dying? God! 
 
 Enter TOMASETA, PONA, ANDREW, VALENTINE and 
 others from the village, both men and women, followed 
 also by the children. They enter slowly, a few at a 
 time, and stand about the door. The children, as tfn-ij 
 appear, distribute themselves among the older people. 
 MONSA. The Doctor! Quick! 
 
 DANIELA. No, no no doctor! Lord our God! For- 
 give! 
 MONSA. Quick! Quick! 
 
 Several standing near the door run out. Others, however, 
 
 enter, scarcely daring to come forward. 
 DANIELA. Take me out in the road to die'. 
 ANTONIA. No! She doesn't know what she is saying. 
 DANIELA. [Continuing] Yes, I must go. Help me . . . 
 MONSA. What do you want, Daniela? 
 DANIELA. To go! [Aside to MONSA] I am the stain, the 
 stain upon this house. 
 
 MONSA. Ah, no, no! [To the children] Come! Stand around 
 
 her. [The children approach DANIELA, forming a half -circle 
 
 about her] You don't want her to go away? You don't, do 
 
 you? [The children say "no," very sadly. 
 
 DANIELA. [With her arms about them} Ah! I am happy 
 
 now! I am happy now! [To ANTONIA, pleadingly] And Anna? 
 
 ANTONIA. [Calling her] Anna! Anna!
 
 ACT in DANIELA 289 
 
 DANTELA. Come! Come! Anna! [ANTONIA places ANNA 
 in DANIELA'S arms] She has saved us all. Thanks, Antonia. 
 [To ANNA] Poor Anna! Looking at ANTONIA] My girl, my 
 girl! [Aside to ANNA] Anna! Your father, Anna take him 
 to your mother. Yes yes! Anna! [ANNA takes her father 
 by the hand and leads him to ANTONIA, who is standing near] 
 Ah! I am happy now! 
 
 [DANIELA motions to the children to come nearer. 
 ANNA. [Returning to DANIELA] Aren't you going to stay? 
 Aren't you going to be ours? 
 
 DANIELA. Yes, yes! I am yours! Yours! How cold I 
 am! [The children press about her more closely] Yes, yes! 
 Nearer! Nearer! All! All! 
 MONSA. [Aside] Poor Daniela! 
 
 DANIELA. And the sun will make all bright again. [The 
 shower has passed; little by little the sky has been growing 
 lighter] Monsa, you can pull down the tower. 
 A CHILD. Closer! Poor dear, she's cold! 
 OTHER CHILDREN. Aren't you going to stay? 
 DANIELA. I'll never go away. I shall be here always 
 always ! 
 
 A number of children have appeared in the street. They 
 join hands and begin to sing, as at the beginning of the 
 act. The workmen at the house can be heard cutting 
 stone. 
 
 MONSA. They're at work again. 
 
 DANIELA. [Looking at th$tradle] Show me the boy! [With 
 a convulsive effort she gets up} I'm going to the boy . . . I'm 
 going to the boy . . . 
 
 She advances to the cradle, assisted by MONSA and 
 ANTONIA, and followed by the children. The two 
 women are scarcely able to support her. When she 
 reaches the cradle she slips out of their arms, sinking 
 on her knees beside it.
 
 290 DANIEL A ACT in 
 
 DANIELA. [As she falls upon her knees] Little boy! Little 
 boy! 
 
 MONSA. [Aside] The cradle's empty! Oh! 
 
 RAMON. Don't touch her! 
 
 DANIELA. [Singing, her voice stifled] "Mother of God ". . . 
 
 MONSA. [Aside] She is singing. 
 
 DANIELA. "Of God of God" . . . 
 
 So saying, she lays her clieek on the cradle. It tilts to 
 one side under her weight. 
 
 MONSA. [Looking up to heaven] Forgive! 
 
 DANIELA. "God God" . . . 
 
 She drops dead, lying on tlie floor at the foot of the 
 cradle. The children fall back in terror, weeping 
 softly. 
 
 MONSA. Dead! 
 
 ANTONIA. Ram6n! 
 
 RAMON, sobbing, embraces ANTONIA. ANNA hides 
 herself in the folds of her mother's skirt. MONSA 
 kneels and imprints a kiss on the brow of DANIELA. 
 The cradle, freed from her weight, is still rocking. 
 In the street the children continue to sing. The work- 
 men go on cutting stone. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 A 000045414