THE GREAT 
 GALEOTO 
 
 Jose Echegaray 
 
The Drama League Series 0/ Plays 
 VOLUME III 
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
THE 
 GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 With a Prologue 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSE ECHEGARAY 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 HANNAH LYNCH 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 ELIZABETH R. HUNT 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 
 
 1916 
 

 REPLACING 
 
 Copyright, 19U, hy 
 DOUBLEDAY, PaGE & COMPANY 
 
 All rights reserved, including thai of 
 
 translation into foreign languages^ 
 
 including the Scandinavian 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The venerable author of El Gran Galeoto may be 
 said to have won a Double First in the university of 
 life. For many years he has been recognized as pre- 
 eminent among Spanish mathematicians, and equally 
 distinguished among Spanish dramatists. To say 
 that he is one of the first mathematicians in the world 
 and the most famous dramatist Spain has produced 
 for two centuries, would be nearer the truth. 
 
 Doubtless the story of Echegaray's life will one day 
 be told as it deserves to be, fully, vividly, with a just 
 sense of its extraordinary values and implications. 
 For the moment, however, we are concerned with 
 biographical detail merely as it helps to interpret 
 "The Great Galeoto," that sternest and mightiest 
 tragedy in the long list of his plays. 
 
 The outstanding facts in the life of this great 
 mathematician, statesman, and dramatist are these: ^ 
 
 Jose' Echegaray was born at Madrid in 1833. 
 While he was still a child, his father was appointed 
 Professor of Greek in the Institute of Murcia. Here 
 [v] 
 
 M116190 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 the gifted boy began his education under most favour- 
 able conditions. From the first he showed a clearly 
 defined taste for mathematics. At the age of fifteen 
 he returned to Madrid to enter the Escuela de Cami- 
 nos. From this great school he was graduated in 
 1853 with the highest honours, at the head of the 
 list of engineers. Soon afterward he returned to the 
 scene of his triumphs to occupy the chair of pure 
 and applied mathematics. For thirteen years he 
 devoted himself chiefly to the study and teaching of 
 such subjects as the integral calculus, theoretical and 
 applied mechanics, hydrostatics, descriptive geome- 
 try, etc. Incidentally he was greatly absorbed in 
 philosophy, political economy, and the politics of 
 the day. When the popular movement of 1868 
 overthrew the monarchy, he resigned his post for a 
 place in the new Cabinet. For seven years he was 
 Minister of Commerce, of Education and of Finance. 
 Upon the restoration of the Bourbon dynasty, he 
 withdrew from politics, and won a new reputation 
 as a dramatist. In 1874, when he was forty years 
 old. El Lihro Talonarioy the first of his plays to be 
 produced, was staged in Madrid. Since then he has 
 written with varying success more than fifty plays, 
 sometimes at the rate of four a year. To-day he is 
 [vi] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 by far the most popular dramatist in Spain, his fame 
 has spread wherever Spanish is spoken, and his finest 
 plays, as El Gran Galeoto and Mariana, have been 
 translated into several languages, and are holding 
 their own in the contemporary theatre. 
 
 It remains to add that in 1905 Echegaray returned 
 to politics, and since then has held the office of 
 Minister of Finance. 
 
 The barest outline of facts and dates in this mar- 
 velous career is enough to arrest the attention. But 
 the few anecdotes and character sketches which are 
 available lend a little colour. 
 
 For example, the story of how Echegaray wrote 
 his first play has always been current among his 
 readers, and it leads rather directly to the later and 
 greater play in hand. 
 
 It was when the professor at the Escuela, then 
 about thirty years old, was vastly absorbed in 
 his pure and applied mathematics — subjects far 
 enough removed from the drama, it would seem — 
 that his younger brother, a mere lad, wrote a short 
 play in verse, which was put on the stage. Jose, 
 startled and amused, began at once to experiment 
 with a stage plot and versified speeches. Nothing 
 came of it except that, recognizing how imperfect his 
 [vii] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 work was, he addressed himself with his accustomed 
 energy to the study of dramatic composition. Diffi- 
 culties, even impossibilities, have always aroused in 
 this great Spaniard a brave spirit of defiance. 
 
 However, when Echegaray made this late and 
 casual beginning as a dramatist, he seems to have 
 been not wholly unprepared for his self-imposed task. 
 While a student at the Escuela he read many novels 
 in many languages, and what is more to the point, 
 habitually frequented the theatre, especially on first 
 nights. He had undoubtedly progressed far in one 
 study which is indispensable to the playwright, and 
 which can be pursued nowhere but in the theatre — 
 the study of audiences. 
 
 Indeed, the transition from mathematics and en- 
 gineering to poetry and the drama is not so rare and 
 difficult as it at first appears. College students, where- 
 ever found, who specialize in the exact sciences, often 
 develop an omnivorous appetite for literature, and a 
 feeling for good plays which makes them the keenest 
 of critics in the theatre. And as far as the writing of 
 plays is concerned, since it is always, however sub- 
 consciously, a constructive process, hard practice in 
 building anything — bridges, tunnels, machines — 
 cannot come quite amiss to the dramatist, 
 [viii] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 It is easy to fancy that no one who was not fond of 
 a struggle against odds would ever have attempted 
 to write "The Great Galeoto," for the theme pre- 
 sents peculiar difficulties. It is easy to fancy, too, 
 that only a mathematician would have framed the 
 play so symmetrically, stating the problem in the 
 Prologue, and then working it out so precisely to a 
 catastrophic Q. E. D. Even the six characters are 
 exactly balanced, three in one household, a corres- 
 ponding three in the other. 
 
 The title is best explained in a few sentences taken 
 from one of Ernesto's long speeches : 
 
 Galeoto was the go-between for Queen Guinevere 
 and Lancelot; and in all loves the third may be truth- 
 fully nicknamed Galeoto. . . . Sometimes it is 
 the entire social mass that is Galeoto . . . but 
 so dexterously does it work against honour and mod- 
 esty, that no greater Galeoto can ever be found. 
 Let a man and woman live happily in tranquil and 
 earnest fulfilment of their separate duties. . . . 
 One morning somebody takes the trouble to notice 
 them, and from that moment, behold society, with- 
 out aim or object, on the hunt for hidden frailty and 
 impurity. . . . And the terrible thing is, that 
 while it begins in error, it generally ends in truth. 
 
 From this it appears that it was Echegaray's high 
 ambition to make neither a comedy of gossip, like 
 [is] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Le Misanthrope, nor a tragedy of slander, like Othello, 
 but a unique play, midway between — a tragedy of 
 idle, non-malicious gossip, the only achievement of 
 its kind in dramatic literature. 
 
 The villain of the play is "They," "Everybody," 
 the entire social mass, a monster of a thousand heads, 
 a being too vague and dispersed to be set down in the 
 play bill or to make his way to the stage. But as he 
 must for theatrical purposes be somehow objectified, 
 he is represented by the three members of a meddle- 
 some family. Another way to put it is to say that 
 these busybodies, in all their sayings and doings, are 
 invisibly backed and surrounded by the whole social 
 world in which the two families move. However, 
 in the matter of idle, aimless talk, it is difficult 
 to make individuals fairly represent a community. 
 The most significant line in the play is from one of 
 Pepito's soliloquies, when he recalls the fact that 
 Ernesto and Mercedes, the innocent victims of many 
 dispersed trivialities, hardly ever went out alone — 
 that possibly they had never been seen alone more 
 than once. But he adds, "That's enough. If a 
 iiundred persons saw them on that occasion, it is 
 quite the same as if they had been seen in public a 
 hundred times." 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Now each one of these hundred people who give 
 the tragedy its impulse is supposed to make an ab- 
 solutely idle, careless comment, free from guile, for- 
 gotten while it was uttered. But it is quite another 
 matter with the gossipers who represent "Everybody," 
 on the stage. Since they must in the working out 
 of the plot create a dramatic and ultimately a tragic 
 situation, it is difficult to preserve them from the 
 appearance of malice. In fact, it is impossible. 
 This play, for all its greatness, is in a sense a failure. 
 Now and then there is a colloquy which seems hardly 
 better than a heavy-handed Spanish school for scan- 
 dal. But such loss of distinction is only temporary. 
 There are many scenes, notably in the first and third 
 acts, where the difficulties are triumphantly over- 
 comei and impressions almost unknown to the stage 
 are subtly created. 
 
 The shading and grading of effects, which always 
 taxes the finest dramatic art, is especially well con- 
 served. The action begins with a situation of per- 
 fect balance and repose, in which Teodora, Julian, 
 and Ernesto, described as an innocent woman and two 
 honest men, are quite harmonious. Inside the nar- 
 row limits of three acts it culminates with the tragic 
 wreck of the household, and then passes on to a 
 [xi] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 catastrophe of marvelous power and pathos. As a 
 whole, the work is a marked instance of the almost 
 complete vanquishing of intangible and insurmoimt- 
 able difficulties. 
 
 Moreover, it is of a kind not common to the stage 
 of to-day. One result, by no means desirable, of 
 Ibsen's all-pervading influence, is that modern trag- 
 edy has become so sordid, so austerely and bleakly 
 realistic, as to depress and devitalize. Here, for our 
 relief, is tragedy in the grand style, thrilling, inspir- 
 ing, commingling fate and moral responsibility so as 
 to produce, as an ultimate effect, the true tragic 
 reaction and stimulation. When the final curtain 
 rings down, Aristotle's pity and fear seize all minds 
 and hearts. The pity is for the sad end of Don 
 Julian, mortally wounded in a duel fought to avenge 
 himself and save his dearest friend, and for Teodora 
 and Ernesto, the innocent victims who kneel at his 
 feet in the last pathetic scene. The fear that spreads 
 among the spectators is lest they, too, may some time 
 be victims of "Everybody," the monster of a thou- 
 sand heads; and perhaps also lest they may at any 
 moment, by careless word or glance, strengthen the 
 baleful power of this vague and vast Galeoto over 
 their neighbours and friends. 
 Ixii] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 It would be hopeless, with any amount of space at 
 command, to get before the reader an adequate idea 
 of the content and spirit of this play. Fortunately, 
 the purpose of an introduction is to introduce, not 
 to describe. Let me then present to the attention 
 of those who love great drama this powerful and im- 
 pressive work, the only tragedy of idle gossip in all 
 dramatic literature. It deserves, in form complete 
 and unchanged, the most conscientious interpreta- 
 tion that can be given it upon the stage; and it should 
 never be allowed to disappear from the contemporary 
 theatre. 
 
 Elizabeth R. Hunt. 
 
 Evanston, Illinois. 
 
 Ixffil 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA 
 
 Teodora, Wife of 
 
 Don Julian. 
 
 Dona Mercedes, Wife of 
 
 Don Severo. 
 
 Pepito, Their Son. 
 
 Ernest. 
 
 A Witness. 
 
 Two Servants. 
 
3 > • 
 
 » « • • I 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Scene: Madrid of our day. 
 
 A study; to the left a balcony, on right a door; in the 
 middle a table strewn with papers and books, and a 
 lighted lamp upon it; toward the right a sofa. Night. 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Ernest [Seated at table and preparing to write]. 
 Nothing — impossible! It is striving with the im- 
 possible. The idea is there; my head is fevered with 
 it; I feel it. At moments an inward light illuminates 
 it, and I see it. I see it in its floating form, vaguely 
 outlined, and suddenly a secret voice seems to ani- 
 mate it, and I hear sounds of sorrow, sonorous sighs, 
 shouts of sardonic laughter ... a whole world 
 of passions alive and struggling. . . . They 
 burst forth from me, extend around me, and the air 
 is full of them. Then, then I say to myself : "'Tis 
 now the moment." I take up my pen, stare into 
 space, listen attentively, restraining my very heart- 
 
 [3] 
 
. : THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 beats, and bend over the paper. . . . Ah, but 
 the irony of impotency! The outlines become 
 blurred, the vision fades, the cries and sighs faint 
 away . . . and nothingness, nothingness en- 
 circles me. . . . The monotony of empty space, 
 of inert thought, of dreamy lassitude! and more than 
 all the monotony of an idle pen and lifeless paper 
 that lacks the life of thought ! Ah ! How varied are 
 the shapes of nothingness, and how, in its dark and 
 silent way, it mocks creatures of my stamp ! So 
 many, many forms! Canvas without colour, bits 
 of marble without shape, confused noise of chaotic 
 vibrations. But nothing more irritating, more 
 insolent, meaner than this insolent pen of mine 
 [throws it away]y nothing worse than this white sheet 
 of paper. Oh, if I cannot fill it, at least I may de- 
 stroy it — vile accomplice of my ambition and my 
 eternal humiliation. Thus, thus . . . smaller 
 and still smaller. [Tears up paper. Pauses.] And 
 then! How lucky that nobody saw me! For in 
 truth such fury is absurd and unjust. No, I will 
 not yield. I will think and think, until either I 
 have conquered or am crushed. No, I will not 
 give up. Let me see, let me see . . . if in that 
 
 way 
 
 [4] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Scene II 
 
 Ernest. Don Julian on the righU in evening'dfess, 
 with overcoat upon his arm. 
 
 D. Julian [At the door, without entering], I 
 say, EAiest! 
 
 Ernest. Don Julian! 
 
 D. Julian. Still working? Do I disturb you? 
 
 Ernest [Rising]. Disturb me! What a question, 
 Don Julian! Come in, come in. And Teodora? 
 
 [Don Julian enters. 
 
 D. Julian. We have just come from the opera. 
 She has gone upstairs with my brother, to see some- 
 thing or other that Mercedes has bought, and I was 
 on my way to my room when I saw your light, so I 
 stopped to say good-night. 
 
 Ernest. Was there a good house? 
 
 D. Julian. As usual. All our friends inquired 
 after you. They wondered you were not there, too. 
 
 Ernest. That was kind of them. 
 
 D. Julian. Not more than you deserve. And 
 how have you improved the shining hours of solitude 
 and inspiration! 
 
 Ernest. Solitude, yes; inspiration, no. It shuns 
 me though I call on it never so humbly and fondly. 
 [5] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Julian. It has failed at the rendezvous? 
 
 Ernest. And not for the first time, either. But 
 if I have done nothing else, at least I have made a 
 happy discovery. 
 
 D. Julian. What? 
 
 Ernest. That I am a poor devil. 
 
 D. Julian. The deuce! That's a famous dis- 
 covery. 
 
 Ernest. Nothing less. 
 
 D. Julian. But why are you so out of sorts 
 with yourself? Is the play you talked of the other 
 day not going on? 
 
 Ernest. How can it? The going on is done by 
 me going out of my wits. 
 
 D. Julian. How is this? Both the drama and 
 inspiration are faithless to my poor friend. 
 
 Ernest. This is how I stand. When I first 
 conceived the idea, I imagined it full of promise, but 
 when I attempt to give it form, and vest it in appro- 
 priate stage garb, the result shows something ex- 
 traordinary, difficult, undramatic, and impossible. 
 
 D. Julian. How is it impossible? Come, tell 
 me. You've excited my curiosity. 
 
 [Sits down on the sofa. 
 
 Ernest. Imagine the principal personage, one 
 [61 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 who creates the drama and develops it, who gives it 
 life and provokes the catastrophe, who, broadly, 
 fills ai>d possesses it, and yet who cannot make his 
 way to the stage. 
 
 D. Julian. Is he so ugly, then? So repugnant 
 or bad? 
 
 Ernest. Not so. Bad as you or I may be — 
 not worse. Neither good nor bad, and truly not re- 
 pugnant. I am not such a cynic — neither a mis- 
 anthrope, nor one so out of love with life as to fall 
 into such unfairness. 
 
 D. Julian. What, then, is the reason? 
 
 Ernest. The reason, Don Julian, is that, there is 
 no material room in the scenario for this personage. 
 
 D.Julian. Holy Virgin! What do you mean? Is 
 it by chance a mythological drama with Titans in it? 
 
 Ernest. Titans, yes, but in the modern sense of 
 the word. 
 
 D. Julian. That is to say ? 
 
 Ernest. That is to say, this person is . . . 
 everybody. 
 
 D. Julian. Everybody! You are right. There 
 is no room for everybody on the stage. It is an in- 
 controvertible truth that has more than once been 
 demonstrated. 
 
 [7] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. Then you agree with me? 
 
 D. Julian. Not entirely. Everybody may be 
 condensed in a few types and characters. This is 
 matter beyond my depth, but I have always under- 
 stood that the masters have more than once accom- 
 plished it. 
 
 Ernest. Yes, but in my case it is to condemn me, 
 not to write my drama. 
 
 D. Julian. Why? 
 
 Ernest. For many reasons, it would be difficult 
 to explain — above all, at this late hour. 
 
 D. Julian. Never mind. Give me a few. 
 
 Ernest. Look! Each individual of this entire 
 mass, each head of this monster of a thousand heads, 
 of this Titan of the century, whom I call everybody, 
 takes part in my play for a flying moment, to utter 
 but one word, fling a single glance. Perhaps his 
 action in the tale consists of a smile, he appears but 
 to vanish. Listless and absent-minded, he acts with- 
 out passion, without anger, without guile, often for 
 mere distraction's sake. 
 
 D. Julian. What then? 
 
 Ernest. These light words, these fugitive glances, 
 these indifferent smiles, all these evanescent sounds, 
 and this trivial evil, which may be called th« 
 [8] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 insignificant rays of the dramatic light, condensed 
 to one focus, to one group, result in conflagration or 
 explosion, in strife, and in victims. If I represent the 
 whole by a few types or symbolical personages, I be- 
 stow upon each one that which is really dispersed 
 among many, and such a result distorts my idea. I 
 must bring types on the stage whose guile repels, and 
 is the less natural because evil in them has no object. 
 This exposes me to a worse consequence, to the ac- 
 cusation of meaning to paint a cruel, corrupted, and 
 debased society, when my sole pretention is to prove 
 that not even the most insignificant actions are in 
 themselves insignificant or lost for good or evil. For, 
 concentrated by the mysterious influences of mod- 
 em life, they may reach to immense effects. 
 
 D. Julian. Say no more, my friend. All this 
 is metaphysics. A glimmer of light, perhaps, but 
 through an infinitude of cloud. However, you under- 
 stand these things better than I do. Letters of 
 exchange, shares, stock, and discount, now — that's 
 another matter. 
 
 Ernest. No, no; you've common sense, and 
 that's the chief thing. 
 
 D. Julian. You flatter me, Ernest. 
 
 Ernest. But you follow me? 
 [9] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Julian. Not in the least. There ought to 
 be a way out of the dij0Bculty. 
 
 Ernest. If that were all! 
 
 D. Julian. What! More? 
 
 Ernest. Tell me what is the great dramatic 
 spring? 
 
 D. Julian. My dear fellow, I don't exactly 
 know what you mean by a dramatic spring. All I 
 can tell you is that I have not the slightest interest 
 in plays where love does not preponderate — above 
 all, unfortunate love, for I have enough of happy love 
 at home. 
 
 Ernest. Good, very good! Then in my play 
 there can be little or no love. 
 
 D. Julian. So much the worse. Though I know 
 nothing of your play, I suspect it will interest no- 
 body. 
 
 Ernest. So I have been telling you. Never- 
 theless, it is possible to put in a Uttle love — and 
 jealousy, too. 
 
 D. Julian. Ah, then, with an interesting in- 
 trigue skilfully developed, and some effective situa- 
 tions 
 
 Ernest. No, nothing of the sort. It will be all 
 simple, ordinary, almost vulgar ... so that 
 [10] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 the drama will not have any external action. The 
 drama evolves within the personages: it advances 
 slowly: to-day takes hold of a thought, to-morrow of 
 a heart-beat, little by little undermines the will. 
 
 D. Julian. But who understands all this? How 
 are these interior ravages manifested? Who re- 
 counts them to the audience? In what way are 
 they evident? Must we spend a whole evening 
 hunting for a glance, a sigh, a gesture, a single word? 
 My dear boy, this is not amusement. To cast us 
 into such depths is to hurl us upon philosophy. 
 
 Ernest. You but echo my own thought. 
 
 D. Julian. I have no wish to discourage you. 
 You best know what you are about — there. 
 Though the play seems rather colourless, heavy, 
 uninteresting, perhaps if the denoument is sensa- 
 tional — and the explosion — eh? 
 
 Ernest. Sensation! Explosion! Hardly, and 
 that only just upon the fall of the curtain. 
 
 D. Julian. Which means that the play begins 
 when the curtain falls? 
 
 Ernest. I am inclined to admit it. But I will 
 endeavour to give it a little warmth. 
 
 D. Julian. My dear lad, what you have to do 
 is to write the second play, the one that begins where 
 
 [ 11 ] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 the first ends. For the other, according to your 
 description, would be diflScult to write, and is not 
 worth the trouble. 
 
 Ernest. 'Tis the conclusion I have come to 
 myself. 
 
 D. Julian. Then we agree, thanks to your skill 
 and logic. And what is the name? 
 
 Ernest. That's another diflficulty. I can find 
 none. 
 
 D. Julian. What do you say? No name either? 
 
 Ernest. No, unless, as Don Hermogenes^ says, 
 we could put it into Greek for greater clarity. 
 
 D. Julian. Of a surety, Ernest, you were dozing 
 when I came in. You have been dreaming non- 
 sense. 
 
 Ernest. Dreaming! yes. Nonsense! perhaps. 
 I talk both dreams and nonsense. But you are sen- 
 sible and always right. 
 
 D. Julian. In this case it does not require much 
 penetration. A drama in which the chief personage 
 cannot appear; in which there is hardly any love; in 
 which nothing happens but what happens every 
 day; that begins with the fall of the curtain upon the 
 
 * A pedant in Moratin's Comedia Nueva, who quotes Greek 
 incessantly to make himself better understood. — Tran. 
 
 [12] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 last act, and which has no name. I don't know how 
 it is to be written, still less how it is to be acted, how 
 it is to find an audience, nor how it can be called a 
 drama. 
 
 Ernest. Nevertheless, it is a drama, if I could 
 only give it proper form, and that I can't do. 
 
 D. Julian. Do you wish to follow my advice? 
 
 Ernest. Can you doubt it? — you, my friend, 
 my benefactor, my second father! Don Julian! 
 
 D. Julian. Come, come, Ernest, don't let us 
 drop into a sentimental drama on our own account 
 instead of yours, which we have declared impossible. 
 I asked you if you would take my advice. 
 
 Ernest. And I said yes. 
 
 D. Julian. Then, leave aside your plays. Go 
 to bed, rest yourself, and come out shooting with me 
 to-morrow. Kill a few partridges, and that will be an 
 excuse for your not killing one or two characters, and 
 not exposing yourself to the same fate at the hands 
 of the public. After all, you may thank me for it. 
 
 Ernest. I'll do no such thing. I mean to write 
 that play. 
 
 D. Julian. But, my poor fellow, you've con- 
 ceived it in mortal sin. 
 
 Ernest. I don't know, but it is conceived. I 
 [13] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 feel it stir in my brain. It clamours for life, and I 
 must give it to the world. 
 
 D. Julian. Can't you find another plot? 
 
 Ernest. But this idea? 
 
 D. Julian. Send it to the devil. 
 
 Ernest. Ah, Don Julian, you believe that an 
 idea which has gripped the mind can be effaced and 
 destroyed at pleasure. I want to think out another 
 play, but this accursed idea won't give it room, until 
 it itself has seen the Ught. 
 
 D. Julian. God grant you a happy delivery. 
 
 Ernest. That's the question, as Hamlet says. 
 
 D. Julian. Couldn't you cast it into the literary 
 foundling hospital of anonymity? [In a low voice 
 with an air of comical mystery.] 
 
 Ernest. Don Julian, I am a man of conscience. 
 Good or bad, my children are legitimate. They 
 bear my name. 
 
 D. Julian [Preparing to go]. I have nothing 
 more to say. What must be done will be done. 
 
 Ernest. I wish it were so. Unfortunately, it is 
 not done. But no matter; if I don't do it, somebody 
 else will. 
 
 D. Julian. Then to work, and good luck, and 
 may nobody rob you of your laurels. 
 [14] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Scene III 
 Ernest, Don Julian, and Teodora. 
 
 Teodora [Outside]. Julian, Julian! 
 
 D. Julian. It's Teodora. 
 
 Teodora. Are you there, Julian? 
 
 D. Julian [Going to the door]. Yes, I'm here. 
 Come in. 
 
 Teodora [Entering]. Good-evening, Ernest. 
 
 Ernest. Good-evening, Teodora. Was the sing- 
 ing good.f^ 
 
 Teodora. As usual; and have you been working 
 much? 
 
 Ernest. As usual; nothing. 
 
 Teodora. Then you'd have done better to come 
 with us. They all asked after you. 
 
 Ernest. It seems that everybody is interested 
 in me. 
 
 D. Julian. I should think so, since everybody is 
 to be the principal personage of your play. You 
 may imagine if they are anxious to be on good terms 
 with you. 
 
 Teodora. A play? 
 
 D. Julian. Hush! 'Tis a mystery. Ask no 
 questions. Neither title, nor characters, nor action, 
 [15] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 nor catastrophe — the sublime! Good-night, Ernest. 
 Come, Teodora. 
 
 Ernest. Adieu, Don Julian. 
 
 Teodora. Till to-morrow. 
 
 Ernest. Good-night. 
 
 Teodora [To Don Julian]. How preoccupied 
 Mercedes was! 
 
 D. Julian. And Severo was in a rage. 
 
 Teodora. Why, I wonder. 
 
 D. Julian. How do I know? On the other hand, 
 Pepito chattered enough for both. 
 
 Teodora. He always does, and nobody escapes 
 his tongue. 
 
 D. Julian. He's a character for Ernest's play. 
 Exeunt Teodora, and Don Julian by right. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 Ernest. Let Don Julian say what he will, I 
 won't abandon the undertaking. That would be 
 signal cowardice. Never retreat — always forward. 
 [Rises and begins to walk about in an agitated way. 
 Then approaches the balcony.] Protect me, night. 
 In thy blackness, rather than in the azure clear- 
 ness of day, are outlined the luminous shapes of 
 [16] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 inspiration. Lift your roofs, you thousand houses 
 of this great town, as well for a poet in dire necessity 
 as for the devil on two sticks who so wantonly ex- 
 posed you. Let me see the men and women enter 
 your drawing-rooms and boudoirs in search of the 
 night's rest after fevered pleasures abroad. Let my 
 acute hearing catch the stray words of all those who 
 inquired for me of Don Julian and Teodora. As the 
 scattered rays of light, when gathered to a focus by 
 diaphanous crystal, strike flame, and darkness is 
 forged by the crossed bars of shadow; as mountains 
 are made from grains of earth, and seas from drops of 
 water: so will I use your wasted words, your vague 
 smiles, your eager glances, and build my play of all 
 those thousand trivialities dispersed in cafes, at re- 
 unions, theatres, and spectacles, and that float now 
 in the air. Let the modest crystal of my intelligence 
 be the lens which will concentrate light and shadow, 
 from which will spring the dramatic conflagration 
 and the tragic explosion of the catastrophe. Al- 
 ready my play takes shape. It has even a title now, 
 for there, under the lamp-shade, I see the immortal 
 work of the immortal Florentine. It offers me in 
 Italian what in good Spanish it would be risky and 
 futile audacity either to write on paper or pronounce 
 [171 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 on the stage. Francesca and Paolo, assist me with 
 the story of your loves! [Sits down and prepares 
 to vmte.] The play . . . the play begins. 
 . . . First page — there, 'tis no longer white. 
 It has a name. [Writing.] The Great Galeoto. 
 [Writes feverishly.] 
 
 END OF PROLOGUE 
 
 1181 
 
ACT I 
 
ACT I 
 
 Scene: A drawing-room in Don Julian's house. At 
 the back of the stage a large door^ and beyond a pass- 
 age, separating it from the dining-room door, which 
 remains closed throughout the act; on the left a bal- 
 cony, and beyond it a door; on the right two doors; on 
 the stage a table, an armchair, handsome and luxuri- 
 ous mounting. Hour, toward sunset. 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Teodora and Don Julian. Teodora near the 
 balcony; Don Julian seated on the sofa, lost in 
 thought. 
 
 Teodora. What a lovely sunset! what clouds 
 and light, and what a sky! Suppose it were true, 
 as the poets say, and our fathers believed, that our 
 fate is stamped upon the azure heaven! Were the 
 mysterious secret of human destiny traced by the 
 stars upon the sapphire sphere, and this splendid 
 evening should hold the cipher of ours, what happi- 
 [21] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 ness it must disclose! what a smiling future! What 
 a life in our life, and what radiance in our heaven! 
 Is it not so, Julian? [She approaches Don Julian.] 
 Ah, plunged in thought, I see! Come and look out. 
 What, no word for me? 
 
 D. Julian [Absently]. What is it? 
 
 Teodora [Coming near]. You have not been 
 listening to me! 
 
 D. JjJLiAN. You have my heart ever — who 
 are its magnet and its centre. But my mind is 
 apt to be besieged by preoccupations, cares, bus- 
 iness 
 
 Teodora. They are the plague of my life, since 
 they rob me, if not of my husband's affections, at 
 least of some of his attention. But what is the mat- 
 ter, Julian? [Affectionately.] Something worries 
 you. Is it serious, that you are so solemn and so 
 silent? If it should be trouble, Julian, remember 
 that I have a right to share it. My joys are yours, 
 and your sorrows are no less mine. 
 
 D. Julian. Sorrows! Troubles! Are you not 
 happy? Do I not possess in you the living embodi- 
 ment of joy? With those cheeks so ruddy in the 
 glow of health, and those dear eyes, clear like your 
 soul and resplendent as the sky, and I the owner of 
 [22] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 all you, could pain, or shadow, or grief teach me I am 
 other than the happiest man alive? 
 
 Teodora. It is a business annoyance, perhaps? 
 
 D. Julian. Money never yet forced sleep or 
 appetite to forsake me. I have never felt aversion, 
 much less contempt for it, so it follows that the 
 article has flowed easily into my coffers. I was rich, 
 I am rich; and until Don Julian of Gargarga dies of 
 old age, please God and his own good fortune, he will 
 remain, if not the wealthiest, certainly the surest, 
 banker of Madrid, Cadiz, and Oporto. 
 
 Teodora. Then what is your preoccupation? 
 
 D. Julian. I was thinking — 'tis a good thought, 
 too. 
 
 Teodora. Naturally, since 'tis yours. 
 
 D. Julian. Flatterer! you would spoil me. 
 
 Teodora. But I am still unenlightened. 
 
 D. Julian. There is an important matter that I 
 want to achieve. 
 
 Teodora. Connected with the new works? 
 
 D. Julian. No; it has nothing to do with stone 
 or iron. 
 
 Teodora. What, then? 
 
 D. Julian. It is a question of kindness — a 
 sacred debt of old date. 
 
 [23] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora [Gleefully]. Oh, I can guess now. 
 
 D. Julian. So! 
 
 Teodora. You mean Ernest. 
 
 D. Julian. You are right. 
 
 Teodora. Yes, yes, you must. Poor lad! He's 
 so good and noble and generous. 
 
 D. Julian. Quite his father's son — the model 
 of a loyal hidalgo. 
 
 Teodora. And then so clever! Only twenty-six, 
 and a prodigy! What doesn't he know? 
 
 D. Julian. Know! I should think he did know. 
 That's nothing — rather, that's the worst of 
 it. While he is wandering in the sphere of sublime 
 thought, I fear he's not likely to learn much of a 
 world so deceptive and prosaic as ours, which takes 
 no interest in the subtleties of the mind until three 
 centuries after genius has been buried. 
 
 Teodora. But with you for a guide, Julian — 
 you don't intend to abandon him yet a while, 
 surely? 
 
 D. Julian. God forbid. I should be black- 
 hearted indeed if I would so readily forget all I owe 
 his father. Don Juan of Acedo risked for my family 
 name and wealth, ay, almost his life. Should this 
 lad need mine, he might ask it, and welcome. 
 [24] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 'Twould be but just payment of the debt my name 
 represents. 
 
 Teodora. Well said, Julian. It is like you. 
 
 D. Julian. You remember, about a year ago, I 
 heard my good friend was dead, and his son was left 
 badly off. I lost no time, caught the train to Ger- 
 ona, nearly used, force, and carried the boy back 
 here. When he stood in the midde of this room I 
 said to him: "You are master here; you may com- 
 mand me and mine. Since I owe your father every- 
 thing, you must regard me in the light of his repre- 
 sentative. If I fall short, my desire is to come as 
 near as possible to him. As for the amount of affec- 
 tion I have to dispose of — we'll see if I don't out- 
 race him there." 
 
 Teodora. I remember it well. The soft-hearted 
 fellow burst out crying, and clung to you like a 
 child. 
 
 D. Julian. He's but a child, as you say. That's 
 why we must think and plan for him. And 'twas 
 of that I was so seriously thinking a moment ago. I 
 was meditating a half-formed project, while you, 
 dear, wanted me to contemplate a panorama of 
 radiant cloud, and scarlet sun that cannot compare 
 with the sun that shines in my own heaven. 
 [25] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. I cannot divine your idea. What is it 
 you project doing for Ernest? 
 
 D. Julian. Those are my words. 
 
 Teodora. But is there something yet undone 
 that you expect to discover? He has Uved with us 
 for the past year Uke one of ourselves. Were he 
 your son, or a brother of mine, could you show him 
 more tenderness, I more affection? 
 
 D. Julian. It is much, but not enough. 
 
 Teodora. Not enough! I fancy 
 
 D. Julian. You are thinking of the present, and 
 I of the future. 
 
 Teodora. Oh! the future! That is easily set- 
 tled. See, he lives here with us as long as he likes, 
 for years. It is his home. Then when the just and 
 natural law prompts him to fall in love and desire 
 another, we will marry him. You will nobly share 
 your wealth with him, and we will lead them from 
 the altar to their own house — he and she. The prov- 
 erb, you know, says wisely, "for each wedded pair 
 a house." He will live just a little away from us, 
 but that will be no reason for our forgetting him, 
 or loving him less. I see it all distinctly. They are 
 happy, and we even happier. They have children, 
 of course, and we perhaps more — well, at least, one 
 [26] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 little girl, who will fall in love with Ernest's son, and 
 to whom we will marry her by and by. [Spoken 
 playfully, with volubility, grace, blushes, and lively 
 gestures, according to the actress* talents.] 
 
 D. Julian. But where in heaven's name are you 
 going to stop? [Laughing.] 
 
 Teodora. You spoke of his future, Julian, and 
 I*ve sketched it. If not this one, I will neither ap- 
 prove nor accept it. 
 
 D. Julian. How like you, Teodora! but 
 
 Teodora, Ah, there is a but already. 
 
 D. Julian. Listen, Teodora. It is but a debt 
 we owe to look after the poor fellow as if he were a 
 relative, and obligation runs with the exactions of 
 our affection. So much for himseK, so much for his 
 father's son. But every human action is complex, 
 has two points of view, and every medal has its re- 
 verse. Which means, Teodora, that you must 
 understand it is a very different matter to give and 
 receive favours; and that in the end Ernest might 
 feel my protection a humiliation. He's a high- 
 spirited, fine lad, a trifle haughty perhaps, and it is 
 imperative that there should be an end to his present 
 position. We may, if we can, do more for him, but 
 we must seem to do less. 
 
 [27] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. How so? 
 
 D. Julian. We'll see — but here he comes. 
 [Looks down the stage.] 
 Teodora. Hush! 
 
 Scene II 
 Don Julian, Teodora, and Ernest behind, 
 
 D. Julian. Welcome! 
 
 Ernest. Don Julian — and Teodora! [Salutes 
 absently. Sits down near the table in pensive silence.] 
 
 D. Julian [Approaching him]. What's the mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Ernest. Nothing. 
 
 D. Julian. You look as if something ailed you 
 — your preoccupation reveals it. No trouble, I 
 hope? 
 
 Ernest. Nonsense. 
 
 D. Julian. Nor disappointment? 
 
 Ernest. None whatever. 
 
 D. Julian. I don't annoy you? 
 
 Ernest. You! good heavens! [Rises and conies 
 toward him effusively.] You speak out of the right of 
 friendship and affection, and you read me through 
 and through. Yes, sir, there is indeed something 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 the matter. I will tell you, if you, and you also, 
 Teodora, out of your pity, will hold me excused. I 
 am an ungrateful fool, a mere boy, in truth, deserv- 
 ing neither of your kindness nor of your affection. 
 Possessing such a father and such a sister, I ought to 
 be happy, with no care for the morrow. But it is 
 not so. I blush to explain it — can't you under- 
 stand? Yes, yes, you must see how false my posi- 
 tion is. I live here on alms. [With energy.] 
 
 Teodora. Such a word 
 
 Ernest. Teodora! 
 
 Teodora. Affronts us. 
 
 Ernest. I expressed myself ill — but it is so. 
 
 D. Julian. I say it is not so. If any one in this 
 house lives upon alms, and those no slight ones, it is 
 I and not you. 
 
 Ernest. I am acquainted, sir, with the story of 
 two loyal friends, and of some money matters long 
 forgotten. It does honour to my father and to his 
 hidalgic race. But I am ashamed in profiting by it. 
 I am young, Don Julian, and although I may not be 
 worth much, there ought still to be some way for me 
 to earn my bread. It may be pride or folly. I can- 
 not say. But I remember what my father used to 
 say: **What you can do yourself, never ask another 
 [291 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 to do. What you can earn, never owe to any one 
 else." 
 
 ■ D. Julian. So that my services humiliate and 
 degrade you. You count your friends importu- 
 nate creditors. 
 
 Teodora. Reason may be on your side, Ernest, 
 and in knowledge you are not deficient, but, believe 
 me, in this case the heart alone speaks with wisdom. 
 
 D. Julian. Your father did not find me so un- 
 generous or so proud. 
 
 Teodora. Ah, friendship was then a very dif- 
 ferent thing. 
 
 Ernest . Teodora ! 
 
 Teodora [To Don Julian]. What a noble 
 anxiety he displays! 
 
 Ernest. I know I seem ungrateful — I feel it 
 — and an idiot to boot. Forgive me, Don Julian. 
 
 D. Julian. His head is a forge. 
 
 Teodora [Also apart to Don Julian]. He 
 doesn't live in this world. 
 
 D. Julian. Just so. He's full of depth and 
 learning, and lets himself be drowned in a pool of 
 water. 
 
 Ernest [Meditatively], True, I know little of 
 life, and am not well fitted to make my way through 
 [30] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 it. But I divine it, and shudder, I know not why. 
 Shall I founder on the world's pool as upon the high 
 sea? I may not deny that it terrifies me far more 
 than the deep ocean. The sea only reaches the 
 limit set by the loose sand: over all space travel the 
 emanations of the pool. A strong man's arms can 
 struggle with the waves of the sea, but no one can 
 struggle against subtle miasma. But if I fall, I 
 must not feel the humiliation of defeat. I wish and 
 pray that at the last moment I may see the approach 
 of the sea that will bear m'e away at its will; see the 
 sword that is to pierce me, the rock against which I 
 am to be crushed. I must measure my adversary's 
 strength, and despise it falling, despise it dying, in- 
 stead of tamely breathing the venom scattered 
 through the ambient air. 
 
 D. Julian [To Teodora]. Didn't I tell you he 
 was going out of his mind? 
 
 Teodora. But, Ernest, where are you wander- 
 ing? 
 
 D. Julian. Yes. What has all this to do with 
 the matter? 
 
 Ernest. Sir, I have come to the conclusion that 
 others, seeing me housed and fed here, are saying of 
 me what I long have thought. They see me con- 
 [31] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 stantly driving out with you, in the morning walking 
 with Teodora or Mercedes, in your opera-box, hunt- 
 ing on your lands, and daily occupying the same 
 place at your table. Though you would like to think 
 otherwise, in one way or another the gossip runs: 
 Who is he? Is he a relation? Not so. The secre- 
 tary? Still less. A partner? If a partner, it may 
 be accepted he brings little or nothing to the general 
 fund. So they chatter. 
 
 D. Julian. By no means. You are raving. 
 
 Ernest. I beg to contradict you. 
 
 D. Julian. Then give me a name. 
 
 Ernest. Sir 
 
 D. Julian. One will do. 
 
 Ernest. There is one at hand — upstairs. 
 
 D. Julian. Name him. 
 
 Ernest. Don Severo. 
 
 D. Julian. My brother? 
 
 Ernest. Exactly, your brother. Will that suf- 
 fice? or shall we add his respected wife. Dona Mer- 
 cedes? and Pepito, their son? What have you to say, 
 then? 
 
 D. Julian. That Severo is a fool, Mercedes an 
 idle chatterer, and the lad a puppy. 
 
 Ernest. They only repeat what they hear. 
 [32] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Julian. It is not true. This is false reason- 
 ing. Between gentlemen, when the intention is 
 honourable, what can the opinion of the world 
 really matter.^ The meaner it is, the loftier our dis- 
 dain of it. 
 
 Ernest. 'Tis nobly said, and is what all well- 
 bred men feel. But I have been taught that gossip, 
 whether inspired by malice or not, which is accord- 
 ing to each one's natural tendency, begins in a lie and 
 generally ends in truth. Does gossip, as it grows, 
 disclose the hidden sin? Is it a reflex of the past, or 
 does it invent evil and give it existence? Does it set 
 its accursed seal upon an existent fault, or merely 
 breed that which was, yet not, and furnish the occas- 
 ion for wrong? Should we call the slanderer in- 
 famous or severe? the accomplice or the divulger? 
 the public avenger or the tempter? Does he arrest 
 or precipitate our fall? wound through taste or duty? 
 and when he condemns, is it from justice or from 
 spite? Perhaps both, Don Julian. Who can say? 
 though time, occasion, and facts may show. 
 
 D. Julian. See here, Ernest, I don't understand an 
 
 iota of all this philosophizing. I presume 'tis on such 
 
 nonsense you waste your intelligence. But I don't 
 
 want you to be vexed or worried. It's true — you 
 
 133] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 really wish for austere independence, to stand alone 
 at a post of honour? 
 
 Ernest. Don Julian! 
 
 D. Julian. Answer me. 
 
 Ernest [Joyously]. Yes. 
 
 D. Julian. Then count it gained. At this very 
 moment I have no secretary. I am expecting one 
 from London. But nobody would suit me better 
 than a certain young fool, who is enamoured of pov- 
 erty. [Speaks in pleasant reproach.] His work and 
 salary will, of course, be settled as any one else's, 
 though he be a son to one who cherishes him as 
 such. 
 
 Ernest. Don Julian! 
 
 D. Julian [Affecting comical severity]. Remem- 
 ber, I am an exacting business man, and I have not 
 the habit of giving my money away for nothing. I 
 Intend to get as much as possible out of you, and 
 work you hard. In my house the bread of just 
 labour alone is consumed. By the clock, ten hours, 
 starting at daybreak, and when I choose to be severe, 
 you will see that Severo himself is no match for me. 
 So, before the world, you pose as the victim of my 
 selfishness . . . but in private, dear boy, ever 
 the same, the centre of my dearest affections. [(7n- 
 [34] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 able to maintain the former tone, Don Julian breaks 
 off, and holds his hand out to Ernest.] 
 
 Ernest [Deeply moved]. Don Julian! 
 
 D. Julian. You accept, then? 
 
 Ernest. I am yours to command. 
 
 Teodora [To Don Julian]. At last you have 
 tamed the savage. 
 
 Ernest [To Don Julian]. Anything for your 
 sake. 
 
 D. Julian. So would I have you always, Ernest. 
 And now I have to write to my London correspond- 
 ent, and thank him, and while recognizing the 
 extraordinary merit of his Englishman, whom he ex- 
 tols to the skies, regret that I have already engaged a 
 young man. \Walks toward the first door on the right 
 hand.] This is how we stand for the present; but in 
 the future — it will be as partners. [Returns with an 
 air of mystery.] 
 
 Teodora. Stop, Julian, I beg of you. Can't 
 you see that he will take alarm? [Don Julian goes 
 out on the right, and laughs to himself, looking back at 
 Ernest.] 
 
 Scene III 
 
 Teodora and Ernest. Toward the end of the last 
 [35] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 scene twilight has fallen^ so that at this moment the 
 room is in deep shadow. 
 
 Ernest. I am dazed by so much kindness. How 
 can I ever repay it? [He sits down on the sofa, dis- 
 playing great emotion. Teodora walks over and stands 
 beside him.] 
 
 Teodora. By ejecting the spirit of pride and dis- 
 trust; by being sensible and believing that we truly 
 love you, that we will never change; and by putting 
 full faith in all Julian's promises. His word is 
 sacred, Ernest, and in him you will always have a 
 father, in me a sister. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 Teodora, Ernest, Dona Mercedes, and Don 
 Severo. The latter remains standing behind as they 
 enter. The room is quite dark, save for a glimmer of 
 light shed from the balcony, whither Ernest and 
 Teodora have moved. 
 
 Ernest. How good you are! 
 Teodora. And you, what a boy! After to-day 
 I hope you have done with sadness — eh? 
 Ernest. Quite. 
 
 Mercedes [Outside, speaking low]. How dark it is! 
 [36] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Severo [In same tone]. Come away, 
 Mercedes. 
 
 Mercedes [Crossing the threshold]. There is no- 
 body here. 
 
 D. Severo [Detaining her]. Yes, there is. [Both 
 stand a while peering.] 
 
 Ernest. Teodora, my whole Ufe, a thousand 
 lives would still not be enough to offer you in return 
 for your kindness. Don't judge me by my morose 
 temper. I cannot lend a showy front to my affec- 
 tions, but, believe me, I do know how to love — and 
 hate as well. My heart can beat to bursting under 
 the lash of either sentiment. 
 
 Mercedes [ To Severo] . What are they saying ? 
 
 D. Severo. Something odd, but I hear imper- 
 fectly. [Teodora and Ernest go out on the balcony, 
 speaking low.] 
 
 Mercedes. Tis Ernest. 
 
 D. Severo. And she — I suppose — is 
 
 Mercedes. Teodora. 
 
 D. Severo. Their eternal tricks — always to* 
 gether. I can stand no more of this. And their 
 words? I mustn't put it off any longer 
 
 Mercedes. True, Severo. Come away. It is 
 certainly your duty, since everybody is talking. 
 [37] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Severo. Yes, I must open Julian's eyes — 
 to-day, at once. 
 
 Mercedes. The fellow has impudence enough, 
 and to spare. 
 
 D. Severo. By all that's holy — so has she. 
 
 Mercedes. Poor girl! She's but a child. 
 Leave her to me. 
 
 Teodora. Another house? Surely no. You 
 wouldn't leave us.^^ What an idea! Julian would 
 never consent. 
 
 D . Severo [ To Dona Mercedes] . I should think 
 not indeed, neither would I. [Aloud.] Ah,Teodora,you 
 didn't see me.^ This is how you receive your guests. 
 
 Teodora [Coming from the balcony], Don Se- 
 vero! I am delighted. 
 
 Mercedes. Is there no dinner this evening? It's 
 near the hour. 
 
 Teodora. Mercedes, too! 
 
 Mercedes. Yes, Teodora. 
 
 D. Severo [Aside]. She is a capital actress. 
 What a creature! 
 
 Teodora. I must ring for lights. [Touches the 
 bell on the table.] 
 
 D. Severo. Quite so. Every one Ukes plenty of 
 light. 
 
 [381 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Servant. Madam? 
 
 Teodora. Bring the lamps, Genaro. 
 
 [Exit servant. 
 
 D. Sevebo. He who follows the narrow path of 
 loyalty and duty, and is always that which he ap- 
 pears to be, need never fear the light, nor blush in its 
 glare. 
 
 [The servant enters with lamps, the stage 
 is brilliantly illuminated. After a 
 pause.] 
 
 Teodora [Laughing naturalhj]. So I should 
 think, and such, I imagine, is the general opinion. 
 [Looks at Mercedes.] 
 
 Mercedes. I suppose so. 
 
 D. Severo. HuUoa, Don Ernest! what were you 
 doing out there? Were you with Teodora when we 
 came in? [Speaks with marked intention,] 
 
 Ernest [Coldly]. I was here as you see. 
 
 D. Severo. The deuce you were! It is rather 
 dark to see. [Approaches him with outstretched handy 
 looking fixedly at him. Teodora and Mercedes 
 converse apart. Aside.] His face is flushed, and he 
 appears to have been crying. In this world only 
 children and lovers weep. [Aloud.] And Julian? 
 
 Teodora. He went away to write a letter. 
 [39] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest [Aside]. Though I have patience to 
 spare, this man tries me hard. 
 
 D. Severo [To Teodora], I am going to see 
 him. There is still time before dinner .^^ 
 
 Teodora. Plenty. 
 
 D. Severo. Good. Then to work. [Aside, rub- 
 bing his hands, and looking back at Ernest and Teo- 
 dora. Aloud.] Good-bye. 
 
 Teodora. Good-bye. 
 
 D . Severo [Rancorously, from the door] . My faith ! 
 
 Scene V 
 
 Teodora, Dona Mercedes, and Ernest. The ladies 
 occupy the sofa, and Ernest stands n^ar them. 
 
 Mercedes [To Ernest]. We did not see you 
 to-day. 
 
 Ernest. No, madam. 
 
 Mercedes. Nor Pepito? 
 
 Ernest. No. 
 
 Mercedes. He is upstairs alone. 
 
 Ernest [Aside]. Let him stop there. 
 
 Mercedes [Gravely and mysteriously to Teo- 
 dora] . I wish he would go. I want to speak to you. 
 
 Teodora. Indeed? 
 
 [40] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Mercedes [In same tone]. Yes, it is something 
 very serious. 
 
 Teodora. Well, begin! 
 
 Mercedes. Why doesn't he go? 
 
 Teodora [In a low voice]. I don't understand 
 you. 
 
 Mercedes. Courage! [Takes her hand and 
 clasps it affectionately. Teodora looks at her in 
 sombre question.] Send him about his business. 
 
 Teodora. If you insist. Ernest, will you do me 
 a favour? 
 
 Ernest. Gladly — with a thousand wills. 
 
 Mercedes [Aside]. One were still too many. 
 
 Teodora. Then go upstairs — to Pepito — but 
 it might bore you to carry a message. 
 
 Ernest. By no means. 
 
 Mercedes [Aside]. In what a sweet, soft voice 
 he speaks to her! 
 
 Teodora. Tell him — ask him if he has renewed 
 our subscription at the opera as I told him. He 
 knows about it. 
 
 Ernest. With pleasure — this very moment. 
 
 Teodora. Thanks, Ernest, I am sorry 
 
 Ernest. Nonsense. [Exit. 
 
 Teodora. Adieu! 
 
 [411 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Scene VI 
 Teodora and Dona Mercedes. 
 
 Teodora. Something serious? You alarm me, 
 Mercedes. Such mystery! What can it mean? 
 
 Mercedes. It is indeed very serious. 
 
 Teodora. Concerning whom? 
 
 Mercedes. All of you. 
 
 Teodora. All of us? 
 
 Mercedes. Julian, Ernest, and you, 
 
 Teodora. All three? 
 
 Mercedes. Yes, all three. [Short pause. Both 
 women stare at each other.] 
 
 Teodora. Then make haste. 
 
 Mercedes [Aside]. I should like to but, no ; 
 
 I must go gently in this unsavoury affair. [Aloud.] 
 Listen, Teodora. My husband is, after all, your 
 husband's brother, and in life and death our for- 
 tunes are one. So that we owe one another in all 
 things protection, help, and advice — is it not so? 
 To-day it may be I who offer assistance, and to- 
 morrow, should I need it, I unblushingly claim it of 
 you. 
 
 Teodora. You may count upon it, Mercedes. 
 But come to the end of the matter now. 
 [421 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Mercedes. Up to to-day, Teodora, I shrank 
 from this step, but Severo urges me. "It can't go 
 on," he insists. "My brother's honour and my own 
 self-esteem forbid me to witness that which fills me 
 with shame and sorrow. On all sides am I assailed 
 with innuendoes, with the smiles, and covert glances, 
 and the reproaches of my friends. There must be 
 an end to this low gossip about us." 
 
 Teodora. Continue, pray. 
 
 Mercedes. Then heed me. [They exchange a 
 prolonged gaze.] 
 
 Teodora. Tell me, what is the gossip? 
 
 Mercedes. The murmuring of the river tells us 
 that its waters are swollen. 
 
 Teodora. I understand nothing of your river 
 and its swollen waters, but do not drive me wild. 
 
 Mercedes [Aside]. Poor child! My heart 
 grieves for her. [Aloud.] So you do not understand 
 me? 
 
 Teodora. I? Not in the least. 
 
 Mercedes [Aside]. How stupid she is! [Aloud, 
 energetically.] You make a laughing-stock of him. 
 
 Teodora. Of whom? 
 
 Mercedes. Why, of your husband, of course. 
 
 Teodora [Impetvx)uslyy rising]. Julian! what a 
 [43] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 falsehood! What wretch could say so? Julian 
 would strike him! 
 
 Mercedes [Endeavouring to soothe her and make 
 her sit down]. He would need a good many hands, 
 then; for, if report speak truly, he would have to 
 strike the entire town. 
 
 Teodora. But what does it all mean? What is 
 the mystery, and what is this talk of the town? 
 
 Mercedes. So you're sorry? 
 
 Teodora. I am sorry. But what is it? 
 
 Mercedes. You see, Teodora, you are quite a 
 child. At your age one is so often thoughtless and 
 light, and then such bitter tears are afterward shed. 
 You still don't understand me? 
 
 Teodora. No, what has such a case to do with 
 me? 
 
 Mercedes. It is the story of a scoundrel and the 
 story of a lady 
 
 Teodora [Eagerly]. Whose name ? 
 
 Mercedes. Her name 
 
 Teodora. Oh, what does it matter? 
 
 [Teodora moves away from Mercedes. 
 who shifts her seat on the sofa to follow 
 her. The double movement of repug- 
 nance and aloofness on Teodora's 
 [44] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 part, and of insistence and protection 
 on Mercedes', is very marked.] 
 Mercedes. The man is a shabby-hearted be- 
 trayer, who, for one hour of pleasure, would thrust 
 upon the woman a life of sorrow : the husband's dis- 
 honour, the ruin of a family, and she left shamed and 
 condemned to social penitence in the world's dis- 
 dain, and to keener punishment still at the whip of 
 her own conscience. 
 
 [Here Teodora, avoiding Mercedes, 
 
 reaches the edge of the sofa, bows her 
 
 head and covers her face with both 
 
 hands. At last she understands.] 
 
 Mercedes [Aside]. Poor little thing! She 
 
 touches me. [Aloud.] This man is not worthy of 
 
 you, Teodora. 
 
 Teodora. But, madam, what is the drift of all 
 this blind emotion? Do not imagine that my eyes 
 are dimmed with fear or horror or tears. They burn 
 with the flame of anger. To whom can such words 
 be addressed? What man do you mean? Is it, 
 
 perchance ? 
 
 Mercedes. Ernest. 
 
 Teodora. Ah! [Pause.] And the woman I? 
 Not so? [Mercedes nods and Teodora rises again.] 
 [45] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Then listen to me, though I may offend you. I 
 know not who is the viler, the inventor of this tale 
 or you who repeat it. Shame upon the meanness that 
 formed the idea, and shame upon the villainy that 
 spreads it! It is so abominable, so fatal, that I al- 
 most feel myself criminal because I cannot instantly 
 reject the thought and forget it. Heavens! Could 
 1 suppose or credit such baseness? Because of his 
 misfortunes I loved him. He was like a brother to 
 me, and Julian was his providence. And he so noble 
 and thorough a gentleman! [Stands staring at Mer- 
 cedes, then turns away her face. Aside.] How she 
 inspects me! I scarcely like to say a good word for 
 him to her. My God! I am compelled already to 
 act a part. 
 
 Mercedes. Be calm, child. 
 
 Teodora [Raising her voice]. Oh, what anguish! 
 I feel cold and inconsolable. Stained in this way 
 by public opinion! Oh, my dearest mother, and 
 you, Julian, my heart's beloved. [She falls sobbing 
 into a chair on the left, and Mercedes strives to console 
 her.] 
 
 Mercedes. I did not imagine — forgive me — 
 don't cry. There, I didn't really believe it was seri- 
 ous. I knew your past exonerated you. But as 
 [46] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 the case stands, you must admit that out of every 
 hundred a hundred would accuse you and Julian of 
 excessive rashness, or say you had led the world to 
 conclude the worst. You a girl of twenty, Julian a 
 man of forty, and Ernest between you, with his head 
 full of romantic thoughts. On the one hand, a hus- 
 band given up to business, on the other a youth to 
 dreams, every day bringing its opportunity, and you 
 there, unoccupied, in the flush of romance. It was 
 wrong for people to conclude the worst because they 
 saw you walking with him, and saw him so often at 
 the theatre with you. But, Teodora, in reason and 
 justice I think that, if the world was bent on seeing 
 evil, you furnished the occasion. Permit me to point 
 out to you that the fault which society most fiercely 
 chastises, pursues most relentlessly and cruelly, and 
 ia every varied imaginable way, both in man and 
 woman is — don't frown so, Teodora — is temerity. 
 
 Teodora [Turning to Mercedes without having 
 heard her]. And you say that Julian 
 
 Mercedes. Is the laughing-stock of the town, 
 and you 
 
 Teodora. Oh, I! That's no matter. But 
 Julian! — Oh, oh, so good, so chivalrous! If he 
 
 only knew 
 
 [47] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 ^Iercedes. He will know, for at this very mo- 
 ment Severo is telling him. 
 
 Teodora. What! 
 
 Julian [Inside]. That will do. 
 
 Teodora. Oh, goodness! 
 
 Julian. Let me alone. 
 
 Teodora. Come away, quickly. 
 
 Mercedes [RtLshing with Teodora toward first 
 door on the right]. Yes, yes, quickly. What folly! 
 [Teodora and Mercedes go to the right.] 
 
 Teodora [Stopping suddenly]. But wherefore, 
 since I am not guilty? Not only does miserable 
 calumny stain us, but it degrades us. It is so steeped 
 in evil, that, against all evidence, its very breath 
 takes the bloom off our consciences. Why should 
 an idle terror cast its mean influence over me.'^ 
 
 [At this Tnoment Don Julian appears on 
 the threshold of the first door on the right 
 hand side, and behind him stands Don 
 Severo.] 
 
 Teodora. Julian! 
 
 D. Julian. Teodora! [She runs over to him, and 
 he folds her in a passionate embrace.] Here in my 
 arms, dearest. It is the home of your honour. 
 
 [48] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Scene VII 
 
 Teodora, Dona Mercedes, Don Julian, and Don 
 Severo. Don Julian and Dona Mercedes 
 form the centre group. 
 
 D. Julian. Let it pass for this once, but, please 
 God! there's an end of it. Whoever in future shall 
 stain this face with tears [pointing to Teodora], I 
 swear, and mean it, will never again cross the thresh- 
 old of my house — though he should be my own 
 brother. [Pause. Don Julian soothes and comforts 
 Teodora.] 
 
 D. Severo. I only mentioned common report. 
 
 D. Julian. Infamous! 
 
 D. Severo. It may be so. 
 
 D. Julian. It is. 
 
 D. Severo. Well, let me tell you what every one 
 says. 
 
 D. Julian. Filth! abominable lies. 
 
 D. Severo. Then repeating them 
 
 D. Julian. 'Tis not the way to put an end to 
 them. [Pause.] 
 
 D. Severo. You are wrong. 
 
 D. Julian. Right — more than right. A fine 
 [49] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 thing it would be if I let you carry the mire of the 
 street into my drawing-room! 
 
 D. Severo. But I will do so. 
 
 D. Julian. You shall not. 
 
 D. Severo. You bear my name. 
 
 D. Julian. Enough. 
 
 D. Severo. And your honour 
 
 D. Julian. Remember that you are in my wife's 
 presence. [Pause.] 
 
 D. Severo [In a low voice to Don Julian]. If 
 our father saw you 
 
 D. Julian. What do you mean, Severo? 
 
 Mercedes. Hush! Here is Ernest. 
 
 Teodora [Aside]. How dreadful! If he should 
 
 know 
 
 [Teodora turns away her face, and 
 holds her head bent. Don Julian 
 looks at her questioningly.] 
 
 Scene VIII 
 
 Teodora, Dona Mercedes, Don Julian, Don Sev- 
 ero, Ernest and Pepito, grouped from left to 
 right. On entering y Pepito stands on Don Julian's 
 side and Ernest walks over to Teodora. 
 
 Ernest [Looking at Don Julian and Teodora. 
 [50] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Aside]. He and she! It is no illusion. Can it be 
 what I feared? what that fool told me. [Referring to 
 Pepito, who at that moment enters behind.] It was 
 not his invention. 
 
 Pepito [Staring strangely about]. My saluta- 
 tions to all, and good appetite — as it is dinner-time. 
 Here are the tickets, Teodora. Don Julian 
 
 Teodora. Thanks, Pepito. [Accepts them me- 
 chanically.] 
 
 Ernest [To'DoN^TTLiANinalowvoice]. What's 
 the matter with Teodora. 
 
 D. Julian. Nothing. 
 
 Ernest [In same tone]. She is pale, and has 
 been crying. 
 
 D. Julian [Angrily]. Don't busy yourself about 
 my wife. [Pause. Don Julian and Ernest ex- 
 change glances.] 
 
 Ernest [Aside]. The wretches! They've com- 
 pleted their work. 
 
 Pepito [In a low voice to his mother, pointing to 
 Ernest]. He ought to have a strait-jacket. I 
 quizzed him about Teodora. Poof ! Ton my word, 
 I thought he'd kill me. 
 
 Ernest [Aloud, with resolution and sadness]. 
 Don Julian, I have thought over your generous offer, 
 [51] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 and much as IVe already abused your kindness, it 
 goes sorely against me to refuse it now. But, sir, I 
 feel that I ought to reject this post you offer me. 
 
 D. Julian. Why? 
 
 Ernest. Because I am so fashioned — a poet 
 and a dreamer. My father, sir, trained me for no 
 career. I want to travel; I am restless and liable to 
 revolt. I am not capable of settling down like an- 
 other. Like a new Columbus, I am bitten by the 
 spirit of adventure. But we will appeal to Don 
 Severo. He will decide if I am right. 
 
 D. Severo. You speak like the book of wisdom 
 and like a man of sense. I have been thinking as 
 you do for a long while. 
 
 D. Julian. Since when have you felt this itch 
 for new worlds and travel? When did you make up 
 your mind to leave us? And the means? — where 
 are they? 
 
 D. Severo. He wants to go away — to some 
 place more to his taste than here. To be just, Julian, 
 the rest is your affair. Give him as much as he 
 wants, too, for this is no time for economy. 
 
 Ernest [To Don Severo]. I don't traffic with 
 dishonour, nor receive alms. [Pause.] Well, it 
 must be so; and as our parting would be a sad one — 
 [52] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 for in this life, who knows? I may never come back, 
 and may not see them again — it is better that we 
 should shake hands now, here, Don Julian, and have 
 it over. Thus we snap the tie, and you forgive my 
 selfishness. [Deeply Tnoved.] 
 
 D. Severo [Aside]. How they stare at one 
 another! 
 
 Teodora [Aside]. What a noble fellow! 
 
 Ernest [To Don Julian]. Why do you with- 
 hold your hand? It is our last adieu, Don Julian. 
 [Goes toward him with outstretched hands. DoN 
 Julian embraces him.] 
 
 D. Julian. No, lad. The question well con- 
 sidered, this is neither the first nor the last. It is 
 the cordial embrace of two honourable men. You 
 must not mention your mad project again. 
 
 D. Severo. Then he is not going away? 
 
 D. Julian. Never! I have not the habit of 
 changing my mind or the plans I have matured be- 
 cause of a boy's caprice or a madman's folly. And I 
 have still less intention of weakly subjecting my ac- 
 tions to the town's idle gossip. 
 
 D. Severo. Julian! 
 
 D. Julian. Enough. Dinner is served. 
 
 Ernest. Father, I cannot 
 
 [53] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Julian. But what if I believe you can? Or 
 does my authority begin to bore you? 
 
 Ernest. I beg you 
 
 D. Julian. Come, dinner is ready. Give your 
 arm to Teodora, and take her in. 
 
 Ernest [Looking at her, but holding back]. To 
 Teodora! 
 
 Teodora [With a similar emotion]. Ernest! 
 D. Julian. Yes, as usual. 
 
 [There is a movement of uncertainty on 
 
 both sides; finally Ernest approaches 
 
 and Teodora takes his arm, but 
 
 neither dares to look at the other, and 
 
 both are abrupt and violently agitated.] 
 
 D.Julian [ToPepito]. And you! The deuce, 
 
 why don't you offer your arm to your mother? My 
 
 good brother Severo will take mine. So, quite a 
 
 family party, and now let pleasure flow with the wine 
 
 in our glasses. So there are gossips about? Well, let 
 
 them chatter and scream. A farthing for all they can 
 
 say. I shouldn't object to a glass house, that they 
 
 might have the pleasure of staring in at Teodora and 
 
 Ernest together, and learn how little I care for their 
 
 spite and their calumnies. Each man to his fancy. 
 
 [Enter servant in black suit and white tie. 
 
 [54 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Servant. Dinner is served. 
 
 [The dining-room door opens and dis- 
 plays a well-appointed table.] 
 D. Julian. Let us look after our life, since it will 
 be the affair of others to look after our death. Come. 
 [Invites the others to pass.] 
 Teodora. Mercedes. 
 Mercedes. Teodora. 
 Teodora. I pray you, Mercedes. 
 
 [Dona Mercedes passes in with Pepito 
 and takes her place at the table. 
 Ernest and Teodora stand plunged 
 in thought, Ernest looking anx- 
 iously at her.] 
 D. Julian [Aside]. He is looking at her, and 
 there are tears in her eyes. 
 
 [Teodora, walking unsteadily and 
 struggling with emotion, slowly follows 
 the others inside.] 
 D. Julian [To Severo]. Are they talking to- 
 gether? 
 
 D. Severo. I don't know, but I think it very 
 probable. 
 
 D. Julian. Why are they looking back at us.^^ 
 Both! Did you notice? I wonder why. 
 [55] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Severo. You see, you are growing reasonable 
 at last! 
 
 D. Julian. No, I've caught your madness. Ah, 
 how sure a thing is calumny ! It pierces straight to 
 the heart. 
 
 [56] 
 
ACT n 
 
ACT II 
 
 Scene represents a small room almost poorly furnished. 
 Door at the end, on the right another door^ and on the 
 left a balcony. A bookcase^ a table, an armchair, 
 on the table Don Julian's portrait in a frame, beside 
 it an empty frame; both small and alike; on the table an 
 unlighted lamp, the ''Divina Commedia,'' open at 
 the Francesca episode, and close to a morsel of burnt 
 paper. Papers scattered about, and the MS. of a 
 play. A few chairs. Time, day. 
 
 Scene I 
 Enter Don Julian, Don Severo and servant below. 
 
 D. Severo. Don Ernest is out? 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. He went out early. 
 
 D. Severo. No matter. We'll wait. I suppose 
 he will be in sooner or later. 
 
 Servant. I should think so. Nobody could be 
 more punctual than he. 
 
 D. Severo. That will do. 
 [59] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Servant. Certainly, sir. If you want anything, 
 you'll find me downstairs. [Exit servant. 
 
 Scene II 
 Don Julian and Don Severo. 
 
 D. Severo [Looking round]. How modest! 
 
 D. Julian. Poor is a better word. 
 
 D. Severo. What a lodging! [Opens the door 
 and peeps in.] An alcove, this study, and an outer 
 room — and that's all. 
 
 D. Julian. And thereby hangs the devil's own 
 tale of human ingratitude, of bastard sentiment, of 
 miserable passions, and of blackguard calumny. 
 And whether you tell it quickly or at length, there's 
 never an end to it. 
 
 D. Severo. It is the work of chance. 
 
 D. Julian. Not so, my dear fellow. It was 
 the work of — well, I know whom. 
 
 D. Severo. Meaning me? 
 
 D. Julian. Yes, you as well. And before you 
 the empty pated idlers whom it behoved to busy 
 themselves shamelessly about my honour and my 
 wife's. And I, coward, mean, and jealous, I let 
 the poor fellow go, despite my evidence of his up- 
 [60] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 right nature. I responded to his nobler conduct by 
 black ingratitude. Yes, ingratitude. You see my 
 ostentatious wealth, the luxury of my surroundings, 
 and equipages, and the credit of my firm. Well, do 
 you know where all that comes from? 
 
 D. Severo. I have quite forgotten. 
 
 D. Julian. Justly said — forgotten! Such is the 
 natural reward of every generous action, of every 
 unusual impulse that prompts one man to help an- 
 other quietly, without a flourish of trumpet or self- 
 advertisement — just for friendship's or for honesty's 
 sake. 
 
 D. Severo. You are unjust to yourself. To 
 such an excess have you pushed gratitude, that you 
 have almost sacrificed honour and fortune to it. 
 What more could be expected — even of a saint? 
 There's a limit to all things, good and evil. He is 
 proud and obstinate, and, however much you may 
 oppose him, 'tis none the less a fact that he's his own 
 master. If he chooses to leave your palace in a fit 
 of despair, for this shanty — 'tis his right. I admit, 
 my dear boy, that it's very sad — but then, who 
 could have prevented it? 
 
 D. Julian. The world in general, if it would 
 mind its own business instead of tearing and rending 
 [61] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 reputations by the movement of its tongue and the 
 sign of its hand. What did it matter to the public 
 if we, fulfilling a sacred duty, treated Ernest, I as a 
 son, and Teodora as a brother? Is it reason enough 
 to assume the worst, and trumpet scandal because a 
 fine lad sits at my table, walks out with my wife, and 
 has his seat in my opera-box? Is by chance impure 
 love the sole supreme bond between man and woman 
 in this world of clay? Is there no friendship, grati- 
 tude, sympathy, esteem, that youth and beauty 
 should only meet in the mire? And even supposing 
 that the conclusion of the fools was the right one, is 
 it their business to avenge me? I have my own eyes to 
 look after my own affairs, and to avenge my wrongs 
 have I not courage, steel, and my own right hand? 
 
 D. Severo. Well, accepting that outsiders were 
 wrong to talk, did you expect me, who am of your 
 blood and bear your name, to hold my tongue? 
 
 D. Julian. By heavens, no! But you should 
 have been more careful. You might have told me 
 alone of this sorry business, and not have set flame 
 to a conflagration under my very roof. 
 
 D. Severo. I erred through excess of affection, 
 I admit. But while I confess that the world and I 
 have done the mischief — it by inventing the situa- 
 [62] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 tion, and I by weakly crediting, and by giving voice 
 to the shabby innuendoes — you, Julian [approaches 
 him and speaks with tender interest]^ have nothing to 
 reproach yourself with. You have the consolation 
 of having acted throughout as a gentleman. 
 
 D. Julian. I cannot so easily console myself, 
 while my heart gives shelter to that same story which 
 my lips and my intelligence reject. I indignantly 
 turn away from the world's calumny, and to myself 
 I say : "What if it should be no lie : if perchance the 
 world should be right .^ " So I stand in strife between 
 two impulses, sometimes judge, sometimes accom- 
 plice. This inward battle wears me out, Severo. 
 Doubt increases and expands, and my heart groans, 
 while before my bloodshot vision stretches a red- 
 dened field. 
 
 D. Severo. Delirium! 
 
 D. Julian. No, 'tis not raving. You see, I bare 
 myself to you as a brother. Think you Ernest 
 would have left my house if I had firmly stood in his 
 way and opposed his crossing the threshold? If so, 
 why does a traitorous voice keep muttering in my 
 disturbed consciousness: " 'twere wise to leave the 
 door open to his exit, and lock it well afterward, for 
 the confiding man is but a poor guardian of honour's 
 [63] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 fortress." In my heart I wish what my lips deny. 
 ''Come back, Ernest," aloud, and to myself '*do not 
 come back," and while I show him a frank front, I am 
 a hypocrite and a coward, watchful and worn with 
 mistrust. No, Severo, this is not to act like an hon- 
 est man. [He drops into the armchair beside the table 
 in deep dejection.] 
 
 D. Severo. It is how any husband would act 
 who had a beautiful young wife to look after, espec- 
 ially one with a romantic temperament. 
 
 D. Jui^iAN. Don't speak so of Teodora. She is 
 a mirror that our breath tarnishes by any imprudent 
 effort to bring it to our level. It gave back the 
 sun's pure light before the million vipers of the earth 
 gathered to stare at it. To-day they crawl within 
 the glass in its divine frame, but they are insub- 
 stantial shadows. My hand can wave them away, 
 and once more you will see the clear blue of heaven. 
 
 D. Severo. All the better. 
 
 D. Julian. No, not so. 
 
 D. Severo. Then what the deuce do you want? 
 
 D. Julian. Oh, so much. I told you that this 
 inward struggle of which I spoke is changing me to 
 another man. Now my wife finds me always sad, 
 always distant. I am not the man I was, and no 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 effort will ever make me so again. Seeing me so 
 changed, she must ask, "Where is Julian? this is not 
 my dear husband; what have I done to forfeit his 
 confidence, and what shabby feeling causes this 
 aloofness?" a shadow lies between us, ever deepening, 
 and slowly, step by step, we move more apart. None 
 of the old dear confidence, none of the old delightful 
 talks; smiles frozen, tones embittered, in me through 
 unjust resentment, in her through tearful grief — I, 
 wounded in my love, and she, by my hand, wounded 
 in her woman's dignity. There's how we stand. 
 
 D. Severo. Then you stand upon the verge of 
 perdition. If you see your position so plainly, why 
 don't you remedy it? 
 
 D. Julian. 'Tis of no use. I know I am unjust 
 to doubt her, nay, worse still. I don't doubt her 
 now. But who will say that, I losing little by little, 
 and he gaining as steadily, the lie of to-day will not 
 to-morrow be truth? [He seizes Don Severo by the 
 army and speaks with voluble earnestness and increasing 
 bitterness.] I, jealous, sombre, unjust and hard, he, 
 noble and generous, resigned and unalterably sweet- 
 natured, with that halo of martyrdom which, in the 
 eyes of women, sits so becomingly on the brow of a 
 brave and handsome youth. Is it not clear that his 
 [65] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 is the better part, and that my loss is his gain? while 
 I can do nothing to alter the injustice of it. You 
 see it, too? And if the ignoble talk of the town 
 should compel those two to treason, though they 
 may now truthfully assert: "we are not lovers," the 
 force of repetition of the word may eventually drive 
 them to the fact. 
 
 D. Severo. If that's how you feel about it, 
 Julian, I think the safest thing would be to let Ernest 
 carry out his project. 
 
 D. Julian. That IVe come to prevent. 
 
 D. Severo. Then you are insane. He purposes 
 to go to Buenos Ayres. Nothing could be better. 
 Let him go — in a sailing vessel, fresh wind to his 
 sail, and good speed. 
 
 D. Julian. Do you wish me to show myself so 
 miserably ungrateful and jealous before Teodora? 
 Don't you know, Severo, that a woman may despise 
 a lover and love him still, but not so a husband? 
 Contempt is his dishonour. You would not have 
 my wife follow the unhappy exile across the ocean 
 with sad regrets? And I, should I see the trace of 
 a tear upon her cheek, the mere thought that it 
 might be for Ernest would drive me to strangle her in 
 my arms. [Speaks with rancour and rage.] 
 [66 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Severo. What is it then you do want? 
 
 D. Julian. I must suffer. The care of unravel- 
 ling the knot belongs to the world that conceived the 
 drama solely by looking at us — so fertile is its glance 
 for good and ill. 
 
 D. Severo [Moving back]. I think somebody is 
 coming. 
 
 Servant [From without, not seen on the stage]. 
 Don Ernest cannot be much later. [Enter Pepito. 
 
 Scene III 
 Don Julian, Don Severo, and Pepito. 
 
 D. Severo. You here? 
 
 Pepito [Aside]. By Jove, I see they know all 
 about it. [Aloud.] We are all here. How do you 
 do, uncle? How do, father? [Aside.] Easy. They 
 know what's in the wind. [Aloud.] What brings 
 you? — but I suppose you are looking for Ernest. 
 
 D. Severo. What else could bring us here? 
 
 D. Julian. I daresay you know what this mad- 
 man is up to? 
 
 Pepito. What he's up to! Well, yes — rather. 
 I know as much as another. 
 
 D. Severo. And it's to-morrow? 
 F 67 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Pepito. No, to-morrow he is going away, so it 
 must be to-day. 
 
 D. Julian [Surprised], What do you say? 
 
 Pepito. That's what Pepe Uceda told me last 
 night at the club. He is Nebreda's second, so he 
 ought to know. But why do you stare so oddly .f^ 
 Didn't you know 
 
 D. Julian [Hastily covering his brother's move' 
 merit] . Everything . 
 
 D. Severo. We 
 
 D. Julian [Aside]. Hold your tongue, Severo. 
 He starts to-morrow and to-day he stakes his life — 
 and we are here, of course, to prevent both, the duel 
 and the departure. [Don Julian makes it evident 
 that he is only sounding Pepito's knowledge of facts, and 
 that he is only aware of the pending departure.] 
 
 D. Severo. What duel? 
 
 D. Julian [Aside to Severo]. I know nothing 
 about it, but I shall presently. 
 
 Pepito [Aside]. Come, I haven't been such a 
 duffer after all. 
 
 D. Julian [Speaking with an air of certainty]. 
 We know there is a viscount 
 
 Pepito. Yes. 
 
 D. Julian. With whom Ernest proposes to fight 
 [68] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 — a certain trustworthy person has informed us, 
 who was at once apprised of it. They say 'tis a 
 serious matter [Pepito nods], a disgraceful quarrel, in 
 the presence of several witnesses [Pepito nods again] 
 
 — the lie direct, and a deluge of bad language! 
 
 Pepito [Interrupts excitedly, glad of his more ac- 
 curate information]. Language indeed! — a blow 
 bigger than a monument. 
 
 D. Severo. On which side? 
 
 Pepito. Ernest struck the viscount. 
 
 D. Julian. Of course Ernest struck the viscount. 
 I thought you knew that, Severo. The viscount in- 
 sulted him. Patience is not the lad's strong point 
 
 — hence the blow. 
 Pepito. Exactly. 
 
 D. Julian [Confidently]. I told you we knew 
 the whole story. [Then anxiously.] The affair is 
 serious? 
 
 Pepito. Most serious. I don't like discussing it, 
 but since you know so much, there is no need for 
 further mystery. 
 
 D. Julian. None whatever. [He approaches 
 Pepito eagerly.] 
 
 Pepito [After a pause, adopts an ominous air to 
 announce bad news]. It is a matter of life and death. 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 [Looks around triumphantly. Don Julian and Don 
 Severo start.] The viscount is neither a chicken nor 
 a skulk. He can handle a sword. 
 
 D. Julian. And the quarrel? What was it? 
 Nebreda is supposed to be 
 
 Pepito. It was hardly a quarrel. I'll tell you 
 the facts. [Both men draw near eagerly.] Ernest, 
 you know, means to leave Madrid to-morrow, and 
 take passage in the Cid lying in Cadiz. Luiz Al- 
 caraz had promised him a letter of introduction, and 
 the poor fellow went off to meet him at the cafe and 
 get it, with the best of intentions. Luiz wasn't there 
 so he waited. Some of the frequenters of Alcaraz's 
 table, who did not know him, were in the full swmg 
 of glorious slander, and did not notice his clenched 
 teeth. A name mentioned meant a reputation 
 blasted. Broad-handed, ready-tongued, every liv- 
 ing soul passed in their review. In this asylum of 
 charity, in the midst of more smoke than an express 
 train emits, between lifted glass and dropped cigar- 
 ette ashes, with here and there a lump of sugar, the 
 marble was converted for the nonce into a dissecting- 
 table: each woman was dishonoured, another glass 
 of the old tap: a shout of laughter for each tippler's 
 cut. In four clippings these lads left reputations 
 [70] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 ragged and the ladies rent to tatters. Yet what did 
 it all come to? They but echoed society at a cafe- 
 table. I don't say all this for myself, nor think it, 
 but 'twas how Ernest spoke when he recounted the 
 quarrel to me. 
 
 D. Julian. Well, make an end of it. 
 
 Pepito. The end of it is, that between name and 
 name, there was mention of one that Ernest could 
 not endure. '*Who dares to ridicule an honourable 
 man? " he shouts. Somebody retorts : ** a lady," and 
 names a woman. His head was instantly on fire, 
 and he flings himseK upon Nebreda. The poor vis- 
 count fell like a ninepin, and there you have an 
 Agramante's camp. The day's business is now a 
 duel — in a room somewhere — I don't know where. 
 
 D. Julian [Seizing his arms]. The man was I! 
 
 Pepito. Sir? 
 
 D. Julian. And Teodora the woman? How 
 have we fallen — she, myself, our love? [Sits down 
 'and covers his face with both hands.] 
 
 D. Severo. What have you done, you block- 
 head! 
 
 Pepito. Didn't he say he knew all about it? and 
 I naturally believed him. 
 
 D. Julian. Dishonoured, dishonoured! 
 [71] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Severo [Approaching him]. Julian, my dear J 
 fellow. 
 
 D. Julian. It is true. I ought to be calm, I 
 know. But what heart can I have when faith is 
 gone? [Seizes his brother's hand.] Just heaven! 
 Why are we so disgraced? What reason have they 
 to turn and throw mud at us? No matter. I know 
 my duty as a gentleman. I can count on you, 
 Severo? , 
 
 D. Severo. On me? Till death, Julian. [They ' 
 shake hands cordially.] 
 
 D. Julian [To Pepito]. The duel? 
 
 Pepito. For three o'clock. 
 
 D. Julian [Aside]. I'll kill him — yes, kill him. 
 Come. [To Severo.] 
 
 D. Severo. Whither? 
 
 D. Julian. To look for this viscount. 
 
 D. Severo. Do you mean ? 
 
 D. Julian. I mean to do what I ought and can 
 to avenge myself and save Don Juan of Acedo's son. 
 Who are the seconds? [To Pepito.] 
 
 Pepito. Alcaraz and Rueda. 
 
 D. Julian. I know them both. Let him stay 
 here [pointing to Pepito], so that in the event of i 
 
 Ernest's return 
 
 [72] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Severo. Of course. 
 
 D. Julian [To Pepito]. Without arousing his 
 suspicion, find out where the duel takes place. 
 
 D. Severo. You hear. 
 
 D. Julian [To his brother]. Come. 
 
 Severo. What's the matter with you, Julian? 
 
 D. Julian. 'Tis a long while since I've felt so 
 overjoyed. [Catches Severo's arm feverishly.] 
 
 D. Severo. The deuce! overjoyed! You're be- 
 side yourself. 
 
 D. Julian. I shall meet that fellow. 
 
 D. Severo. Nebreda? 
 
 D. Julian. Yes. Observe, until to-day cal- 
 umny was impalpable. There was no seizing its 
 shape. I have now discovered it, and it has taken a 
 human form. There it is at hand, in the person of a 
 viscount. Swallowing blood and gall for the past 
 three months — the devil! — and now — fancy, face 
 to face — he and I ! 
 
 [Exeunt Don Julian and Don Severo. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 Pepito. Well, here we are in a nice fix, and all for 
 nothing! However, in spite of my uncle's belief, it 
 was little short of madness to leave a resplendent 
 [73] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 creature under the same roof, and in continual con- 
 tact with a handsome fellow like Ernest, with a soul 
 on fire, or given to romanticism. He swears there's 
 nothing in it, and that his feeling for her is pure 
 affection, that he loves her like a sister, and that my 
 uncle is a father to him. But I am a sly fox, and, 
 young as I am, I know a thing or two of this work. 
 I've no faith in this sort of relations, when the 
 brother is young and the sister is beautiful, and 
 brotherhood between them is fiction. But suppose it 
 were as he says, all square. What do outsiders 
 know about that? Nobody is under any obligation 
 to think the best of his fellows. The pair are seen 
 everywhere together, and, seeing them, haven't their 
 neighbours a right to talk? No, swears Ernest. We 
 hardly ever went out alone. Once, perhaps? That's 
 enough. If a hundred persons saw them on that 
 occasion, it is quite the same as if they had been seen 
 in public a hundred times. Good Lord! How are 
 you going to confront all the witnesses to prove 
 whether it was once or often they chose to give an 
 airing to this pure sympathy and brotherly love? 
 'Tis absurd — neither just nor reasonable. What 
 we see we may mention — 'tis no lie to say it. 
 "I saw them once," says one, "and I," another. 
 [74 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 One and one make two. "And I also" — that 
 makes three. And then a fourth, and a fifth, and 
 so, summing which, you soon enough reach infinity. 
 We see because we look, and our senses are there to 
 help us to pass the time, without any thought of our 
 neighbour. He must look out for himself, and 
 remember that, if he shuns the occasion, calumny and 
 peril will shun him. [Pause.] And take notice that 
 I admit the purity of the affection, and this makes it 
 so serious a matter. Now, in my opinion, the man 
 who could be near Teodora, and not fall in love with 
 her, must be a stone. He may be learned and philo- 
 sophical, and know physics and mathematics, but 
 he has a body like another, and she's there with a 
 divine one, and, body of Bacchus! that's suflBcient 
 to found an accusation on. Ah! if these walls 
 could speak. If Ernest's private thoughts, scattered 
 here, could take tangible form! By Jove! what's 
 this? An empty frame, and beside it Don Julian's 
 likeness in its fellow. Teodora was there, the pen- 
 dant of my respected uncle. Why has she dis- 
 appeared.'^ To avoid temptation .^^ [Sits down at the 
 table.] If that's the reason — it's bad. And still 
 worse if the portrait has left its frame for a more 
 honourable place near his heart. Come forth, sus- 
 [75] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 pected imps that float about, and weave invisible 
 meshes. Ruthlessly denounce this mystic philo- 
 sopher. [Looks about the table and sees the open Dante.] 
 Here's another. I never come here but I find this 
 divine book open on Ernest's table. The Divine 
 Comedy! His favourite poem, and I note that he 
 seems never to get beyond the Francesca page. I 
 conceive two explanations of the fact. Either the 
 fellow never reads it, or he never reads any other. But 
 there's a stain, like a tear-drop. My faith! what 
 mysteries and abysses! And what a difficult thing 
 it is to be married and live tranquilly. A paper 
 half burnt — [picks it up] — there's still a morsel 
 left. 
 
 [Goes over to the balcony trying to read it. 
 At this moment Ernest enters, and 
 stands watching him.] 
 
 Scene V 
 Pepito and Ernest. 
 
 Ernest. What are you looking at? 
 
 Pepito. HuUoa! Ernest. Only a paper I caught 
 on the wing. The wind blew it away. 
 
 Ernest [Takes it and returns it after a short in- 
 spection]. I don't remember what it is. 
 [761 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Pepito. Verses. You may remember [reads with 
 difficulty]. "The flame that consumes me.'* [Aside.] 
 Devora rhymes with Teodora. 
 
 Ernest. It is nothing important. 
 
 Pepito. No, nothing. [Throws away the paper.] 
 
 Ernest. That worthless bit of paper is a symbol 
 of our life — a few sobs of sorrow, and a little flake 
 of ashes. 
 
 Pepito. Then they were verses? 
 
 Ernest. Yes. When I've nothing better to do, 
 sometimes — my pen runs away with me — I write 
 them at night. 
 
 Pepito. And to prick enthusiasm, and get into 
 harness, you seek inspiration in the master's book. 
 
 Ernest. It would seem 
 
 Pepito. Say no more. Tis truly a gigantic work. 
 The episode of Francesca. [Pointing to the page.] 
 
 Ernest [Ironically and impatiently]. You can't 
 guess wrong to-day. 
 
 Pepito. Not entirely, by Jove! Here, where the 
 book is open, I find something I can't guess, and 
 you must explain it to me. Reading a love-tale 
 together to pass the time, we are told that Fran- 
 cesca and Paolo reached that part where the gallant 
 author, proving himself no amateur in the busi- 
 [77] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 ness, sings the loves of Launcelot and Guinevere. 
 The match fell pat. The kiss in the book was re- 
 peated by the passionate youth on the girl's mouth. 
 And at this point of the story, with rare skill and 
 sublime truth, the Florentine poet tells us what 
 happens. [Points to the line.] But this is what I do 
 not understand. " Galeoto " was the book they were 
 reading, and they read no more. They stopped 
 reading? That's easy enough to understand. But 
 this Galeoto, tell me where he comes in, and who was 
 he? You ought to know, since he has given his 
 name to the play that is to make you famous. Let 
 me see. [Takes up the MS. and examines it.] 
 
 Ernest. Galeoto was the go-between for the 
 Queen and Launcelot, and in all loves the third may 
 be truthfully nicknamed Galeoto, above all when 
 we wish to suggest an ugly word without shocking 
 the audience. 
 
 Pepito. I see, but have we no Spanish word to 
 express it? 
 
 Ernest. We have one, quite suitable and ex- 
 pressive enough. 'Tis an office that converts de- 
 sires into ducats, overcomes scruples, and is fed upon 
 the affections. It has a name, but to use it would be 
 putting a fetter upon myself, forcing myself to ex- 
 [78] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 press what, after all, I would leave unsaid. [Takes 
 the MS. from Pepito and flings it upon the table.] 
 Each especial case, I have remarked, has its own 
 especial go-between. Sometimes it is the entire 
 social mass that is Galeoto. It then unconsciously 
 exercises the office under the influence of a vice of 
 quite another aspect, but so dexterously does it work 
 against honour and modesty that no greater Galeoto 
 can ever be found. Let a man and woman live 
 happily, in tranquil and earnest fulfilment of their 
 separate duties. Nobody minds them, and they 
 float along at ease. But God be praised, this is a 
 state of things that does not last long in Madrid. 
 One morning somebody takes the trouble to notice 
 them, and from that moment, behold society en- 
 gaged in the business, without aim or object, on the 
 hunt for hidden frailty and impurity. Then it pro- 
 nounces and judges, and there is no logic that can 
 convince it, nor living man who can hope to per- 
 suade it, and the honestest has not a rag of honour 
 left. And the terrible thing is, that while it begins 
 in error it generally ends in truth. The atmosphere 
 is so dense, misery so envelops the pair, such is 
 the press and torrent of slander, that they uncon- 
 sciously seek one another, unite lovelessly, drift 
 [79 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 toward their fall, and adore each other until death. 
 The word was the stumbling-stone of virtue, and 
 made clear the way for shame — was Galeoto and — 
 [aside] — stay ! what mad thought inflames me ! 
 
 Pepito [Aside]. If that's the way he discourses 
 to Teodora, heaven help poor Don Julian. [Aloud.] 
 I suppose last night's verses dealt with the subject. 
 
 Ernest. Yes, they did. 
 
 Pepito. How can you waste your time so coolly, 
 and sit there so calm, doing nothing, when in another 
 hour you will be measuring swords with Nebreda, 
 who, for all his dandy's cane, is a man when put 
 upon his mettle? Wouldn't it be saner and wiser 
 to practise fencing instead of expounding questions of 
 verse and rhyme? You look so mighty cool that I 
 almost doubt if you regard your meeting with the 
 viscount as serious. 
 
 Ernest. No — for a good reason. If I kill him, 
 the world gains; if he kill me, I gain. 
 
 Pepito. Well, that's good. 
 
 Ernest. Don't say any more about it. 
 
 Pepito [Aside]. Now I must warily find out. 
 [Approaches him and speaks in a low voice.] Is it for 
 to-day? 
 
 Ernest. Yes, to-day. 
 
 [801 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Pepito. Outside the town? 
 
 Ernest. No, there's no time for that. Besides, 
 we wish to keep it quiet. 
 
 Pepito. In a house, then? 
 
 Ernest. So I proposed. 
 
 Pepito. Where? 
 
 Ernest?. Upstairs. [Speaks wiih cold indifference,] 
 There's a room unlet upstairs, with a side window, 
 through which nobody can look. Under the cir- 
 cumstances it's better than a field, and will be had 
 for a handful of silver. 
 
 Pepito. And now all you need 
 
 Ernest. The swords! 
 
 Pepito. I hear voices outside. Somebody is 
 coming — the seconds? 
 
 Ernest. May be. 
 
 Pepito. It sounds like a woman's voice. [Ap- 
 proaches door.] 
 
 Ernest [Approaches also]. But who's keeping 
 them? 
 
 Scene VI 
 Ernest, Pepito, and servant. 
 
 Servant [Mysteriously]. Somebody wants to 
 see you, sir. 
 
 [811 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. Who? 
 
 Servant. A lady. 
 
 Ernest. How extraordinary! 
 
 Pepito [Aside to servant]. What does she want.? 
 
 Servant [To Pepito]. She is crying. 
 
 Pepito [Aloud]. Is she young? 
 
 Servant. Really, sir, I can't say. 'It's very 
 dark outside, and the lady's face is so thickly veiled 
 that the devil himself couldn't tell what she's like, 
 and she speaks so low you can't even hear her. 
 
 Ernest. Who can she be? 
 
 Pepito. Who could want to see you? 
 
 Ernest. I cannot think. 
 
 Pepito [Aside]. This is startling. [Takes up 
 his hat and holds out his hand.] Well, I'll leave you in 
 peace. Good-bye and good luck. [To the servant.] 
 What are you waiting for, you booby? 
 
 Servant. For orders to show the lady in. 
 
 Pepito. In such a case 'tis your business to antici- 
 pate them. And afterward, until the veiled one has 
 departed, you mustn't let any one in unless the sky 
 were falling. 
 
 Servant. Then I am to show her in? 
 
 Ernest. Yes. [To Pepito at the door.] Good- 
 bye. 
 
 [821/ 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Pepito. GGK)d-bye, Ernest. 
 
 [Exeunt servant and Pepito. 
 
 Ernest. A lady.^* on what pretext? What does 
 this mean? [Enter Teodora, thickly veiled; she 
 stands without approaching.] Ah, there she is! 
 
 Scene VII 
 
 Teodora and Ernest, she behind not daring to ad- 
 vance, he turned toward her. 
 
 Ernest. You desire to speak to me, madam? 
 Kindly be seated. [Offers her a chair.] 
 
 Teodora [Unveiling]. Forgive me, Ernest. 
 
 Ernest. Teodora! 
 
 Teodora. I am wrong to come — am I not? 
 
 Ernest [Abruptly and stammering]. I can't say 
 — since I don't know to what I owe this honour. 
 But what am I saying? Alas! Here, in my rooms, 
 madam, reverence attends you, than which you can- 
 not find a greater — [urith devotion] . But what wrong 
 can you possibly fear here, lady? 
 
 Teodora. None — and there was a time — but 
 
 that once is forever past. No thought of doubt 
 
 or fear was then. I might have crossed any room on 
 
 your arm without blush or fluttering pulse. But 
 
 [83] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 now! They tell me that you are starting for Amer- 
 ica to-morrow -— and I — yes — like those who go 
 away — perhaps not to return — it is so sad to lose 
 a friend ! — before Julian — before the whole world 
 — thinking only of our affection — I myself, Ernest, 
 would have held out my arms to you — in farewell. 
 
 Ernest [Starts and quickly restrains himself]. 
 Oh, Teodora! 
 
 Teodora. But now I suppose it is not the same 
 thing. There is a gulf between us. 
 
 Ernest. You are right, madam. We may no 
 longer care for one another, be no longer brother and 
 sister. The mutual touch of palm would leave our 
 hands unclea,n. 'Tis all forever past. What we 
 have now to learn is to hate one another. 
 
 Teodora [In naive consternation]. Hate! surely 
 not! 
 
 Ernest. Have I used that word — and t^ you I 
 poor child! 
 
 Teodora. Yes. 
 
 Ernest. Don't heed me. If you needed my 
 life, and the occasion offered itself, claim it, Teodora, 
 for, to give my life for you would be — [with passion] 
 it would be my duty. [With a sudden change of 
 voice. Pause.] Hate! If my lips pronounced the 
 [84] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 word, I was thinking of the misery — I was thinking 
 of the injury I have unwittingly wrought one to 
 whom I owe so much. Yes, you, Teodora, must 
 hate me — but I — ah, no ! 
 
 Teodora [Sadly]. They have made me shed 
 tears enough; yes, you are right in that, Ernest 
 [with tenderness], but you I do not accuse. Who 
 could condemn or blame you for all this talk? You 
 have nothing to do with the venomous solicitude with 
 which evil minds honour us, nor with poor Julian's 
 clouded temper. It is sorrow that makes him res- 
 tive, and his suffering wounds me, for I know that it 
 springs from doubt of my devotion. 
 
 Ernest. That is what I cannot understand 
 [angrily], and in him less than in another. It is what 
 drives me wild: by the living God, I protest it is not 
 worthy of pity, and there is no excuse for it. That the 
 man riiould exist who could doubt a woman like you ! 
 
 Teodora. Poor fellow, he pays a heavy price 
 for his savage distrust. 
 
 Ernest [Horrified to find he has been blaming 
 Don Julian to Teodora]. What have I said? I 
 
 don't accuse him — no —7 I meant [He hastens 
 
 to exculpate Don Julian and modify his former 
 
 words.] Anybody might feel the same, that is, if he 
 
 [85] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 were very much in love. In our earthly egoism, don't 
 we doubt the very God in heaven? And the owner 
 of a treasure jealously watches it as gold, and cannot 
 but fear for it. I, too, in his place, would be full 
 of doubt, — yes — even of my own brother. [Speaks 
 with increasing fervour, and again restrains himself, 
 perceiving that he is on the brink of a peril he would 
 avoid. Teodora hears voices outside and rushes to 
 door.] 
 
 Ernest. Whither are you leading me, rebel heart ? 
 What depth have I stirred? I accuse the world of 
 calumny, and would now prove it right. 
 
 Teodora. Do you hear? Somebody is coming. 
 
 Ernest [Follovnng her]. It is hardly two o'clock. 
 Can it be ? 
 
 Teodora [With terror]. It is Julian's voice. — 
 He is coming in! 
 
 Ernest. No, they have prevented him. 
 
 Teodora [Turns to Ernest, still frightened]. 
 If it were Julian? [Moves toward the bedroom door. 
 Ernest detains her respectfully.] 
 
 Ernest. Should it be he, stay here. Loyalty is 
 our shield. Were it one of those who distrust us — 
 then there, Teodora. [Points to the door.] Ah, no' 
 body. [Listening.] 
 
 [861 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. How my heart throbs! 
 
 Ernest. You need not be afraid. The person 
 who wanted to come in has gone away — or it was 
 an illusion. For God's sake, Teodora ! [Ad- 
 vances up the stage.] 
 
 Teodora. I have so much to say to you, Ernest, 
 and the time has passed so quickly. 
 
 Ernest. The time has flown! 
 
 Teodora. I wanted 
 
 Ernest. Teodora, pray forgive me — but is it 
 prudent.^ If any one came in — and, indeed, I fear 
 some one will. 
 
 Teodora. That is why I came — to prevent it. 
 
 Ernest. So that ? 
 
 Teodora. I know everything, and I am stricken 
 with horror at the thought that blood should be shed 
 on my account. My head is on fire, my heart is 
 bursting. [Strikes her breast] 
 
 Ernest. It is the affront that burns and shames 
 you until my hand has struck at Nebreda's life. He 
 wanted mud! Well, let him have it stained with 
 blood. 
 
 Teodora. You would kill him? 
 
 Ernest. Certainly. [Represses Teodora 's move- 
 ment of supplication.] You can dispose of me in all 
 [87] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 else but in this one thing. Do not ask me to feel 
 compassion for a man whose insult I remember. 
 
 Teodora [Prayerfullyywithasob]. For my sake! 
 
 Ernest. For your sake? 
 
 Teodora. It would be such a horrible scandal. 
 
 Ernest. That is possible. 
 
 Teodora. You can say it so coolly, and not 
 endeavour to avoid it, not even when it is I who 
 implore you! 
 
 Ernest. I cannot avoid it, but I can chastise it: 
 so I think and say, and this is my business. Others 
 will look for the insult, I for the punishment. 
 
 Teodora [Coming nearer and speaking softlyy as 
 if afraid of her own voice]. And Julian? 
 
 Ernest. Well.? 
 
 Teodora. If he were to know about it? 
 
 Ernest. He will know about it. 
 
 Teodora. What will he say? 
 
 Ernest. What? 
 
 Teodora. That only my husband, the man who 
 loves me, has a right to defend me. 
 
 Ernest. Every honourable man has the right to 
 
 defend a lady. He may not even know her, be 
 
 neither a friend, nor a relative, nor a lover. It is 
 
 enough for him to hear a woman insulted. Why do 
 
 [88] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 I fight this duel? Why do I defend her? Because 
 I heard the calumny. Because I am myself. Who is 
 so base as to give his protection by scale and meas- 
 ure? Was I not there? Then whoever it was — I 
 or another — who was first on the scene 
 
 Teodora [Listens eagerly, dominated by him, and 
 holds out her hand to him]. This is noble and hon- 
 ourable, and worthy of you, Ernest. [Then restrains 
 herself and moves backward.] But it leaves Julian 
 humiliated. [With conviction.] 
 
 Ernest. He? humiliated! 
 
 Teodora. Most surely. 
 
 Ernest. Why? 
 
 Teodora. For no reason whatever. 
 
 Ernest. Who will say so? 
 
 Teodora. Everybody. 
 
 Ernest. But wherefore? 
 
 Teodora. When the world hears of the affront, 
 and learns that it was not my husband who avenged 
 me, and above all — [drops her eyes ashamed] — that 
 it was you who took his place — have we not then 
 a new scandal topping the old? 
 
 Ernest [Convinced but protests]. If one had 
 always to think of what people will say, by Heaven! 
 there would be no manner or means of living then! 
 [89] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. It is so, nevertheless. 
 
 Ernest. Just so. 'Tis horrible. 
 
 Teodora. Then yield. 
 
 Ernest. Impossible. 
 
 Teodora. I beseech you. 
 
 Ernest. No. Looking into the matter, as 
 nobody can know what will happen, it is better 
 that I should face Nebreda. For, after all, if 
 the fellow lack a sense of honour, he can use a 
 sword. 
 
 Teodora [Wounded and humiliated in the protec- 
 tion Ernest seems to offer Don Julian]. My hus- 
 band is not lacking in courage. 
 
 Ernest. Fatality again! Either I have ex- 
 pressed myself ill, or you do not understand me. I 
 know his worth. But when a desperate injury lies 
 between men of courage, who knows what may hap- 
 pen? which of them may fall, and which may kill? 
 And if this man's sword must strike Don Julian or 
 Ernest, can you doubt which it ought to be? [Ques- 
 tions her with sad sincerity.] 
 
 Teodora [In anguish]. You! — oh, no — not 
 that, either. 
 
 Ernest. Why? If it is my fate? Nobody loses 
 by my death, and I lose still less. 
 [901 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. For Heaven's sake, do not say that! 
 [Barely able to repress her sobs.] 
 
 Ernest. What do I leave behind me? Neither 
 friendship nor strong love. What woman is there 
 to follow my corpse shedding a lover's tears? 
 
 Teodora. Last night I prayed for you — and 
 
 you say that nobody 1 could not bear you to die. 
 
 [Vehemently.] 
 
 Ernest. Ah, we pray for any one; we only weep 
 for one. [With passion.] 
 
 Teodora [Startled]. Ernest! 
 
 Ernest [Terrified by his own words]. What! 
 
 Teodora [Moving farther away]. Nothing. 
 
 Ernest [Also moving away and looking nervously 
 down]. I told you a little while ago I was half 
 mad. Do not heed me. [Pause. Both remain 
 silent and pensive, at some distance, not looking at 
 each other.] 
 
 Teodora [Starting and glancing anxiously down 
 the stage]. Again! 
 
 Ernest [Follovnng her movement]. Somebody 
 has come. 
 
 Teodora. They are trying to get in. 
 
 Ernest [Listening]. There can be no doubt of 
 it. There, Teodora! [Points to the bedroom door.] 
 [91] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. My honour is my shield. 
 
 Ernest. But it is not your husband. 
 
 Teodora. Not Juhan? 
 
 Ernest [Leading her to the door]. No. 
 
 Teodora. I hoped [Detains him with an air 
 
 of supplication,] Will you give up this duel? 
 
 Ernest. Give it up. f^ When I've struck him ! 
 
 Teodora. I didn't know that. [Despairingly, 
 hut understands that nothing can be done.] Then fly! 
 
 Ernest. I fly ! 
 
 Teodora. For my sake, for his sake — for God's 
 sake! 
 
 Ernest [Despairingly]. You must loathe me to 
 propose such a thing to me. Never! 
 
 Teodora. One word only. Are they coming for 
 you now? 
 
 Ernest. It is not yet time. 
 
 Teodora. Swear it to me. 
 
 Ernest. Yes, Teodora. And you — say you 
 don't hate me. 
 
 Teodora. Never. 
 
 Pepito [Outside]. Nothing. I must see him. 
 
 Ernest. Quickly. 
 
 Teodora. Yes. [Hides in the bedroom.] 
 
 Pepito. Why do you prevent me? 
 [92] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. Ah, calumny is working to make the 
 lie truth. 
 
 Scene VIII 
 
 Ernest and Pepito, without his hat, exhibiting 
 strong excitement. 
 
 Pepito. Go to the devil — I will go in — Ernest! 
 
 Ernest. What has happened? 
 
 Pepito. I hardly know how to tell you — yet I 
 
 must 
 
 Ernest. Speak. 
 
 Pepito. My head is in a whirl. Christ above, 
 who would think 
 
 Ernest. Quickly. A clear account of what has 
 happened. 
 
 Pepito. What has happened? A great misfor- 
 tune. Don Julian heard of the duel. He came here 
 to look for you, and you were out. He went away 
 to find the seconds, and marched them off to Neb- 
 reda's house. 
 
 Ernest. Nebreda's! How? 
 
 Pepito. The Lord send you sense. Don Julian's 
 way, of course, who makes short work of convention 
 and the will of others. 
 
 [93] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. Go on 
 
 Pepito [Going to the door]. They're coming, I 
 believe. 
 
 Ernest. Who? 
 
 Pepito. They — they're carrying Don Julian. 
 
 Ernest. You terrify me. Explain at once. 
 [Catches his arm violently, and drags him forward.] 
 
 Pepito. He compelled him to fight. There was 
 no way out of it. The viscount cried: "Very well, 
 between us two." It was settled it should take place 
 here. Don Julian came upstairs. Your servant 
 sent him away, protesting you were engaged with a 
 lady, and swearing nobody could enter. 
 
 Ernest. And then? 
 
 Pepito. Don Julian went downstairs muttering 
 ** better so. I have the day's work for myself." And 
 he, my father, Nebreda, and the seconds came back 
 together, and went upstairs. 
 
 Ernest. They fought? 
 
 Pepito. Furiously, as men fight when their intent 
 is deadly, and their enemy's heart is within reach 
 of the sword's point. 
 
 Ernest. And Don Julian! No — it must be a 
 Ue. 
 
 Pepito. Here they are. 
 [94] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. Silence. Tell me who it is, but speak 
 softly. 
 
 Pepito. There. [Enter Don Julian, Don Sev- 
 ERO, and RuEDA. The two men support Don Julian, 
 who is badly wounded.] 
 
 Ernest. Heaven preserve us! 
 
 Scene IX >* 
 
 Ernest, Pepito, Don Julian, Don Severo, and 
 Rueda. 
 
 Ernest. Don Julian! my friend, my father, my 
 benefactor ! [Hurries excitedly toward hirriy and speaks 
 brokenly.] 
 
 D. Julian [Weakly]. Ernest! 
 
 Ernest. Oh, wretched I! 
 
 D. Severo. Quick, come away. 
 
 Ernest. Father ! 
 
 D. Severo. He is fainting with pain. 
 
 Ernest. For my sake! 
 
 Julian. It is not so. 
 
 Ernest. Through me — pardon! [Takes Don 
 Julian's handy bends on one knee before him.] 
 
 Julian. No need to ask it, lad. You did your 
 duty, and I did mine. 
 
 [95 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D, Severo. a couch. [Loosens his hold of Don 
 Julian, and Pepito takes his place.] 
 
 Pepito [Pointing to the bedroom]. Let us carry 
 him in there. 
 
 Ernest [Shouting terribly]. Nebreda! 
 
 D. Severo. Let there be an end to folly. Is it 
 your intention to kill him outright? 
 
 Ernest [With frenzy]. Folly, oh, we'll see. 7 
 have two to aVenge now. It is my right. [Rushes 
 down the stage.] 
 
 D. Severo [Moving to the right]. We'll take him 
 into your room and lay him on the bed. [Ernest 
 wheels round in terror.] 
 
 Ernest. Where? 
 
 D. Severo. In here. 
 
 Pepito. Yes. 
 
 Ernest. No. [Strides back, and stands before the 
 door. The group are on the point of lifting Don Julian, 
 desist, and stare at Ernest in indignant surprise.] 
 
 D. Severo. You forbid it? 
 
 Pepito. Are you mad? 
 
 D. Severo. Back! Can't you see he is dying? 
 
 D. Julian. What is it? He doesn't wish it? 
 [Raises himself and looks at Ernest in distrust and 
 fear.] 
 
 [96] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 RuDEA. I don't understand it. 
 
 Pepito. Nor I. 
 
 Ernest. He is dying — and implores me — and 
 doubts me — father ! 
 
 D . Severo. Come, we must. [Pushes open the door 
 above Ernest's shoulder. Teodora is discovered.] 
 
 Ernest. My God! 
 
 D. Severo and Pepito. She!^ 
 
 Rued A. A woman! 
 
 Teodora [Coming forward to her husband and 
 embracing him.] Julian! 
 
 D. Julian. Who is it.^^ [Pushes her away to stare 
 at her, drags himself to his feet with a violent effort, and 
 shakes himself free of all aid.] Teodora! [Falls life- 
 less to the ground.] 
 
 [97] 
 
ACT III 
 
ACT III 
 
 The same decoration as first act: an armchair instead of 
 a sofa. It is night; a lighted lamp stands on the table. 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Pepito listening at the door on the right, then comes 
 hack into the middle of the stage, 
 
 Pepito. The crisis is past at last. I hear nothing. 
 Poor Don Julian. He's in a sad way. His life 
 hangs in the balance: on one side death awaits him, 
 and on the other another death, that of the soul, of 
 honour — either abyss deeper than hopeless love. The 
 devil ! All this tragedy is making me more sentimen- 
 tal than that fellow with his plays and verses. The 
 tune of disaster, scandal, death, treason, and dis- 
 grace hums in my brain. By Jove, what a day, 
 and what a night! and the worst is yet to come. 
 Well, it certainly was madness to move him in his 
 condition; but when once my uncle gets an idea into 
 his head, there's no reasoning with him. And, after 
 [1011 
 
ACT III 
 
 The same decoration as first act: an armchair instead of 
 a sofa. It is night; a lighted lamp stands on the table. 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Pepito listening at the door on the right, then comes 
 hack into the middle of the stage. 
 
 Pepito. The crisis is past at last. I hear nothing. 
 Poor Don Julian. He's in a sad way. His life 
 hangs in the balance: on one side death awaits him, 
 and on the other another death, that of the soul, of 
 honour — either abyss deeper than hopeless love. The 
 devil ! All this tragedy is making me more sentimen- 
 tal than that fellow with his plays and verses. The 
 tune of disaster, scandal, death, treason, and dis- 
 grace hums in my brain. By Jove, what a day, 
 and what a night! and the worst is yet to come. 
 Well, it certainly was madness to move him in his 
 condition; but when once my uncle gets an idea into 
 his head, there's no reasoning with him. And, after 
 [1011 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Pepito. Who, innocent and candid, sweet and 
 pure and meek, kills Don Julian. So that, if I am 
 to accept your word, and regard her as a child, and 
 such is her work on the edge of infancy, we may pray 
 God in his mercy to guard us from her when she shall 
 have put on years. 
 
 Mercedes. She is hardly to be blamed. The in- 
 famy lies with your fine friend — he of the drama, 
 the poet and dreamer. He it is who is the culprit. 
 
 Pepito. I don't deny it. 
 
 Mercedes. Where is he? 
 
 Pepito. Where is he? At this moment racing 
 about the streets and public places, flying from his 
 conscience, and unable to get away from it. 
 
 Mercedes. He has a conscience? 
 
 Pepito. So it would seem. 
 
 Mercedes. Oh, what a tragedy! 
 
 Pepito. A misfortune! 
 
 Mercedes. Such a deception! 
 
 Pepito. A cruel one. 
 
 Mercedes. What shocking treason! 
 
 Pepito. Unparalleled. 
 
 Mercedes. Poor Julian ! 
 
 Pepito. Melancholy fate! 
 
 [Enter servant 
 [104] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Scene III 
 Dona Mercedes, Pepito, and servant. 
 
 Servant. Don Ernest. 
 Mercedes. He dares — 
 
 Pepito. This is too much. 
 
 Servant. I thought 
 
 Pepito. You had no business to think anything. 
 Servant. He is only passing. There is a cab 
 
 waiting, so 
 
 Pepito. What are we to do? 
 Mercedes. Let him come in. 
 
 [Exit servant. 
 Pepito. I'll give him his dismissal. 
 Mercedes. Do it cleverly. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 Dona Mercedes, Pepito, and Ernest. Dona Mer- 
 cedes seated in the armchair, Pepito standing, and 
 Ernest behind, whom neither salute nor look at. 
 
 Ernest [Aside]. Hostile silence, anger, and con- 
 tempt. Through no fault of my own, I now ap- 
 pear to them a prodigy of evil and insolence, and 
 they all despise me. 
 
 [105] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Pepito. Listen to me, Ernest. [Turns round to 
 him and speaks in a hard voice.] 
 
 Ernest. Well? 
 
 Pepito. I have to tell you 
 
 Ernest. To go away, perhaps. 
 
 Pepito [Changing his tone]. Good heavens! 
 What a notion! I only — wanted to ask you — if 
 it is true — [hunts for something to say] — that you 
 afterward — the viscount, you know? 
 
 Ernest [Gloomily looking away]. Yes. 
 
 Pepito. How did it happen? 
 
 Ernest. I ran downstairs — half mad — I found 
 them — we went upstairs again — locked the door. 
 Two men — two witnesses — two swords — and after- 
 ward — I hardly know what happened. Swords clashed 
 — there was a cry — a thrust — blood spouted — an as- 
 sassin stood — and a man lay stretched on the ground. 
 
 Pepito. The devil ! Sharp work. Did you hear, 
 mother? 
 
 Mercedes. More bloodshed. 
 
 Pepito. Nebreda deserved it. 
 
 Ernest [Approaching her]. Mercedes, for pity's 
 sake — one word — Don Julian? How is he? K 
 you could know what my anguish is — my sorrow 
 — what do they say? 
 
 [1061 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Mercedes. That the wound, since his removal, 
 is mortal, and it would be worse for him if you went 
 near the bed of suffering and death. Leave this house. 
 
 Ernest. I must see him. 
 
 Mercedes. Go instantly. 
 
 Ernest. I will not. 
 
 Pepito. What insolence! 
 
 Ernest. It is befitting. [To Pepito.] Pardon 
 me, madam — [turning respectfully to Mercedes] —you 
 see I am achieving the general opinion of me. 
 
 Mercedes. For pity's sake, Ernest 
 
 Ernest. Listen, Mercedes. When a man such 
 as I am is abused, and for no reason on earth treated 
 as a blackguard, and finds himself snared, with 
 crime thrust upon him, 'tis indeed a perilous case — 
 for others rather than for himself. I, in this fierce 
 struggle with miserable fate, have lost honour, friend- 
 ship, and love, and have now nothing more to 
 lose but the shabby shreds of an insipid and dreary 
 existence. I have come here solely to know if there 
 is any hope — only for that — and then — but you 
 cannot deny me so slight a consolation? [Pleading.] 
 One word! 
 
 Mercedes. Very well. They say — that he is 
 better. 
 
 [107J 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. True? You are not deceiving me? 
 You are sure — quite sure? Oh! you are merciful, 
 you are kind. It is true, quite true! May God 
 spare him! Not his death. Let him hve and be 
 happy once more; let him forgive me and embrace me 
 once again! Only let me see him. [Falls into the 
 armchair beside the table sobbing, and covers his face 
 with his hands. Pause.] 
 
 Mercedes. If your father should hear — if he 
 should come out. Courage, Ernest, be sensible. 
 [Dona Mercedes and Pepito endeavour to screen 
 Ernest.] 
 
 Pepito. These nervous creatures are terrible. 
 They sob and kill in the same breath. 
 
 Ernest. If you see me crying, while sobs shake 
 my throat in an hysterical convulsion, and I seem 
 as weak as a child, or a woman, believe me, it is not 
 for myself, but for him — for her — for their lost 
 happiness, for this indelible blot upon their name — 
 for the affront I am the cause of, in return for all their 
 love and kindness. It is not my fault, but my utter 
 misfortune. That is why I weep. My God, if I 
 could wipe out this wretched past with tears, I would 
 gladly weep away my blood to the last drop. 
 
 Mercedes. Silence, I implore! 
 [108] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Pepito. There, we will discuss tears and sorrows 
 another time. 
 
 Ernest. If everybody else is discussing them to- 
 day, why should we, too, not speak of them? The 
 whole town is astir and on tiptoe with excitement. 
 It has swallowed up, devoured, and blighted three 
 reputations, three names, three persons, and floated 
 them on the froth of laughter, and a wave of de- 
 grading chatter down the straits of human misery, 
 into the social abyss of shame, where forever lie en- 
 gulfed the conscience, and fame, and future of the 
 unfortunates. 
 
 Mercedes. Not so loud, Ernest. 
 
 Ernest. Why, since the others are not mur- 
 murs, but voices that thunder through the air? The 
 tragic event is known all over the town, and each 
 one has his own way of telling it. Wonderful! 
 everything is known except the truth. 'Tis fatality. 
 [Dona Mercedes and Pepito exhibit keen interest 
 in hearing the reports.] Some say that Don Julian 
 discovered Teodora in my rooms, and that I attacked 
 him in blind fury and killed him on the spot. Others 
 — and these would seem to be my friends, since they 
 raise me from the rank of vulgar assassin to the noble 
 level of duellist — aver that we fought loyally like 
 [109] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 gentlemen. And there are others, again, who have 
 the tale more accurately, and recount how Don 
 Julian took my place in the avenged meeting with 
 Nebreda — that I arrived late on the scene — either 
 
 from design or fear, or because I was in the arms 
 
 But no, it would burn my lips to give this version — 
 the thought of it sets my brain on fire. Seek the 
 basest, the vilest, that which most blackens — the 
 filth of the mind, the mire of the soul, the dross of 
 degraded consciences; cast it to the wind as it whis- 
 tles along the streets upon bespattering tongues, and 
 you will have the tale, and may see what reputation 
 remains for an innocent woman and two honest men 
 when the town takes to jabbering about them. 
 
 Mercedes. It is sad, I admit; but perhaps pub- 
 lic opinion is not altogether to blame. 
 
 Pepito. Teodora did go to your rooms — she 
 was there 
 
 Ernest. To prevent the duel with Nebreda. 
 
 Pepito. Then why did she hide herseK ' 
 
 Ernest. Because we feared her presence would 
 be misconstrued. 
 
 Pepito. The explanation is easy and simple. 
 The difficult thing, Ernest, is to get us to believe it, 
 for there is another still more easy and simple. 
 [110] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. Which dishonours more, and that's the 
 beauty of it. 
 
 Pepito. Well, at least, admit that Teodora was 
 giddy, if not really culpable. 
 
 Ernest. Guilt is prudent and cautious. On the 
 other hand, how imprudent is innocence ! 
 
 Pepito. Look here, if your rule holds good for 
 everybody, the worst of us is an angel or a saint. 
 
 Ernest. You are right. What does it matter? 
 What is the weight or value of such calumny? The 
 worst of it is that thought is degraded by mean con- 
 tact with a mean idea. From force of dwelling 
 upon a crime, the conscience becomes familiar with 
 it. It shows itself terrible and repellent — but it 
 shows itself — at night, in dark solitude! Yes — 
 [aside] — but what ! why are they listening to me so 
 strangely, almost in suspense? [Aloud.] I am my- 
 self; my name is an honourable one. K I killed 
 Nebreda solely because of a lie, what would I not 
 do to myself if guilt threatened to give the truth to 
 calumny? 
 
 Pepito [Aside to Mercedes]. He denied it! 
 Why, it is as clear as daylight. 
 
 Mercedes [Aside to Pepito]. He's wandering. 
 
 Pepito. 'Tis only his confession he's making. 
 
 [Ill] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Mercedes [Aloud], That will do, Ernest. Go 
 now. 
 
 Ernest. Impossible, madam. I should go mad 
 if I had to spend to-night away from this sick-room 
 — out of my mind. 
 
 Mercedes. But if Severo came and found 
 you? 
 
 Ernest. What do I care? He is a loyal gentle- 
 man. Better still, let him come. We fly from fear, 
 and only the guilty are afraid. Nothing will make 
 me run away, or acknowledge fear. 
 
 Pepito [Listening]. Somebody is coming. 
 
 Mercedes. Is it he? 
 
 Pepito [Going down the stage]. No, *tis Teodora. 
 
 Ernest. Teodora! Teodora! I want to see 
 her. 
 
 Mercedes [Sternly]. Ernest! 
 
 Ernest. Yes, I must ask her to forgive me. 
 
 Mercedes. You don't remember 
 
 Ernest. I remember everything and understand. 
 We two together! Ah, no. Enough! You need not 
 fear. For her would I shed my blood, lay down my 
 life, sacrifice my future, honour — all ! But see 
 her? never! 'Tis no longer possible. The mist of 
 blood has risen between us. [Goes out on the left. 
 [112] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Scene V 
 Dona Mercedes and Pepito. 
 
 Mercedes. Leave me alone with her. Go in- 
 side to your father. I want to see into her heart, and 
 shall be able to probe its depths with my tongue. 
 
 Pepito. Then I will leave you together. 
 
 Mercedes. Good-bye. 
 
 Pepito. Good-bye. [Goes out on the right. 
 
 Mercedes. Now to put my plan into work. 
 
 Scene VI 
 
 Teodora and Dona Mercedes. Teodora enters 
 timidly and stands near Don Julian's door on the 
 right, listening anxiously ^ and muffling her sobs with 
 her handkerchief. 
 
 Mercedes. Teodora. 
 Teodora. It is you. [Advances to her.] 
 Mercedes. Courage! what good does crying do.'^ 
 Teodora. How is he? how is he? the truth ! 
 Mercedes. Much better. 
 Teodora. Will he recover? 
 Mercedes. I think so. 
 Teodora. My God! My life for his! 
 [113] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Mercedes [Draws her affectionately forward]. 
 And then — I have faith in your good sense. I can 
 measure your remorse by your tears and anxiety. 
 
 Teodora. Yes — [Dona Mercedes sits down 
 with a satisfied air] — I did wrong, I know, in going 
 to see him — [Dona Mercedes looks disappointed 
 the confession is no worse] — but last night you told 
 me about the outrage and the duel. I was grateful 
 to you for doing so, although I did not then suspect 
 the harm you did me, nor could I now explain it to 
 you. Oh, what a night! [Crosses her hands and 
 glances upward.] I have cried and raved, thinking 
 of Julian's plight, of the scandal, of the violent quar- 
 rel, and the bloodshed. Everything passed before 
 nay eyes — and then — poor Ernest dying, perhaps, 
 for my sake ! But why do you look at me so strangely ? 
 there can be no harm in it, surely! Or are you un- 
 convinced, and do you think as the rest do? 
 
 Mercedes [Drily]. I think your fear for that 
 fellow's life altogether superfluous. 
 
 Teodora. Why.? with so skilled an antagonist! 
 You have seen it — Julian 
 
 Mercedes. Julian has been avenged. The man who 
 killed him no longer lives, so that you have been wasting 
 your fears and your tears. [With deliberate hardness.] 
 [114] 
 

 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 1 
 
 Teodora 
 
 [Eagerly]. It was Ernest — 
 
 
 Mercedes. 
 
 Yes, Ernest. 
 
 
 Teodora. 
 
 He met the viscount? 
 
 
 Mercedes. 
 
 Face to face. 
 
 
 Teodora 
 
 [Unable to restrain herself]. 
 
 How noble 
 
 and brave! 
 
 
 1 
 
 Mercedes. 
 
 Teodora! 
 
 
 Teodora. 
 
 What do you mean? Tell 
 
 me. i 
 
 Mercedes 
 
 [Sternly]. I can read your thought. ''\ 
 
 Teodora. 
 
 My thought? 
 
 
 Mercedes. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 
 Teodora. 
 
 Which? 
 
 
 Mercedes. 
 
 You know very well. 
 
 
 Teodora. Have I no right to be glad because 
 Julian is avenged? Is that an impulse I could be 
 expected to repress? 
 
 Mercedes. That was not your feeling. 
 
 Teodora. You know so much more about it 
 than I do! 
 
 Mercedes [Pointedly]. Believe me, admiration 
 is not far from love. 
 
 Teodora. What do I admire? 
 
 Mercedes. This youth's courage. 
 
 Teodora. His nobility ! 
 
 Mercedes. Quite so, but that's the beginning. • 
 [115] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. What folly! 
 
 Mercedes. It is folly — but on your side. 
 
 Teodora. You persist! Ever this accursed idea! 
 — while it is with immense, with infinite pity that 
 I am filled. 
 
 Mercedes. For whom? 
 
 Teodora. For whom else but Julian? 
 
 Mercedes. Have you never learnt, Teodora 
 that in a woman's heart pity and forgetfulness may 
 mean one and the same thing? 
 
 Teodora. I beseech you — Mercedes — silence! 
 
 Mercedes. I wish to let light in upon the state 
 of your mind — to turn upon it the lamp of truth, 
 lit by my experience. 
 
 Teodora. I hear you, but while I listen, it 
 seems no longer a sister, a friend, a mother that 
 speaks to me, so hateful are your words. Your lips 
 seem to speak at inspiration of the deviFs prompting. 
 Why should you strive to convince me that little by 
 little I am ceasing to love my husband, and that 
 more and more I am imbued with an impure tender- 
 ness, with a feeling that burn* and stains? I who 
 love Julian as dearly as ever, who would give the 
 last drop of blood in my body for a single breath of 
 life for him — for him, from whom I am now sepa- 
 [116] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 rated — [points to his room] — why, I should like to 
 go in there this moment, if your husband did not bar 
 my way, and press Julian once more in my arms. I 
 would so inundate him with my tears, and so close 
 him round with the passion of my love, that its 
 warmth would melt his doubts, and his soul would 
 respond to the fervour of mine. But it is not be- 
 cause I adore my husband that I am bound to abhor 
 the faithful and generous friend who so nobly risked 
 his life for me. And if I don't hate him, is that a 
 reason to conclude that I love him? The world can 
 think such things. I hear such strange stories, and 
 such sad events have happened, and calumny has 
 so embittered me, that I find myself wondering if 
 public opinion can be true — in doubt of myself. 
 Can it be that I really am the victim of a hideous 
 passion, unconsciously influenced by it? and in some 
 sad and weak moment shall I yield to the senses, and 
 be subjugated by this tyrannous fire? 
 
 Mercedes. You are speaking the truth? 
 
 Teodora. Can you doubt it? 
 
 Mercedes. You really do not love him? 
 
 Teodora. Mercedes, what words have I that 
 will convince you? At another time, such a question 
 would drive the blood of anger to my brow, and to- 
 [1171 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 day, you see, I am discussing with you whether I am 
 honest or not. Yes, am I really so? To the depth 
 of the soul? No, for endurance of this humiliation 
 proves me worthy of it. [Hides her face in her hands 
 and flings herself down in the armchair.] 
 
 Mercedes. Do not cry so, Teodora. I believe in 
 you. Enough! No more tears. Let me but add one 
 more word, and there's an end to the matter. Ernest 
 is not what you believe him to be. He is not worthy 
 of your trust. 
 
 Teodora. He is good, Mercedes. 
 
 Mercedes. No ! 
 
 Teodora. He is fond of Julian. 
 
 Mercedes. He would betray him. 
 
 Teodora. Again! My God! 
 
 Mercedes. I no longer accuse you of responding 
 to his passion, but I only assert — I would warn you 
 that he loves you. 
 
 Teodora [Rising in anger]. Loves me! 
 
 Mercedes. It is known to everybody. In this 
 very room, a moment ago, before Pepito and me — 
 you understand? 
 
 Teodora. No, explain at once — what? 
 
 Mercedes. He openly confessed it. He made a 
 violent declaration, swore that he was re*dy to sac- 
 [118] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 rifice life, honour, soul, and conscience for you. And 
 when you came, he wanted to see you. He only 
 yielded to the force of my entreaties and went away. 
 I tremble lest he should meet Severo and their en- 
 counter lead to an explosion. And you — what 
 have you to say now? 
 
 Teodora [Who has listened to Mercedes in- 
 tently ^ held in an indefinable, gloomy terror]. Heavens 
 above! Can it be true? and I who felt — who pro- 
 fessed so sincere an affection for him! 
 
 Mercedes. There, you are on the point of cry- 
 ing again. 
 
 Teodora. The heart has no tears for the mani- 
 fold deceptions of this miserable life. A lad so pure 
 and finely natured — and to see him now so debased 
 and spotted! And you say that he actually uttered 
 those words here — he! — Ernest! Oh, oh, Mer- 
 cedes ! send him away from this house 
 
 Mercedes. Ah, that is what I wanted. Your 
 energy consoles me. [With evidence of honest satis- 
 faction.] Pardon me — now I fully believe you^ 
 [Embraces her.] 
 
 Teodora. And before? No? [The actress must 
 strongly accentuate this line.] 
 
 Mercedes. Hush! He is coming back. 
 [119] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora [Impetuously]. I will not see him. 
 Tell him so. Julian expects me. 
 
 [Goes to the right. 
 
 Mercedes [Detaining her]. Impossible! You 
 must know it. He will not heed my orders, and 
 now that I understand so fully how you feel for him, 
 I should be glad to have him suffer at your hands 
 the contempt he has already endured at mine. 
 
 Teodora. Then leave me. [Enter Ernest, 
 
 Ernest. Teodora! 
 
 Mercedes [Aside to Teodora]. It is late, do 
 your duty quickly. [Aloud to Ernest.] The com- 
 mand you heard a little while ago from me, you will 
 receive again from Teodora's lips, and she is the 
 mistress of this house. 
 
 Teodora [In a low voice to Mercedes]. Don't 
 go away. 
 
 Mercedes [To Teodora]. Are you afraid? 
 
 Teodora. I afraid! I am afraid of nothing. 
 [Makes a sign for her to go. Exit Dona Mercedes 
 on the right.] 
 
 Scene VII 
 Teodora and Ernest. 
 
 Ernest. The command was — that I should go 
 [ 120 ] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 away. [Pause. Both remain silent without looking 
 at each other.] And you? Are you going to repeat 
 it? [Teodora nods, but still does not look at him.] 
 Have no fear, Teodora. I will respect and obey 
 your order. [Submissively.] The others could not 
 get me to obey them, little as they may like to hear 
 it — [harshly], — but nothing you could say, even 
 
 though you wound me From you I will endure 
 
 anything! [Sadly.] 
 
 Teodora. I wound you! No, Ernest, you can- 
 not believe that [Still does not look at him, is 
 
 half vexed and afraid.] 
 
 Ernest. I do not believe it. [Pause.] 
 
 Teodora. Adieu. I wish you all happiness. 
 
 Ernest. Adieu, Teodora. [Remains waiting for 
 a moment to see if she will turn and offer him her hand. 
 Then walks down the stage, turns back again, and ap- 
 proaches her. Teodora shows that she feels his move- 
 ment, and is distressed, but continues to keep her face 
 averted.] If with my death at this very instant I 
 could blot out all the misery that lies to my account, 
 not through any fault of mine, but through an im- 
 placable fate, I should not now be standing here 
 alive. You may believe it on the word of an honour- 
 able man. No shadow of the past would remain — 
 [1211 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 neither sighs nor pain to remember, nor that sorrow- 
 ful pallor of your face — [Teodora starts and glances 
 at him in terror] — nor the grieved fear of those eyes, 
 nor sobs that tear the throat, nor tears that line the 
 cheek. [Teodora sohs.] 
 
 Teodora [Aside , moving farther away]. Mer- 
 cedes was right, and I, blind and thoughtless that I 
 was 
 
 Ernest. Bid me good-bye — once — for kind- 
 ness' sake. 
 
 Teodora. Good-bye! Yes; and I forgive you 
 all the injury you have done us. 
 
 Ernest. I, Teodora! 
 
 Teodora. Yes, you. 
 
 Ernest. What a look! What a tone! 
 
 Teodora. No more, Ernest, I beseech you! 
 
 Ernest. What have I done to deserve ? 
 
 Teodora. It is all over between us. Regard me 
 as one who no longer exists for you. 
 
 Ernest. Is this contempt? 
 
 Teodora. Go! 
 
 Ernest. Go? in this way? 
 
 Teodora. My husband is dying in there — and 
 here I feel as if I, too, were dying. [Staggers back and 
 clutches the armchair to keep from falling.] 
 [122] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. Teodora! [Rushes forward to support her.] 
 
 Teodora [Angrily drawing herself away]. Don't 
 touch me. [Pause.] Ah, I breathe again more 
 freely. [Tries to walk, staggers again weakly, and a 
 second time Ernest offers to assist her. She repulses 
 him.] 
 
 Ernest. Why not, Teodora? 
 
 Teodora. Your touch would soil me. 
 
 Ernest. I soil you! 
 
 Teodora. Exactly. 
 
 Ernest. I! [Pause.] What does she mean? 
 Almighty God! She also! Oh, it is not possible. 
 Oh, death is preferable to this! It cannot be true 
 
 — I am raving Say it is not true, Teodora — 
 
 only one word — for justice — one word of pardon, 
 of pity, of consolation, madam. I am resigned to go 
 away, never to see you again, although 'twere to 
 break, and mutilate, and destroy my life. But it 
 will, at least, be bearable, if I may carry into solitude 
 your forgiveness, your affection, your esteem — only 
 your pity, then. So that I still may think you believe 
 me loyal and upright — that I could not, that I have 
 not, degraded you, much less be capable of insulting 
 you. I care nothing about the world, and despise 
 its affronts. Its passions inspire me with the pro- 
 [123] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 foundest disdain. Whether its mood be harsh or 
 cruel, however it may talk of me and of what has 
 happened, it will never think so ill of me as I do of 
 it. But you, the purest dream of man's imagining 
 — you for whom I would gladly give — not only my 
 life, but my right to heaven, ay, a thousand times — 
 eagerly, joyously — You, to suspect me of treason, 
 of hypocrisy ! Oh, this, Teodora — I cannot bear ! 
 [Deeply moved, speaks despairingly.] 
 
 Teodora [With increasing nervousness]. You 
 have not understood me, Ernest. We must part. 
 
 Ernest. But not like this ! 
 
 Teodora. Quickly, for mercy's sake. Julian 
 suffers. [Points to the sick-room.] 
 
 Ernest. I know it. 
 
 Teodora. Then we should not forget it. 
 
 Ernest. No; but I also suffer. 
 
 Teodora. You, Ernest.? Why? 
 
 Ernest. Through your contempt. 
 
 Teodora. I feel none. 
 
 Ernest. You have expressed it. 
 
 Teodora. It was a lie. 
 
 Ernest. No; not entirely. So that our suffer 
 ings are not equal. In this implacable strife he 
 suffers as those on earth suffer, I as those in hell. 
 [124] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. Spare me, Ernest — my head is on 
 fire. 
 
 Ernest. And my heart aches. 
 
 Teodora. That will do, Ernest. I entreat you 
 to pity me. 
 
 Ernest. That was all I asked of you. 
 
 Teodora. Mercy? 
 
 Ernest. Yes, mercy. But why should you 
 claim it? What is it you fear? of what are you think- 
 ing? [Approaches her.] 
 
 Teodora. Forgive me if I have offended you. 
 
 Ernest. Offended me, no! The truth, that is 
 what I crave — and I implore it on my knees. 
 See, Teodora, my eyes are wet. [Bends his knee be- 
 fore her and takes her hand, Don Julian's door 
 openSy and Don Severo stands staring at them.] 
 
 D. Severo [Aside]. Miserable pair! 
 
 Teodora. Don Severo! 
 
 Scene VIII 
 
 Teodora, Ernest, and Don Severo. Ernest 
 stands apart on the right. Don Severo places 
 himself between him and Teodora. 
 
 D. Severo [In a low voice of concentrated anger, 
 [125] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 so that Don Julian may not hear]. I can find no 
 word or epithet adequate to the pjassion of contempt 
 I would express, so I must be content to call you a 
 blackguard. Leave this house at once. 
 
 Ernest [Also in a low voice]. My respect for 
 Teodora, for this house, and for the sick man lying 
 in yonder room, sir, compels me to put my retort — 
 in silence. 
 
 D. Severo [Ironically y under the impression that 
 Ernest is going]. It's the best thing you can do — 
 obey and hold your tongue. 
 
 Ernest. You have not understood me. I do 
 not intend to obey. 
 
 D. Severo. You remain? 
 
 Ernest. Until Teodora commands me to go. I 
 was on the point of going away forever a moment 
 ago, but the Almighty or the devil deterred me. 
 Now you come and order me out, and as if your in- 
 sult were an infernal message, it roots my heels to the 
 floor in revolt. x 
 
 D. Severo. We'll see that. There are servants 
 to kick you out, and sticks if necessary. 
 
 Ernest. Try it. [Approaches Don Severo with 
 a threatening air. Teodora rushes between them.] 
 
 Teodora. Ernest! [Turns commandingly to Don 
 [1261 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Severo.] You seem to forget that this is my house 
 as long as my husband lives and is its owner. Only 
 one of us two has the right to command here. 
 [Softens to Ernest.] Not for him — but for my 
 sake, because I am unhappy 
 
 Ernest [Unable to contain his joy at hearing him- 
 self defended by Teodora]. You wish it, Teodora? 
 
 Teodora. I beg it. [Ernest bows and turns 
 away.] 
 
 D. Severo. Your audacity confounds and shocks 
 me as much — no, far more, than his. [Strides men- 
 acingly toward her. Ernest turns swiftly around, 
 then makes a strong effort to control himself and moves 
 away again.] You dare to raise your head, wretched 
 woman, and before me, too! Shame on you! 
 [Ernest repeats previous movements and gestures, 
 but this time more accentuated.] You, so fearful and 
 cowardly, where have you found courage to display 
 this energy in his defence .^^ How eloquent is passion ! 
 [Ernest stands looking back.] But you forget that, 
 before pitching him out, I had the authority to for- 
 bid the door of this house to you, who have stained 
 its threshold with Julian's blood. Why have you 
 returned? [Seizes her brutally and drags her roughly 
 toward himself.] 
 
 [ 127 ] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. No, I can't stand this — I cannot ! 
 [He thrusts himself between Severo and Teodora.] 
 Off, you scoundrel! 
 
 D. Severo. Again! 
 
 Ernest. Again. 
 
 D. Severo. You have dared to return? 
 
 Ernest. You insolently affront Teodora. I 
 still live. What do you expect me to do, if 
 not return and chastise you, and brand you as a 
 coward? 
 
 D. Severo. Me? 
 
 Ernest. Precisely. 
 
 Teodora. No! 
 
 Ernest. He has brought it on himself. I 
 have seen him lift his hand in anger to you — 
 you, you! So now [Seizes Don Severo vio- 
 lently,] 
 
 D. Severo. You impudent puppy! 
 
 Ernest. True, but I'll not release you. You 
 loved and respec^d your mother, I presume. For 
 that reason you must respect Teodora, and humbly 
 bow before a sorrow so immense as hers. This 
 woman, sir, is purer, more honest than the mother of 
 such a man as you. 
 
 D. Severo. This to me? 
 [128] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. Yes, and I have not yet done. 
 
 D. Severo. Your life 
 
 Ernest. Oh, my Hfe, as much as you like — but 
 afterward. [Teodora endeavours to part them, but he 
 pushes her gently away, vnthout releasing Don Severo.] 
 You believe in a God — in a Maker — in hope. 
 Well, then, as you bend your knee before the altar 
 of that God above, so will I compel you to kneel to 
 Teodora — and that instantly, sir. Down — in 
 the dust. 
 
 Teodora. For mercy's sake 
 
 Ernest. To the ground! [Forces Don Severo 
 to kneel.] 
 
 Teodora. Enough, Ernest. 
 
 D. Severo. A thousand thunders. 
 
 Ernest. At her feet! 
 
 D. Severo. You! 
 
 Ernest. Yes, I. 
 
 D. Severo. For her? 
 
 Ernest. For her. 
 
 Teodora. That will do. Hush! [She points 
 in terror to Don Julian's door. Ernest releases Don 
 Severo, who rises and moves backward. Teodora 
 retreats and forms with Ernest a group in the back- 
 ground.] 
 
 [129] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Scene IX 
 Teodora, Ernest, Don Severo. Afterward 
 Don Julian and Dona Mercedes. 
 
 D. Julian [Inside]. Let me go. 
 
 Mercedes [Inside]. No. You must not. 
 
 D. Julian. It is they. Don't you hear them? 
 
 Teodora [To Ernest]. Go. 
 
 D. Severo [To Ernest]. Avenged! 
 
 Ernest. I don't deny it. 
 
 [Enter Don Julian, pale and dying, 
 
 leaning on Dona Mercedes' arm. 
 
 Don Severo stations himself on the 
 
 right, Ernest and Teodora remain 
 
 in the background.] 
 
 D. Julian. Together! Where are they going? 
 
 Who detains them here? Away with you, traitors. 
 
 [Wants to rush at them, but strength fails him, and he 
 
 staggers back.] 
 
 D. Severo [Hurrying to his assistance]. No, no! 
 D. Julian. Severo, they deceived me — they 
 lied to me — the miserable pair! [While he speaks 
 Don Severo and Dona Mercedes lead him to the 
 armchair.] There, look at them — both — she and 
 Ernest! Why are they together? 
 f 130 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora and Ernest [Separating]. No. 
 
 D. Julian. Why don't they come to me? Teodora ! 
 
 Teodora [Stretches out her arms but does not 
 advance]. JuHan! 
 
 D. Julian. Here in my arms. [Teodora runs 
 forward and flings herself into Don Julian's arms, 
 who clasps her feverishly. Pause.] You see — you 
 see — [to Don Severo] — I know well enough they 
 were deceiving me. I hold her thus in my arms. I 
 crush and subdue her — I might kill her — so ! and 
 'tis only what she deserves. But I look at her — / 
 look at her — and then I cannot ! 
 
 Teodora. Julian 
 
 D. Julian [Pointing to Ernest]. And that 
 fellow? 
 
 Ernest. Sir! 
 
 D. Julian. I loved him! Silence, and come 
 hither. [Ernest approaches.] You see, I am still 
 her owner. [He holds Teodora more tightly clasped.] 
 
 Teodora. Yes — I am yours. 
 
 D. Julian. Drop pretence. Don't lie. 
 
 Mercedes [Striving to soothe him]. For pity's 
 sake 
 
 D. Severo. Julian! 
 
 D. Julian [To both]. Peace. [To Teodora.] 
 [ 131 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 I see through you. I know well that you love him. 
 [Teodora and^ Ernest try to protest^ but he will not 
 let them.] All Madrid knows it, too — all Madrid. 
 
 Ernest. No, father. 
 
 Teodora. No! 
 
 D. Julian. They deny it — they deny it! Why, 
 it is as clear as noonday. Why, I feel it in every 
 fibre — by the beat of fevered pulse, by the consum- 
 ing flame of inward illumination ! 
 
 Ernest. It is the fever of your blood and the 
 delirium of bodily weakness that feed the delusion. 
 Listen to me, sir 
 
 D. Julian. To hear how well you can lie? 
 
 Ernest [Pointing to Teodora] . She is innocent ! 
 
 D. Julian. But I do not believe you. 
 
 Ernest. Sir, by my father's memory 
 
 D. Julian. Don't insult his name and memory. 
 
 Ernest. By my mother's last kiss 
 
 D. Julian. That kiss has long since been wiped 
 from your brow. 
 
 Ernest. What then do you want, father? I 
 will swear to anything you wish. Oh, my father ! 
 
 D. Julian. No oaths, or protests, or deceitful 
 words. 
 
 Ernest. Then what? Only tell me. 
 f 132 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. Yes, what, Julian? 
 
 D. Julian. Deeds. 
 
 Ernest. What does he wish, Teodora? What 
 does he ask of us? 
 
 Teodora. I don't know. Oh, what are we to do, 
 Ernest? 
 
 D. Julian [Watching them in feverish distrust]. 
 Ah, you would even deceive me to my face ! You are 
 plotting together, wretched traitors ! I see it. 
 
 Ernest. It is fever that misleads you — not the 
 testimony of your eyes. 
 
 D. Julian. Fever, yes. And since fever is fire, 
 it has burnt away the bandage with which before you 
 two had blinded me, and at last I see you for what 
 you are. And now! — but why these glances at 
 one another? Why, traitors? Why do your eyes 
 gleam so? Tell me, Ernest. There are no tears in 
 them to make them shine. Come nearer — nearer to 
 me. [Draws Ernest to him, bends his head, and then 
 succeeds in thrusting him upon his knees. Thus 
 Teodora is on one side of Don Julian and Ernest 
 at his feet. Don Julian passes his hand across the 
 young man's eyes.] You see — no tears — they are 
 quite dry. 
 
 Ernest. Forgive me, forgive me! 
 [ 133 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 D. Julian. You ask my forgiveness? Then you 
 acknowledge your sin? 
 
 Ernest. No. 
 
 D. Julian. Yes. 
 
 Ernest. I say it is not so! 
 
 D. Julian. Then here before me, look at her. 
 
 D. Severo. Julian 
 
 Mercedes. Sir ! 
 
 D. Julian [To Teodora and Ernest]. Per- 
 haps you are afraid? So it is not like a brother that 
 you cherish her? If so, prove it. Let me see what 
 sort of light shines in your eyes as they meet — 
 whether, to my close inspection, the rays dart pas- 
 sion's flame, or mild affection. Come here, Teodora. 
 Both — so — still nearer. [Drags Teodora until 
 she stumbles, so that both faces are compelled toward 
 each other.] 
 
 Teodora [Frees herself with a violent effort]. 
 Oh, no! 
 
 Ernest [Also strives to free himself y but is held in 
 Don Julian's grasp]. I cannot. 
 
 D. Julian. You love one another — you can't 
 deny it, for I've seen it. [To Ernest.] Your life! 
 
 Ernest. Yes. 
 
 D. Julian. Your blood! 
 f 134 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest. All. 
 
 D. Julian [Forcing him to his knees]. Stay 
 still. 
 
 Teodora. Julian! 
 
 D. Julian. Ah, you defend him, you defend 
 him. 
 
 Teodora. Not for his sake. 
 
 D. Severo. In God's name 
 
 D. Julian [To Severo]. Silence. [Still holds 
 Ernest down.] Bad friend, bad son! 
 
 Ernest. My father! 
 
 D. Julian. Disloyal! Traitor! 
 
 Ernest. No, father. 
 
 D. Julian. Here is my shameful seal upon your 
 cheek. To-day with my hand — soon with steel — 
 so ! [With a supreme effort strikes Ernest. Ernest 
 jumps up with a terrible cry, and turns away, covering 
 his face.] 
 
 Ernest. Oh! 
 
 D. Severo [Stretches out his hand to Ernest]. 
 Justice. 
 
 Teodora. My God! [Hides her face in hoih 
 hands, and drops on a chair.] 
 
 Mercedes [Turning to Ernest to exculpate Don 
 Julian]. It was only delirimn. 
 [135] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 [These four exclamations very hurried. 
 A moment of stupor. Don Julian 
 stands still staring at Ernest and 
 Dona Mercedes and Don Severo 
 endeavour to calm him.] 
 D. Julian. It was not delirium, it was chastise- 
 ment. Heaven be praised! What did you think, 
 ungrateful boy? 
 
 Mercedes. That will do. 
 D. Severo. Come, Julian. 
 D. Julian. Yes, I am going. [7^ led away with 
 difficulty between Don Severo and Dona Mercedes, 
 and stops to look back at Teodora and Ernest.] 
 Mercedes. Quickly, Severo. 
 D. Julian. Look at them, the traitors! It was 
 only justice — was it not? Say so — at least I be- 
 lieve it. 
 D. Severo. For God's sake, Julian — well, at 
 
 any rate, for mine 
 
 D. Julian. Yes, for yours, Severo, only for 
 yours. You alone have loved me truly. [Embraces 
 him.] 
 
 D. Severo. Yes, yes, it is so. 
 D. Julian [Stops at the door and looks back 
 again]. She is crying for him — and does not follow 
 f 136 1 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 me. Not even a look. She does not see that I am 
 dying — yes, dying. 
 
 D. Severo. JuHan, Julian! 
 
 D. Julian [On the threshold]. Wait, wait. Dis- 
 honour for dishonour. Good-bye, Ernest. 
 
 [Exeunt Don Julian, Don Severo, and Mercedes. 
 
 Scene X 
 
 Teodora and Ernest. Ernest drops into a chair 
 near the table. Teodora remains standing on the 
 right Pause. 
 
 Ernest [Aside]. What is the use of loyalty? 
 
 Teodora. And what is the use of innocence? 
 
 Ernest. Conscience grows dark. 
 
 Teodora. Pity, my God! Pity! 
 
 Ernest. Pitiless destiny. 
 
 Teodora. Oh, most miserable fate! 
 
 Ernest. Poor child! 
 
 Teodora. Poor Ernest! [Both remain apart 
 until now.] 
 
 D . Severo ' [In anguish from vnthin] . My brother. 
 
 Mercedes. Help ! 
 
 Pepito. Quickly. [Ernest and Teodora move 
 together.] 
 
 [137] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teodora. They are crying. 
 Ernest. He is dying. 
 Teodora. Come at once. 
 Ernest. Where? 
 Teodora. To him. 
 Ernest. We cannot. [Detains her.] 
 Teodora. Why not? I want him to live. 
 Ernest. And I! — but I cannot. [Points to 
 Don Juljan's room.] 
 
 Teodora. Then I will. [Rushes to the door.] 
 
 Last Scene 
 
 Teodora, Ernest, Don Severo, and Pepito. 
 
 Ernest stands on the right in the middle of the stage, 
 
 Teodora near the door of Don Julian's room. 
 
 Pepito, and, behind him, Don Severo, bar the way. 
 
 Pepito. Where are you going? 
 
 Teodora [In desperation]. I must see him. 
 
 Pepito. It is impossible! 
 
 D. Severo. She cannot pass. This woman must 
 not remain in my house — turn her out at once! 
 [To Pepito.] No compassion — this very moment. 
 
 Ernest. What! 
 
 Teodora. My mind is wandering. 
 
 D. Severo. Though your mother should stand 
 [138] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 in front of that woman, Pepito, you have my orders. 
 Obey them. Never mind her prayers or supplica- 
 tions. If she should cry — then let her cry. [With 
 concentrated fury.] Away with her, away — else I 
 might kill her. 
 
 Teodora. Julian orders 
 
 D. Severo. Yes, Julian. 
 
 Ernest. Her husband! It cannot be. 
 
 Teodora. I must see him. 
 
 D. Severo. Very well. Look at him, once more 
 — and then — depart. 
 
 Pepito [Interfering]. Father 
 
 D. Severo [Pushing him away]. Stop, sir! 
 
 Teodora. It can't be true. 
 
 Pepito. This is too horrible. 
 
 Teodora. It is a lie! 
 
 D. Severo. Come, Teodora — come and see. 
 [Seizes her arm and leads her to the door.] 
 
 Teodora. Oh! My husband! Julian — dead. 
 [Staggers shudderingly hack, and falls half senseless.] 
 
 Ernest [Covering his face]. My father! [Pause. 
 Don Severo watches them rancorously.] 
 
 D, Severo [To his son]. Turn her out. 
 
 Ernest [Placing himself before Tkodoua]. What 
 cruelty ! 
 
 [ 139 ? 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Pepito [Doubting]. Sir 
 
 Severo [To Pepito]. Such are my orders. Do 
 you doubt my word? 
 
 Ernest. Pity. 
 
 D. Severo [Pointing to the death-chamber]. Yes, 
 such pity as she showed him. 
 
 Ernest. Fire races through my veins. I will 
 leave Spain, sir. 
 
 D. Severo. It makes no difference. 
 
 Ernest. She will die. 
 
 D. Severo. Life is short. 
 
 Ernest. For the last time 
 
 D. Severo. No more. [To his son.] Ring! 
 
 Ernest. But I tell you she is innocent. I swear it. 
 
 Pepito [Interceding]. Father 
 
 D. Severo [With a contemptuous gesture]. That 
 fellow lies. 
 
 Ernest. You impel me with the current. Then 
 I will not struggle against it. I go with it. I can- 
 not yet know what may be her opinion — [pointing 
 to Teodora] — of others, and of your outrages. 
 Her lips are silent, mute her thoughts. But what 
 I think of it all — yes, I will tell you. 
 
 D. Severo. It is useless. It won't prevent me 
 
 from [Approaches Teodora.] 
 
 [140] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Pepito [Restraining him]. Father 
 
 Ernest. Stay. [Pause.] Let nobody touch 
 this woman. She is mine. The world has so desired 
 it, and its decision I accept. It has driven her to my 
 arms. Come, Teodora. [He raises her, and sus- 
 tains her.] You cast her forth from here. We 
 obey you. 
 
 D. Severo. At last, you blackguard ! 
 
 Ernest. Yes; now you are right. I will con- 
 fess now. Do you want passion? Then passion 
 and delirium. Do you want love? Then love — 
 boundless love. Do you want more? Then more 
 and more. Nothing daunts me. Yours the inven- 
 tion, I give it shelter. So you may tell the tale. It 
 echoes through all this heroic town. But should any 
 one ask you who was the infamous intermediary in 
 this infamy, you will reply "ourselves without being 
 aware of it, and with us the stupid chatter of busy- 
 bodies." Come, Teodora; my mother's spirit kisses 
 your pure brow. Adieu, all. She belongs to me, 
 and let heaven choose its day to judge between you 
 and me. [Gathers Teodora into his emhracey with a 
 glance of defiance around.] 
 
 Curtain 
 
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