SCENE II

_Don Lorenzo, Doña Ángela, and Dr. Tomás. The latter two stand at door on R., half-hidden by the curtains, and watch Don Lorenzo, whose back is toward them._

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Look at him! as usual, reading and thinking.

DR. TOMÁS. Madam, your husband is a sage, but wisdom may be overdone. For, if the tenser be the cord, the more piercing its notes, so the much easier is it to break. And when it breaks, to the divine note succeeds eternal silence. While the brain works in sublime spasms, madness is on the watch—don't forget it. [_Pause._]

DON LORENZO. Strange book! Book of inspiration! How many problems Cervantes, unknowing perhaps, has propounded therein! The hero was mad, yes, mad [_pause_], he who only gave ear to the voice of duty upon the march of life; he who ceaselessly subjugated his passions, silenced his affections, and knew no other rule than justice, no other law than truth—and to truth and justice conformed each action: who, with a sacrilegious ambition, strove to attain the perfection of God above. What a singular being he would appear in any human society! A new Quixote among so many Sanchos! Having to condemn the greed of this one, the vanity of that, the good fortune of this other, the uncontrolled appetites of another, and the frailties of all; in his own family, like the Knight Errant's housekeeper and niece; in his own friends not differing from the priest, the barber, and Samson Carrasco. And strong men and maidens, dukes and inn-keepers, Moors and Christians with one voice declaring him mad, until he himself should end by taking himself as such, or dying, feign to think so, that at least he might be left to die in peace.

DR. TOMÁS. [_Approaches Lorenzo, and places an arm on his shoulder. Doña Ángela also comes near._] Lorenzo!

DON LORENZO. [_Turning round._] Tomás!—Ángela!—you were here?

DR. TOMÁS. Yes; we were listening to part of your philosophical monologue. What has provoked these sublime self-revealings of my good friend?

DON LORENZO. I have been reading _Don Quixote_, and it has gone to my head, and there got mixed with the other tags of modern philosophy which are floating about, as my hard-hearted doctor would say, in the cells of grey substance.

DR. TOMÁS. So would anybody else say who wished to talk the language of reason.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. How dreadful! Are you two going to begin one of your interminable discussions on positivism, idealism, and all the other _isms_ of the dictionary, which are so many abysses for common sense?

DR. TOMÁS. Don't be afraid, madam. I have something more interesting to say to Lorenzo.

DON LORENZO. [_To Dr. Tomás._] And I have also something more urgent to ask you.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. I should think so indeed. Our child's health is surely more interesting and urgent than the follies and delusions with which your head is crammed.

DON LORENZO. [_Anxiously._] How is my beloved girl to-day?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Yes, how do you find Inés? [_Pause._]

DON LORENZO. Do tell us. Don't keep us in suspense. [_Pause. Dr. Tomás shakes his head ominously_.]

DOÑA ÁNGELA. For heaven's sake, doctor, tell me if there be any danger.

DON LORENZO. What are you saying, Ángela? Don't pronounce the word.

DR. TOMÁS. Softly, softly. You go too far. I don't, however, say that it is nothing serious.

DON LORENZO. What do you mean?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Oh, what _do_ you mean?

DON LORENZO. What is the matter with her? Has the illness a name?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What are the remedies?—for I suppose it is curable. Oh, Dr. Tomás, you must indeed cure my child.

DR. TOMÁS. What is her malady? One of those that causes the greatest misfortune to mankind. What is its name? The poets call it love—we doctors give it another name. How is it cured? This very day, with the aid of the priest; and so excellent a specific is this, that after a month's appliance neither of the wedded pair retain a vestige of remembrance of the fatal sickness.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. What nonsense you do talk, Dr. Tomás! You had almost emptied my veins of their blood.

DR. TOMÁS. Well, to be serious. Given the condition of the young lady, her nervous temperament, her extreme susceptibility, and her romantic passion, the malady must be regarded as grave. And if you don't very speedily seek a remedy in the sweet security of marriage, my friend, I am grieved to say it, but duty compels me to inform you, that you need not count upon Inés. [_Gravely._]

DON LORENZO. Tomás!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. You really believe——

DR. TOMÁS. I believe that Inés has inherited her father's excitable and fantastical imagination. To-day the fever of love runs like a fiery wave in her veins. If you don't marry her to Edward,—and that very soon—and she should be given to understand that her hopes are not destined to be realised, though I cannot predict in what way, I unhappily know that the delirium of fantasy, and the violence of her affection will eventually kill her.

DON LORENZO. Good God!

DOÑA ÁNGELA. My poor child!

DR. TOMÁS. You have my opinion, and I have given it in plain language as the urgency of the case demands, as well as my friendship for you, and our joint affection for the innocent child.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. [_To Don Lorenzo in a resolute tone._] You have heard? We must marry Inés to Edward.

DON LORENZO. I would like it well indeed, Ángela. Edward is a good fellow, very intelligent, and passionately attached to our girl, but——

DOÑA ÁNGELA. But what? Are we not also noble, and why should Edward's mother, the Duchess of Almonte, oppose the union? And what matter if she does, since it is he, and not she, that is to be married?

DON LORENZO. Ángela, think well upon it. Ought we to encourage a son in revolt against his mother?

DOÑA ÁNGELA. _You_ think well upon it. Lorenzo, ought we to sacrifice our child to that woman's vanity?

DON LORENZO. It is easy enough to lament vanity and misfortune. The important thing is to find a remedy against evil.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Why not speak to the duchess? They say she is a kind woman, apart from her aristocratic pretensions, and that she idolises Edward. Let us go to her, and beseech and implore her.

DON LORENZO. I beseech! I implore! Humiliate myself! It is certainly not my place to entreat for her son's hand. She it is who should come to my house and beg for that of my daughter. Social convention, the respect of woman, and my own honour ordain it so.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Here you see the philosopher, the sage, the perfect man overflowing with vanity and pride. [_Goes over to Dr. Tomás who is standing at table reading._]

DON LORENZO. You are unjust, Ángela. It is not pride, but common dignity—yes, dignity. It is not honourable to us to go a-begging on Inés' behalf the ducal coronet another family chooses to withhold from her—she who wears herself a far fairer crown. I repeat, it would not be to our credit to go from door to door, still less to emblazoned doors, with hands held out for the alms of a name, when Inés bears my name, as good, as untarnished and honourable as any other, however great it may be.

DR. TOMÁS. Lorenzo is right—you, too, madam, are right.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Never mind, you need not go. Preserve intact your dignity of sage and philosopher. I who am only a poor mother will go. It will not hurt me to go from door to door a-begging, not coronets, nor coats of arms, but the life and happiness of my child.

DON LORENZO. Nor will it me, Ángela. You it is who are right. Let the world say what it will. Let the duchess think what she will, I will go. [_To Dr. Tomás._] It is my duty, is it not? Your judgment is upright and austere, and you can pronounce dispassionately. Give me your frank opinion.

DOÑA ÁNGELA. Ah, what a man! Now don't stay to discuss whether or no you ought to go. These things, my lord philosopher and husband, are decided by the heart, and not by the head. It is something to be thankful for that you have not gone back to your books to seek solution of the problem. It is a wonder you are not hunting among the German metaphysicians, or the Greek classics, or in that unintelligible tangle of mathematics, to see if any author by chance has treated of the future marriage of Miss Inés de Avendaña with Edward de Almeida, Duke of Almonte, proving the insuperable difficulties by _a_ plus _b_, and for the sake of _a_ plus _b_ you would meanwhile let my poor child die.

DON LORENZO. Don't turn me into ridicule, Angela. You know I adore Inés.