The Evil Doers of Good/Act 1

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Don Francisquito. Does the Marchioness wish anything else?

Marchioness. Nothing, Don Francisquito; only do be sure to have the accounts ready for the meeting of the Junta this afternoon. Have you looked over the meal tickets which have been turned in? Let us not have any more trouble such as we had last month.

Don Francisquito. Everything will be all right, Marchioness. Now that the ladies of the committee have decided—very wisely—to let the other Zurita give out the provisions, it will not happen again.

Marchioness. But have we changed shops? I always thought Zurita's was the best.

Don Francisquito. Yes, Marchioness; but there are two Zuritas in the grocery business. They are brothers. One Zurita is good, but ours is the bad one.

Marchioness. I don't understand.

Don Francisquito. He is good because he has the best things, but he is bad because he is a godless man, without a particle of conscience, who has made a practice of cheating you unmercifully, without stopping to think that what you spend really belongs to the poor.

Marchioness. That is true. However, I am glad of the change.

​Don Francisquito. Sí, señora. The other Zurita, who we all say is the bad one because he does not keep such good things in his shop—in fact he is good. He is a saint who would not demean himself by making money.

Marchioness. I see. The bad one has the good shop, and the good one has the bad one.

Don Francisquito. He has, Marchioness.

Marchioness. And so we are buying from him now? It all seems very strange.

Don Francisquito. The ladies so decided at the last meeting. That was before the Marchioness arrived. However, I am surprised that nobody said anything to the Marchioness.

Marchioness. Very likely they did, but probably I was not paying attention. This confusion, you know, of two Zuritas, the good one who is bad, and the bad one who is the good one.… Really it is in the hands of the Lord, I suppose. There is no reason for us to worry. It is hard enough to do good anyway, and one gets very little thanks for it.

Don Francisquito. That is certainly true, señora. There is very little real religion nowadays—and very little charity; very little honesty. The people you help are the first to say things about you.

Marchioness. What do you expect? We do good to please the Lord; it is utterly useless to look for anything from other people. The only result is ingratitude or some scandal. However, don't forget to go over the accounts.

Don Francisquito. Rely upon me, Marchioness.

Enrique. Good morning, mamma. [Kissing her hand.

Marchioness. My son!

Enrique. Did you sleep well?

​Marchioness. Yes, very. How are you this morning? Did you have any headache when you woke up?

Enrique. No, mother.

Marchioness. Did you remember to take that half-glass of milk and the two biscuits during the night?

Enrique. No, mother.

Marchioness. Why not?

Enrique. I didn't wake up during the night.

Marchioness. As a result, you see, you are too weak to get up when the morning comes. I shall have to go in myself and wake you so as to be sure that you take proper nourishment.

Enrique. Don't, mamma.

Marchioness. Why not?

Enrique. I shan't be able to sleep then. I had much rather sleep. Are my cousins up yet?

Marchioness. Not yet. They are very tired after their journey. It is a long trip from Paris; they did not even stop off at Madrid.

Enrique. Are they sleeping in the same room?

Marchioness. Naturally, when they have just been married. What a question to ask!

Enrique. Why, I heard my cousin say last night that they had two rooms at the hotel in Paris.

Marchioness. Did she say that? I am surprised. However, you never can tell what people will do when they are in Paris.

Enrique. She said that they were taken for father and daughter everywhere, except in one place where they were taken——

Marchioness. For brother and sister?

Enrique. No, not exactly—at least that is what Teresa said.

​Marchioness. I don't believe a word of it. Your cousin Teresa is rather bizarre. She thinks things are funny which other people interpret otherwise. Anyhow, there isn't so much difference in their ages. She isn't so young, and her husband isn't so old.

Enrique. My new cousin-in-law is horribly ugly though.

Marchioness. There seems to be a conspiracy to agree that he is ugly. He doesn't appear so ugly to me for a man. You must remember that he is a saint; he is a man who is absolutely ideal, and there are not many of them nowadays. Teresita can never thank God sufficiently for her good fortune. She was utterly without prospects after the collapse of her family——

Enrique. Don't you think that she is rather good-looking?

Marchioness. Too good-looking, I think. She ought not to exaggerate matters. Her style of dressing is entirely out of place. You cannot dress like that here without making yourself conspicuous. I shall have to speak to her.

Enrique. Do they expect to stay long?

Marchioness. No, only while they are remodelling their house at Moraleda.

Enrique. Oh! Are they going to live in Moraleda?

Marchioness. Certainly.

Enrique. I supposed they would live in Madrid.

Marchioness. How absurd! Juanito never married your cousin to live in Madrid. To maintain any sort of position in Madrid one has to spend money. They will be leaders in Moraleda so long as your cousin behaves herself, Teresita never did have much sense, any more than your poor Uncle Ramón—I trust God has forgiven him by this time—he certainly did have the craziest head, which proved the destruction of his family, not to speak of the mortification it was to the rest of us, which is precisely what we ​suffer now on account of your Uncle Heliodoro, my other dear brother, who is well and strong yet, I thank God for that. It is disagreeable to be obliged to confess it, but the men in our family never did amount to anything. Indeed, I live in dread.…

Enrique. Of what? Do you think that I am going to throw myself away?

Marchioness. You? No, my angel! You are a good boy, and you always will be one—now I want you to promise me. Besides, you are not only good naturally, but you have your education and the force of example. They work wonders. It will be time enough for you to learn what the world is like when you arrive at years of discretion. Meanwhile, we can continue living this simple life—which is nothing short of patriarchal—and spend eight months of the year at Moraleda and the other four here, in this quiet place, looking out to sea—far from Madrid, that modern Babylon. I had trouble enough bringing you up, on account of your being so delicate, but, thanks to this regular life, your health seems at last to be pretty well assured. We shall be able to attend to your soul presently, which is more important, and can be lost a great deal more easily. But I think I hear the bridal couple.… yes, here comes Juanito.

Enrique. I was waiting to say good morning.

Marquis. Good morning, my dear aunt. I hope you slept well?

Marchioness. Yes. And you? Could you sleep at all? You were not used to the bed.

Marquis. No, no—not at all. I slept like a log all night. I am worn out after the journey, in spite of the sleeping-car. I never can sleep on a train. Hello, Enriquito! Good morning.

​Enrique. Good morning, cousin. Where is Teresita?

Marquis. Oh, finishing her hair. She will be with us in a moment.

Marchioness. What would you like for breakfast?

Marquis. Anything will do. Whatever you have.

Marchioness. We usually have bizcochos and chocolate. If you prefer something else——

Marquis. No, no; by all means, chocolate.

Marchioness. Enrique, ask them to prepare the chocolate.

Marquis. Enriquillo is a nice boy. I didn't like his color when we arrived last night. I suppose it was the light.

Marchioness. Yes, there is nothing the matter with him now. Poor boy!

Marquis. Of course he is not studying anything?

Marchioness. No; it is absolutely prohibited.

Marquis. Good! Let him get thoroughly strong first. He is young yet.

Marchioness. Nineteen. How time does fly! I wish his father could see him now. The boy was the apple of his eye. An only son, naturally——

Marquis. Yes, and after he had given up the idea of having any. By the way, how old was Manuel when Enriquito was born?

Marchioness. Fifty-two—somewhat advanced.

Marquis. Fifty-two? He didn't look it.

Marchioness. He had his best years before him, but life was just one quarrel and disappointment after another. I am sorry to say that my brothers worried him to death; he simply could not stand it. They were always involved in some lawsuit, otherwise it was an out-and-out scandal. He had to work day and night to keep them out of trouble—​of course, to no purpose. By dint of great effort he prevented them from dragging us down; he saved his son and me from disaster. But it was at the cost of his health.

Marquis. That reminds me. How is your brother Heliodoro? As festive as ever? I was surprised last night to find him here. I didn't know that he was living with you.

Marchioness. Yes, from time to time. He managed to preserve an income of three or four thousand pesetas from the wreck of his fortune, which he spends during the season in Madrid. Sometimes it takes two or three months; sometimes two weeks are sufficient. The rest of the year he spends with us. I make him a modest allowance.

Marquis. Do you have much trouble with him?

Marchioness. No, as long as he has no money he is very repressed. He confines himself to preaching his ideas—I am glad to say not before Enrique. It is prohibited, and he knows better than to transgress. We have agreed as to that—otherwise I should not tolerate him in the house. His doctrines are demoralizing. They are perfectly awful!

Marquis. Whatever he has no facilities for translating into acts.

Marchioness. They are downright heretical.

Marquis. How is he now about drink? Satisfied with talk?

Marchioness. I wish I could say so. At times, to be frank—well, we keep him off the streets. Things happen more in retirement. Fortunately, everybody understands, so they see that he gets home without attracting attention. He remains in bed then for two or three days, Enrique worries because he suffers from such tremendous headaches, and so we go on bearing this terrible cross. But tell me—how are you? Are you happy now that you are married? I certainly hope for the best.

​Marquis. Yes, very happy. Teresa is charming; she has an even, cheerful disposition.

Marchioness. Undoubtedly; although you must make some allowance for her youth. After she has lived awhile with you, she will settle down to a sober routine. You will be happy. I am sure that she is the woman you have been looking for to run the house and be a second mother to your children. How sad that the poor dears lost their own mother so young! If they had all been boys it would not have mattered, but you cannot bring up girls without a woman in the house. Teresita is very affectionate. Of course you have discovered that. And she is fond of children. She will love them just as much as her own.

Marquis. I am sure; although I think for the present it will be just as well for them to remain at school. From what they write they seem to be satisfied. They like school. You know how children are—or rather you know what notions people will put into their heads, things they would never have thought of themselves. They don't seem to like the idea of my marriage, the girls especially. I wish you could have seen their letter. I was amused, to tell the truth; but I was angry.

Marchioness. I see the hand of your sister Rosalia. She never could reconcile herself to the idea of your marrying again.

Marquis. Imagine my position!

Marchioness. But whose fault was it? If it had been possible to get along with her, there wasn't any one you would rather have had in the house.

Marquis. It was simply out of the question. Neither I nor the children nor the servants could abide her. You know what she is.

Marchioness. Yes, and I predicted what was going to ​happen the last time that we freed our minds. She will die alone in a corner some day, with a couple of cats and an old parrot.

Enrique. I told them to bring the chocolate.

Marchioness. What have you done to your hand?

Enrique. Nothing; just a little burn.

Marchioness. A burn? How did that happen? Were you in the kitchen?

Enrique. No; it was Teresa's alcohol stove. She called me in as I was passing her room. She was curling her hair, and we upset the stove.

Marchioness. I wish you would be more careful. Why will you be so rough? You are just like two children. Ask the servants to scrape a potato and bandage it at once.

Enrique. Oh! It is not worth the trouble.

Marquis. What time does the mail get in?

Marchioness. At noon, usually.

Marquis. Do you take any papers?

Marchioness. Our Moraleda paper; we have none from Madrid. If there is any news we hear it later from Don Francisquito. A newspaper is not a thing one leaves lying about the house. Don Francisquito will send out and get one for you. Only remember; it is not for everybody.

Marquis. No, I am not much of a newspaper reader myself. I run over the head-lines; that is all.

Teresa. Good morning, aunt. Aren't you going to kiss me?

Marchioness. Great heavens!

Teresa. What is the matter?

Marchioness. Nothing. I will see you later.

Teresa. What is it? No, tell me now.

​Marchioness. Not before Enrique.

Teresa. I was startled myself at first.…

Marchioness. [Under her breath] That déshabillé, my dear. It is entirely too low.

Teresa. Oh! Is that all? I didn't think there was any harm; I am so thin——

Marchioness. Be careful what you say. I can tell that matinée is from Paris.

Teresa. Yes, it comes from a chain of shops which belongs to a religious order—so I am told.

Marchioness. Teresita! You are married now. Such things are not appropriate to a woman in your condition. Think how it looks.

Teresa. I am afraid you expect too much. There is so much more to marriage than just a question of clothes. I know I have always been a child. Now that I am grown up I still feel that I am a child; I always shall. It is awfully hard to remember to be dignified, and not run and skip rope or play dolls, or dance around in a ring and sing with the children. I shan't be able to believe when I get back to Moraleda and find four children waiting for me in the house, that I am their mother—that they are really my children. It seems to me that they will be more like brothers and sisters, whom I am to take care of and teach how to play. We are going to have such nice times together. I love them already, and I know they will all love me. I am sure of it, although I have never seen them, because we are all children, and then they haven't any mother. And I know what that means.

Marquis. Oh! I forgot to tell you I had decided that it was best not to bring them to Moraleda for the present.

Teresa. Why not?

Marquis. They will be better off at school; they write ​they are contented. It will do them good. Anyhow, I don't want you to be tied down so soon. You will never have any time to enjoy yourself if you begin by taking up the cares of housekeeping and the responsibilities of a family.

Teresa. I am sorry that you feel that way about me. I suppose it is my fault. Naturally you have no confidence in my judgment when I tell you I am a child. I know my aunt feels the same. She thinks I have no self-control. She has always been convinced of it.

Marchioness. I cannot imagine what makes you say that. If I had had any such idea, you may be sure I should never have consented to your marriage, considering what marriage implies.

Teresa. You may think so, but I know better. Juan, you are not going to have another mother for your children—you will only have one more child, one burden more. I want you to teach me, for I am dreadfully ignorant, although when I lost my mother I fell into the hands of a stepmother who was very severe, and knew how to bring up bad children.

Marchioness. You fell into the hands of a stepmother?

Teresa. Yes. Poverty.

Marchioness. I can't see that you have any right to complain. How long did your poverty last? As soon as you had nothing at home everything was provided at our house. Haven't we done everything that we could to make you happy? Aren't you happy now?

Teresa. I am afraid that I am not selfish enough. If I am to be happy, I want to feel that everybody about me is happy. I was not the only one at home; the others were not as fortunate as I. And I am not the only one now. I want to feel that everybody is happy, don't you see? Everybody! I knew that something was the matter when you said a moment ago that the children were not coming to live ​with us, otherwise you would not have changed your mind. Somebody has told you something. Or is it something that you have noticed yourself? I want you to be frank with me and always tell me what you feel. I like to see in people's faces that they trust me. I want to know what is in their hearts. I can't bear frowns and scowls and sour looks. They frighten me; I don't know what to do. Am I too cheerful? You will soon see how serious I can be, only I don't want you to look so worried about it. If I am ever to be cheerful, then I shall have to keep it to myself.

Enrique. Don't, mother! Don't be so hard on Teresita.

Marchioness. Hard on her? I should think not! What is the matter with you? Who ever saw such a boy! He is crying. I never heard of anyone being so sensitive. What are you crying for?

Marquis. A grown man? Over nothing!

Marchioness. His heart is tender.

Teresa. Poor Enrique! You are too sensitive to be happy in this world.

Servant. The Marquis and Marchioness may take chocolate.

Marchioness. Do you prefer it here with us?

Marquis. No, we will go into the dining-room.

Teresa. I don't care for any; we are later than usual this morning. If I take anything I shall have no appetite for luncheon.

Marquis. Just as you say. I am exhausted myself. I must eat.

Marchioness. Perhaps you can help your cousin, Enrique.

Marquis. Good! And when I am done you can take me out to telegraph.

​Enrique. That will be nice.

Marquis. Good-by, aunt.

Marchioness. Good-by.

Teresa. Enrique is such a nice boy!

Marchioness. Poor angel!

Teresa. It is too bad that he is so sensitive. I hate to think what would happen to him if he should ever have to shift for himself. You were not young when he was born, and he has no father. Suppose he should be thrown upon the world and you were not here—he is only a child. You don't know what it means to be deprived of the love and protection of your parents, and find yourself suddenly face to face with the indifference of strangers. I don't want you to say now that I am not serious.

Marchioness. A little too serious. It seems to me that I detect a note of complaint. When you lost your parents you were not thrown upon the world and left to shift for yourself, amid the indifference of strangers.

Teresa. You are right and you must forgive me. You have been very kind. I owe you everything.

Marchioness. It is too much to expect, my dear, that all our desires should be gratified in this life. I know as well as you do what dreaming and visions mean to the young; I know what a girl imagines love to be like when she is twenty. But then I know that this marriage was the best possible guarantee of the future to a girl in your position. I have lived longer than you. Call it a marriage of convenience if you like—entirely too convenient for the taste of the young; but some day you will realize that it was your only surety against the risks to which you were exposed. Virtue is always at a disadvantage when it is combined with poverty and good looks.

​Teresa. I realize that, and I did from the beginning; I never complained. I was more anxious to make others happy than to be happy myself.

Don Heliodoro. Hello! You here, niece? My little niece!

Teresa. Good morning, uncle. How is it that you are out so early?

Don Heliodoro. This is the bathing season. Water is my element. I had a fine bath. Nothing else is so good for my headaches.

Teresa. Do you still have those headaches?

Don Heliodoro. Worse and worse. Sometimes I am in bed for two or three days together. I was recovering from one last night when you came.

Marchioness. Fortunately, it was not a bad one.

Don Heliodoro. No I slept it off. You must forgive me if I hardly noticed you. You know how I am. I wish you would explain to your husband——

Teresa. It is not necessary to explain.

Don Heliodoro. Well, how did you get along on your honeymoon? How was That wedding trip? Did you enjoy yourself in Paris? But you had been there before.

Teresa. Yes, when I was a child.

Don Heliodoro. I remember—you went with your father. Poor Ramón! . How he did enjoy Paris! There is nothing like it. Everybody ought to make three visits to Paris: first before he is married, next just after he has been married, and then again when he is a widower. I have tried all three, and it would be difficult to say when I enjoyed myself most.

Marchioness. It would? When you were under least sense of restraint.

​Don Heliodoro. That was when I was married. When I was single and when I was a widower it was just one embarrassment after another.

Marchioness. You may suppress the details of your adventures. We can imagine what they were.

Don Heliodoro. Do you expect to be with us long?

Teresa. I can't say. We are remodelling the house at Moraleda.

Don Heliodoro. You will find it tiresome; this is a dull spot.

Marchioness. I don't see how you can call it dull. The quiet is its principal attraction. Thank God, we are free from summer visitors!

Don Heliodoro. Yes, thank God! You could never get here without his special interposition. I never saw such a wretched road. What diligences, what service! Then, when you get here, how pleasant they do make it! If there is anything out of the ordinary in your appearance, the children run shouting after you down the street; the grown people stare as if you were some strange species of vermin. Everybody who is anybody rolls himself up in a ball like a hedgehog, so as to prevent contamination by strangers. Then there is so much to do here. No, no theatre; of course not! If a company of strolling players dares to lift its head, the priests preach against it from the pulpits, Doña Esperanza takes up the crusade in her tertulia, and the first thing you know the plays all turn out to be sinful, the leading lady isn't married to the man you thought was her husband, the soubrette's skirts are too short—and God help the poor actors! We had music for a while on Sundays in the glorieta, but never again! The boys held the girls too close when they danced. So now the girls have a club of their own under the supervision of the ladies, and the men have another ​which has been organized by the gentlemen. They have a chorus and sing; it seems to be moral and uplifting. The only café closes at eleven. There is nowhere to go except our house—how exciting! And on Saturdays you can look in on Doña Esperanza. I call her the She-Bishop; she has an eye out for everything. She criticises, she lays down the law, she can tell you the proper cut for your bathing suit, and when you ought to take a bath—yes, and when it is time for you to go to bed, and with whom.

Marchioness. Heliodoro! Don't you begin romancing. That will do.

Don Heliodoro. I say with whom because she makes all the matches. She fixes it up for the rich and the poor. You have had the experience; your aunt's one idea is to imitate her. You were auctioned off on that plan.

Marchioness. Heliodoro, Heliodoro, I fear you are not over that headache. I shall have to retire with Teresita if you continue like this.

Don Heliodoro. Poor Teresita! Wait and see. How shall I put it? Ah! You know Moraleda? Well, this is the same, only more restricted and confined; there is a tighter blockade. They have got us and we suffocate. You will see, you will see.

Marchioness. Hush! Don't pay any attention to him. Nobody minds what he says.

Marchioness. What is it, Don Francisquito?

Don Francisquito. Doña Esperanza and Doña Assumption are waiting down-stairs. They have come to pay their respects to the Marchioness's niece, the Marchioness of Santo Toribio.

Marchioness. Yes, by all means. Ask them up.

​Don Heliodoro. They are here.

Marchioness. I don't wish to criticise, Teresita, but I think I would change that matinée.

Teresa. It won't take a minute; it will be no trouble at all. Wait until you see my new dress.

Don Heliodoro. Better wear gloves and put a brake on your conversation. We don't want to shock them.

Marchioness. Frankly, Heliodoro, this is worse than an out-and-out headache. A few symptoms and you are impossible.

Teresa. I must hurry and dress. [Goes out.

Marchioness. You ought to be ashamed to talk like this before Teresita. It is lucky her husband didn't hear you.

Don Heliodoro. He will later.

Marchioness. Remember, Heliodoro!

Don Heliodoro. That's right. Remind me that I am living on charity.

Marchioness. Who ever thought of such a thing? All I ask is to have you respect me and my house—yes, and yourself; and I should be satisfied.

Don Heliodoro. How about my convictions? My principles, my ideas? Aren't they to be considered? You don't suppose that I am going to sacrifice my ideas for a crust of bread?

Marchioness. There is something the matter with you to-day. What are you sitting down for? The ladies are not calling on you. However, as long as you behave yourself——

Don Heliodoro. The probabilities are against it. I love to annoy the ladies; it is the only liberty they allow me. I am afraid I am going to say something awful.

Marchioness. Mercy on us!

​Don Heliodoro. After the explosion, eh? Well, God have mercy on you, even as I have mercy.

[He sings the "Marseillaise."

I must work up a proper frame of mind.

Marchioness. In any event, they know you are not responsible.

Don Heliodoro. [Singing]

Doña Esperanza. Here we are, Marchioness.

Assumption. Marchioness!

Marchioness. Esperanza and Assumption! My dear friends!

Don Heliodoro. How do you do, ladies?

Doña Esperanza. Ah! Don Heliodoro! We are glad to see you at last. An unexpected pleasure.

Assumption. Indeed it is! You are rarely visible.

Don Heliodoro. It happens that way. I make it a rule never to go out upon Saturdays.

Doña Esperanza. You do?

Don Heliodoro. Is that the evening of your tertulia?

Doña Esperanza. So it is! [Aside to Assumption] He is trying to insult us.

Assumption. [Idem] Drunk as usual! He stops at nothing.

Don Heliodoro. [Sings]

Marchioness. I hope you don't mind what he does. I think sometimes that his head is affected; we notice it in the family. He has had a great deal of trouble.

​Doña Esperanza. Not to speak of headaches. So Teresita and her husband arrived last night? I am delighted to hear that they are getting along so nicely, although I expected it. Santo Toribio is a man without spot—a perfect gentleman, a true Christian. I wish all men were like him. Teresita is indeed fortunate.

Assumption. Is there any news?

Marchioness. News?

Assumption. Why——

Marchioness. Oh!—No, not as yet. However, she will be out in a minute to speak for herself. She stayed in bed very late. The journey was tiresome.

Assumption. No wonder.

Doña Esperanza. Don't disturb them on our account.

Marchioness. Not at all. It will be a pleasure——

Assumption. The pleasure will be ours.

Marchioness. She is very fond of you both. Whenever she writes she always sends you her love.

Doña Esperanza. I hope you sent her ours while you were about it.

Marchioness. And she asked me to thank you.

Assumption. We appreciate it. She always knew what we thought of her.

Marchioness. She reciprocates it fully.

Don Heliodoro. [As if to himself] She is entirely yours, yours; she considers it a great honor——

Doña Esperanza. Is he talking to himself?

Marchioness. Did you say anything?

Don Heliodoro. No, I was merely running over a few polite phrases. A coincidence; association of ideas—"Allow me!" "No, no! allow me; I beg your pardon"—I had an elegant bringing up.

​Marchioness. Are you surprised that I am worried about him?

Doña Esperanza. You have our sympathy. Marchioness. How often I say to my sister: "I am so sorry for the poor Marchioness!"

Assumption. Somehow or other we always seem to be saying: "Poor Marchioness!"

Marchioness. I knew that you were friends of mine.

Doña Esperanza. You knew how we loved you.

Marchioness. You have time for nothing else.

Assumption. And we know that you love us.

Marchioness. I often say to my poor boy: "How I do love Esperanza and Assumption!" Enrique loves you too.

Don Heliodoro. And so do I; I love you.

Doña Esperanza. We have not the same confidence in your love, Don Heliodoro—if I make myself clear.

Don Heliodoro. I cannot imagine why. It is the pure article.

Assumption. To be viewed with suspicion. Your corner in the club enjoys a deserved reputation. All the mots and the scandal originate there.

Doña Esperanza. I believe myself that he was at the bottom of that story about poor María de la O. I suppose you knew all about it, Marchioness? I was shocked. However, I don't believe a word of it. I am the last person in the world to think evil.

Don Heliodoro. If you don't believe it, you have a good excuse for investigating the details.

Doña Esperanza. There has recently been an extraordinary amount of gossip in this town. Nobody ever used to speak ill of anybody.

Assumption. I blame it all on the club. The men who ​are good for nothing congregate there; they have nothing else to do.

Don Heliodoro. We are thinking of organizing a chorus.

Doña Esperanza. I understood that you were devoting your attention to our chorus, and doing everything you could to bring it into contempt. The other night, during the concert in the plaza, you stood on the balcony at the club and howled like a cat. A witty idea!

Don Heliodoro. No, you do me injustice. It was a real cat—Michito, the club cat; he was spending the evening on the terrace. He has fallen in love, poor chap! All I did was to meow two or three times to encourage him. I was his Zapaquilda.

Assumption. You hardly expect us to believe that canard about the cat. What is your objection to our chorus?

Doña Esperanza. How does it interfere with you?

Don Heliodoro. Not at all, not at all. As long as it doesn't sing, not at all.

Doña Esperanza. Isn't it a great deal better for the working man to pass his leisure in song than in taverns and revolutionary clubs, dissipating his time reading and hearing talk that is seditious?

Assumption. Take the two kinds of men; put them side by side. What a contrast! How orderly, how respectful some are! Their every desire seems to have been gratified. On the other hand, there are others who do nothing but complain, roister about, and shout at the top of their lungs. They even strike.

Don Heliodoro. No doubt they do. The other fellows ​have everything they want, and you take good care to see that they get nothing.

Marchioness. There must be some distinction.

Don Heliodoro. Now you have it—some distinction. You are not handing out alms and charity for nothing. All you ask is a profession of faith, an oath of absolute allegiance, social, religious, political, sentimental—yes, even sentimental. You are shocked when you find some one who is not willing to sell his soul, his most cherished beliefs, for whatever you are ready to offer, and there are fewer poor men who will do it, let me tell you, than gentlemen among the upper classes. You think that you are encouraging virtue when what you are really doing is fostering hypocrisy. You are not educating the masses—you are holding a ruler in one hand and a piece of candy in the other. Molière's Don Juan Tenorio is a revolting spectacle when he bribes a beggar to blaspheme, but morally it is no worse than if he had debauched him for a benediction. Giving with one hand and taking back with the other never appealed to me. Good isn't a seed which you sow with one eye on the harvest. You scatter the seed. Some falls on fertile ground; very well. Some the wind carries away, but you lose nothing. The joy of doing good is in sowing the seed, not in what you think you are going to get out of it.

Doña Esperanza. Do you mean to imply that we are improving the condition of the poor out of selfishness? It is a great deal easier, no doubt, to scatter your seed broadcast than it is first to prepare the ground carefully, and then cultivate it.

Marchioness. Pay no attention to what my brother says. God made him, and he is responsible.

Doña Esperanza. We are acquainted with your brother's peculiar propensities for doing good.

​Assumption. That wretched drunkard, Cabrera, who is a disgrace to the village, and La Repelona, the miserable female who lives with him, are cases in point. He encourages them and leads them on to make exhibitions of themselves. They drink until they can no longer stand up.

Doña Esperanza. And because we do not ke liit and decline to assist them while they are in such a condition, they insult us to our faces. That is all your brand of charity amounts to.

Marchioness. It would be a pretty state of affairs if he were intrusted with the morals of the community.

Don Heliodoro. Yes, in your eyes I am a sort of Beast of the Apocalypse, brought up to date. Well, let us divide the Kingdoms of this World, or rather of this village. You take your friends, while I—I will take myself; because I have no friends I can call mine. My friends are their own masters. They think what they like, they say what they like, and they do what they like.

Doña Esperanza. They drink what they like.

Don Heliodoro. They do, sí, señora. They are very particular about that. I do not ask them even to subscribe to my respectability. Liberty is my motto—Liberty!

Teresa. Doña Esperanza and Assumption!

Doña Esperanza. Teresita, my child!

Assumption. My dear Teresita!

Doña Esperanza. You have no idea how delighted we were to hear from your aunt of your marriage to Santo Toribio. We have known him ever since we were girls. You must be the happiest woman in the world. How often I have said to my sister: If I had had a daughter he is the ​very husband I should have prayed for! No doubt you realize by this time that poverty was only a passing trial, since it was borne with resignation. In this life we sometimes anticipate our reward.

Teresa. Thanks to my aunt and to you.

Doña Esperanza. You are looking extremely well.

Assumption. Divinely! You seem like another person.

Teresa. Thank you so much.

Don Heliodoro. [Aside to Teresa] Yes, thank her. If you are divine now and like another person, imagine what you must have looked like before.

Doña Esperanza. But where is your husband? We wish to congratulate him.

Teresa. He will be here presently. He hurried out to telegraph, and on the way he was to stop at mass.

Marchioness. Yes, Enriquito is with him.

Doña Esperanza. Do you expect to live at Moraleda?

Teresa. Yes, at Moraleda.

Doña Esperanza. A wise choice. You will find all the conveniences. Your husband's house is magnificent, and the country place simply regal. It is not far away. Of course everything is rather out of repair. When the Marquis lost his first wife, he took no interest in such matters; but now he wall have you as an incentive.

Don Francisquito. If you will permit me, ladies.…

Marchioness. What is it, Don Francisquito?

Don Francisquito. Nativity and Martin are waiting down-stairs. They say they are expected by the Señora Marchioness.

Marchioness. Oh, yes! I am to hand them their papers. Ask them to come up—to come up immediately. And tell ​them that Doña Esperanza and Doña Assumption are with me.

Don Francisquito. They know already, Señora Marchioness.

Marchioness. It seems they are really going to be married at last.

Doña Esperanza. What we have done will be appreciated. We have made no mistake. They are both faithful and industrious, and now that conditions are favorable, everything will be easy if they attend strictly to business.

Teresa. Are you marrying somebody?

Marchioness. Yes, two unfortunates from the village—orphans who have been in our charge; although the girl is not really from this place. Her story sounds more like a novel.

Teresa. Is that so? Do tell me about it.

Marchioness. Here they are. We shall have to wait.

Marchioness. Come in, come right in. There is nobody here but the family. My niece, the Marchioness of Santo Toribio.…

Nativity. Señorita Teresa? She was in the village a long while ago; she was a little girl then. She came one day with the Marchioness and another lady to visit the asylum.

Teresa. Yes, my mother.

Marchioness. You certainly have a good memory. You were only a mite at the time.

Nativity. I remember it perfectly.

Teresa. I remember now. Of course—and they told me your story. I was tremendously affected by it, although it had slipped my mind until you spoke. I remember—you are the girl some sailors from the village rescued from a wreck.

​Nativity. I am, señora.

Doña Esperanza. This girl and a poor woman who had a tiny baby boy clasped in her arms, were the only ones that were saved. The woman died soon afterward, but they managed to preserve the boy's life. It took place on a Christmas afternoon, so when we had the children confirmed, we changed their names to commemorate the event, and called them Nativity and Jesus.

Teresa. Is this the young man?

Nativity. No—no, señora.

Marchioness. No, the boy was saved from the wreck, but he has since come to shipwreck in life. Nativity has always been docile and willing, appreciative of what has been done for her. I do not say this because she is present—but whatever good qualities she has possessed the boy has made up for in surliness and rebellion. He ran away from the asylum when he was eight years old. You cannot expect me to remember all his escapades since. We were sorry when his turn came to be released on parole and he was put to work outside. He is little better now than one of the wicked. Sometimes he runs away from the village, nobody knows where; and the next thing you hear he is back again.

Doña Esperanza. So you see we have nothing more to do with him.

Assumption. He is a fine specimen.

Teresa. But were any of your family lost in the wreck?

Nativity. I can't say, señora; I don't remember. I was only three years old at the time.

Marchioness. They were crossing in an old sailing vessel from Orán. I here were ten or twelve in the party—a troupe of acrobats, as we learned from the boy's mother.

Teresa. The boy who was saved with you then was not your brother?

​Nativity. No, señora—no.

Marchioness. They were not brother and sister.

Don Heliodoro. Otherwise they could not have been engaged.

Marchioness. This is no time to bring up that subject again. The boy's head was filled with wild notions, and he got the idea that Nativity and he had been destined for each other—that is how he expressed it, predestined for each other. He had been reading cheap novels, you know, and murder stories in the newspapers, so he got the idea that destiny had joined them together, and that no power on earth could put them asunder.

Doña Esperanza. Poor Nativity! Rather than marry that scamp, it would have been better if she had never been saved.

Teresa. Is this young man your fiancé?

Martin. At your service, señorita.

Doña Esperanza. He is quite different; he is honorable and a hard worker. Both have employment—she is a laundress; he is a carpenter. He works in our leading carpenter's shop; she has a laundry which we have fitted up for her in wonderful style. They will be very successful, as they are well liked by everybody.

Nativity. Thanks to you.

Martin. Thanks to you, ladies.

Marchioness. I suppose that people will still say that women's clubs do no good.

Teresa. Do you expect to be married soon?

Nativity. Next week. The final banns will be published on Sunday.

Teresa. I must send you a present—something useful for the house. Let me know what you need.

Nativity. Thank you, señorita, but we have everything. ​The ladies are so kind. Anything at all will do, señorita; you are so kind.

Teresa. I shall make inquiries.

Marchioness. I am glad that you came while Doña Esperanza and Doña Assumption were with us. Although I am president, they are much more active than I.

Doña Esperanza. No indeed! All we ever do. Marchioness, is carry out your wishes.

Marchioness. Come into the study where Don Francisquito has the papers. He will give them to you. Martin need only sign his name a couple of times in order to make everything regular; then all you will lack will be a blessing.

Doña Esperanza. They will make an attractive couple.

Teresa. Yes, very interesting.—I don't know why, but somehow I find myself thinking of the other.

Don Heliodoro. Just like she is; depend upon it.

Teresa. Do you mean?…

Don Heliodoro. Surely.

Teresa. That is even more interesting.

Marchioness. But we are losing time.

Doña Esperanza. Lead the way, Marchioness.

Marchioness. Come with me.

Nativity. With your permission.

Martin. With your permission, ladies .…

Don Heliodoro. Did you hear what they said about poor Jesus? There is not one word of truth in it, as usual. They merely expect a complete surrender in return for their favors. It is a new form of slavery. Men are not men, they are abstractions—so many souls to be saved. As far as the man is concerned, he can go to the devil! We have souls, ​but there is a considerable admixture of bone and flesh, of nerves that tingle, and blood that boils—we are alive—and life means struggle, rebellion. At the first harmless prank they regarded the boy with suspicion. Distrust and repression were the correctives employed. Naturally the rebellion increased, until it terminated in open war. The boy is not bad, but by treating him as if he were, they will make him so. He is in love with this girl. There is a touch of the theatric in his infatuation, it is true, of the language of the folletins which he has been reading; and it is ridiculous—I was the first to laugh at him—but at bottom his attachment is sincere, even passionate. And the girl loves him, only she is afraid. She is prepared to accept a husband like any other alms which they offer, because it is not proper to refuse. Poor people cannot afford to refuse charity; it seems ungrateful. But a husband is not a form of charity. Don't say now that I am talking. Hasn't a man a right to talk when he sees things which make his blood boil? You know what they did to you.

Teresa. To me?

Don Heliodoro. Yes, and you know it. They were not satisfied to give you bread, they wanted to secure your virtue and save your soul. They had very little confidence in you, and none at all that any young man would be found who would be willing to offer you his love, because they knew that you were poor—they may have been right, too—young men to-day are very shy about love; they are afraid. It might embarrass them afterward in the struggle for life and they may be right about that. Life is exacting and hard nowadays, and it is terribly severe with the man who refuses to accept things as they are, but spends his time gazing up at the stars or listening idly to the songs of nightingales.

​Teresa. But what have I to complain of since you admit yourself that they are right?

Don Heliodoro. Yes, yes, of course they are right! Only I cannot resign myself to this sort of right. It is not my conception of life. The struggle for life never engrossed me; it has always been the struggle against life when its conditions became insupportable. That is how I come to be living here upon charity, but refusing to abdicate, like a king who has been conquered but not humiliated, and who will never surrender his throne for all the powers of this world. Like the fallen angel, I stand alone, preferring to be a devil to an angel who has repented and been forgiven. I am solitary and great in my inferno, which explains why it is that I can afford to tell you that it was a sin to marry you to that old egotist, who cares nothing for you except as a trustworthy nurse for his children, and a reliable housekeeper to look after his house; that is why I can tell you that it is a crime to join these young people together, whose sense of obligation is so great that they do not even dare admit to themselves that they are not in love.

Teresa. Why should they not be in love? Come, dear uncle, you were always a little romantic yourself. Admit that all these stories of shipwrecks on Christmas eve, of acrobats and orphans snatched from the storm, have induced you to compose a little novel or melodrama of your own, which this prosaic ending with a wedding will spoil completely. The girl seems very happy to me.

Don Heliodoro. She is exactly as happy as you are.

Teresa. You seem determined to drag me into it.

Don Heliodoro. Do you mean to tell me that you are in love with your husband?

Teresa. I mean to tell you that it was no sacrifice for me to marry him.

​Don Heliodoro. Because you had never been in love, and you have not the slightest idea now what love means—what true love means. Who knows? It may come to-day.

Teresa. What are you talking about?

Don Heliodoro. Sometimes it seems as if the realities of life had crushed out the ideal; but only the ideal is eternal, and it asserts itself in the end. In a day, in an hour, it turns topsy-turvy the best regulated and most tranquil of lives, which had seemed secure from all folly or passion which might ruffle their calm.

Teresa. I have no fear that folly or passion will ever disturb my life.

Don Heliodoro. They will some day—perhaps it will be only a great longing which takes possession of your soul, and you will not know the reason; but it will be the ideal, the ideal which sooner or later exacts its part in our lives.

Nativity. Excuse me.… May I speak with the Señora Marchioness?

Don Heliodoro. What is the matter? You seem frightened.

Teresa. What has happened?

Nativity. I am very much frightened, sí, señora. The ladies handed us the papers; they were as kind as they could be, God reward them for it. Martin and I left the house together, both so happy, and bade each other good-by on the corner. He went to his shop and I turned back to my laundry, but no sooner was I alone than Jesus appeared and threw himself across my path, and began to talk to me as if he were crazy. I never saw him like that before; he always seemed resigned. I thought he had forgotten me, but now he says that he is going to kill us, that he is going to kill ​himself. I am sure that he is crazy. He wanted to come here, too, to insult the ladies. I was so frightened that I began to run, and I ran back to the house, and I know that he is following me, although I didn't dare to look behind, because I could hear him muttering all the while and swearing that he would kill us, and kill himself, and kill those old busybodies—the busybodies were the ladies, God forgive him! It was the same thing over and over. He is crazy. I know that he is crazy. They must be prepared for it.…

Don Heliodoro. The melodrama and the novel! What did I tell you?

Teresa. One moment. Nativity. Did you ever love Jesus?

Nativity. Of course I did! We were brought up together, we were saved from the wreck together, our names were always spoken as one, and we were both alone in the world, dependent upon alms—charity was all that we had. But he has turned bad, he has become ungrateful.…

Teresa. Is he really as bad as they say?

Nativity. Oh, yes, señora! He always wants to have his own way. He is rebellious and a bad Christian; he says terrible things. He ran away from the asylum once, and went about among the towns and villages, fighting bulls. Another time he ran away with some acrobats.

Don Heliodoro. Naturally, you were born into the profession. Didn't you ever feel like turning a few somersaults yourself?

Nativity. I? Oh, no, sir! But when he was little I have often heard it said that all his bones were out of joint.

Teresa. How dreadful! He should have been punished severely.

Don Heliodoro. Yes, indeed; and it was worse yet when he took to dislocating heads and hearts.

​Teresa. Tell me, was there anything else that was wrong that poor Jesus did?

Nativity. Oh, yes, señorita! A great many things. One day he was drunk in the streets with Cabrera and La Repelona, and roused the whole village shouting blasphemies. The ladies would have nothing more to do with him after that, although until then they had always forgiven him.

Don Heliodoro. In the heat of improvisation some stories came out which were of interest to the ladies. La Repelona is pretty well informed about what is going on. So a council was convened and he was excommunicated.

Teresa. So now you do not love Jesus?

Nativity. Love him? Yes, and I always shall. I am awfully sorry to have it like this, but things are different now; he knows that I am to be married, and he will have to give me up. Only think what might have happened if Martin had seen us together! It would have been dreadful. Men are so excitable, and although Martin is cautious, Jesus would have insulted him. I was terribly frightened, señorita, and I want the Marchioness to know all about it so that they can put fear into the heart of Jesus, and it will never happen again.

Teresa. It certainly must be done.

Nativity. Dios mío!

Teresa. What? Who are these people?

Don Heliodoro. Never mind who they are. There is no cause for alarm. They are friends of mine. Here comes Jesus with Cabrera and La Repelona, who is his mistress. Come in, come right in! While I am here it will be perfectly safe. Have no fear.

​Repelona. Good morning, everybody.

Cabrera. Good morning, Don Heliodoro and company.

Jesus. Good morning.

Don Heliodoro. Hello, hello! To what are we indebted for the honor of this visit of the most notable rogues of this virtuous community?

Jesus. We asked for you, Don Heliodoro, so as to be able to get in; but what we want is to see the Marchioness and the other ladies of the Junta. I have something to say to them. I don't know what these people want.

Repelona. I want my rights, and to let people know who is who, so that the ladies can tell what they are doing and not be deceived, and who it is they are trying to help, for they are preyed upon now by a brood of vipers, who make them see white as black, the hypocrites and scum of the village that they are; and they are the people who go about plastering sins upon everybody so as to make it appear that they are virtuous, and have the ladies listen to them, and to nobody else. They are frauds and deceivers, and they find out when it is the ladies go to church, so that they can be there before them, and beat themselves—on the breast and kiss the ground, and then they go out and do afterward.… Aha! I could tell you what they do afterward! I wonder if they think nobody knows who they are? It would be a good deed, too, to run them down and expose them one by one in their shame, and drag them out onto the streets in the broad light of day—and I am the one that is going to do it, too! Take Cacharrero's old woman, she talks the most—I will take her—dressed up in the robe of a penitent last Good Friday like a Nazarene, when what she ought to have been doing was running the gauntlet! I will take her! There is not another hussy so foul in the village, no, nor in hell either, for that matter; you can take it from me.

​Teresa. What a horrible woman! I believe she is dangerous.

Don Heliodoro. [To La Repelona] Yes, yes, we agree with you. But repress your just rage and give the men a chance to talk. Cabrera, your fame has passed the limits of this village. If I am right you are the third of your line?

Cabrera. Sí, señor, most excellent Señor Don Heliodoro, I am Cabrera the Third, at your service and the company's, not to speak of the most excellent señorita's, as lovely as can be. One of your most excellent family, eh, Don Heliodoro? Is it so?

Don Heliodoro. She is my niece.

Cabrera. May she long continue so!

Don Heliodoro. But we are wandering from the subject. You were saying that you were the third of your line.

Cabrera. Sí, señor, most excellent Don Heliodoro. You knew us all. My father was a great drinker, and my grandfather was a great drinker. My grandfather served in the army under the most excellent general, Don Ramón Cabrera. This white cap belonged to the most excellent general; he gave it to my grandfather.

Don Heliodoro. I see: this cap belonged to the general, it was white, and he gave it to you.

Cabrera. It was a mistake that I was not a soldier; I was born to make war. What can a man do in peace but stagnate? Drink is the only relief. I drink, I don't stagnate. People ought to remember. They call me a drunkard when I am not. A drunkard drinks for the sake of drink, but that is no way to do. La Repelona here, is a drunkard, and she has gotten an ill name for us with the most excellent ladies of the most excellent Junta. I only give them their due; I suffer abuse with moderation. I am a martyr to my principles, like my grandfather.

Teresa. Oh, uncle! These people frighten me.

​Nativity. Señorita, ask them to go away.

Don Heliodoro. They amuse me. Jesus, what have you to say for yourself?

Jesus. Nothing. What do you want me to say? I have come to tell the Señora Marchioness and the other ladies and gentlemen of the Junta that I will do whatever they wish—I will go to work at whatever they put me. It is not my fault that I am slow at work. What I like is to put to sea and to wander over the earth, but I will do what they tell me, and you know it. And that ends it. I never did anything but run away twice, and both times it was because they said I was no good, and I wanted to see if I wasn't some good and try myself out in the world. One day I had been drinking when I wasn't used to it, and I met these people, and we said things, and then the ladies heard of it; that is the only wrong I ever did, so now they treat me worse than if I were a thief, and they will not have me around. Now the captains of all the boats are afraid to take me for fear of offending the owners, so I have had to take to smuggling with the Pimentóns, who are the only ones who have any use for me. Then everybody says that I keep bad company, that I am in a bad business. I know it is a bad business, and some day the guard will catch us, and we will all be shot—and we will be lucky too to be shot—otherwise they will put us in jail. But what is a man to do? I want the ladies and gentlemen to forgive me, and here I am, and I am ready to do what they say, you know that, if only they will tell me.

Don Heliodoro. [To Teresa] Was I right?

Teresa. If he is telling the truth. Do you hear, Nativity?

Nativity. [Bursting into tears] I am awfully sorry.

Jesus. You are crying because you know that I am telling the truth. You are afraid; you always said that you loved ​me, and now you don't dare to say it; but I will make you say it. You will have to say it! You are going to say it yet!

Nativity. Señorita! I am so frightened!—The Señora Marchioness!…

Marchioness. What is the matter? What is the meaning of this? [To Nativity] Are you here again? And what are you doing here? Who are these people?

Doña Esperanza. I never heard of such impudence.

Assumption. What shameless effrontery!

Marchioness. [To Heliodoro] Needless to say you are responsible.

Don Heliodoro. Yes, I am. The least that we can do is to hear what they have to say. Jesus asks pardon.

Marchioness. It was high time. Enough has been pardoned him already.

Don Heliodoro. We can never pardon enough.

Marchioness. We are aware what his repentance amounts to. [To La Repelona and Cabrera] Well, what do you want? Do you come here with the same old story? Whenever you are in trouble you appeal to us, repentant and humble, and pretend that you never wanted to live with this man. You ask us to take you away and lend you our protection, but as soon as we do, you return to live in sin again, and become the public shame of the village.

Cabrera. Most excellent Señora Marchioness—I say this with all respect to the most excellent Señora Marchioness and to the most excellent other ladies—this idea of separating two people who live together exactly as if they were man and wife.…

​Marchioness. That will do, that will do! We don't care to hear the details.

Repelona. But Señora Marchioness, I can't help it; it isn't my fault that we are not married. Nobody knows where my husband is—he has been gone these ten years, and never said one word to me about it. At this moment I couldn't tell you whether he was dead or alive. What is a woman to do?

Marchioness. We don't care to hear.

Doña Esperanza. Live decently and obey the commandments.

Repelona. So I do live decently. No one can say that I run about with everybody, like some other people.…

Doña Esperanza. I thought so. More of your gossip! Drag in all those old stories.

Repelona. Sí, señora, they are stories—stories about those women who deceive you because they look like saints on the outside. I could tell you some things about your friends, too, who belong to this Junta. I know some things about them. They are not all like you are. Ask Don Gumersindo's wife why it is that she goes in the afternoons to see La Cacharrera? Some afternoons she does and some she does not, because the house has two doors, and they open on two streets, and I could tell you who it is that goes in at the other.

Marchioness. That will do, that will do! We have already heard sufficient.

Repelona. How about the judge's wife?

Doña Esperanza. Great heavens! I always thought that at least she was respectable.

Repelona. She is a saint. Believe me, a saint! That is the kind you help with your charity, the ones who know how to lie and cheat best; and those of us who dare to speak ​out our minds, we are the bad ones. Whoever it was that turned you against us, is going to get a piece of my mind—she is going to hear things! Whoever meddles with my mother's daughter settles with me.

Marchioness. [Calling] Don Francisco! Pedro! Come quickly! Put these people out. [To Don Heliodoro] Well? What are you doing?

Doña Esperanza. We don't care to hear!

Assumption. How can such people be?

Jesus. All the same she knows what she is talking about. You don't want to hear the truth, but you have no right to do what you are doing. You have no right! This girl shall never marry Martin, because I say so. She shall never marry any one but me!

Nativity. Señora Marchioness!

Marchioness. [To Jesus] We shall attend to your case. You will hear from the Judge and the Guardia civil.

Jesus. What shall I hear? Will they turn me out of the village? But I will go myself first— I will sooner go myself! But you will hear from me before I go——

Marchioness. Unspeakable insolence!

Doña Esperanza. He threatens us!

Marchioness. Where are the servants? Don Francisquito!

Don Francisquito. Señora Marchioness!

Marquis. Aunt!

Enrique. Mamma!

Marchioness. Run! Put these people out!

Doña Esperanza. I never saw such an exhibition. Marquis, what an occasion on which to congratulate you!

​Marquis. Doña Esperanza and Assumption——

Don Francisquito. Move along now! You don't want us to use force. Get out!

Repelona. Yes, we will move along. But you will hear from us! We are going to have our say somewhere.

Cabrera. Martyrs submit to abuse with resignation.

Jesus. And you—do you hear? You will never marry Martin.

Don Francisquito. Silence all of you! To the street to get drunk! Shout there as much as you like.… To the street, I tell you!

Marchioness. Now I hope you are satisfied.

Nativity. Oh, Señorita!

Doña Esperanza. Put it out of your mind. His case will receive attention.

Marquis. Ungrateful people, eh? I thought so. Unappreciative of what has been done for them.

Assumption. Judge for yourself.

Marchioness. [To Don Heliodoro] Of course you are at the bottom of it.

Doña Esperanza. Yes, you! You!

Assumption. You urge them on.

Marchioness. You revel in their shame, you lead them into our presence, you lure them into temptation—as if they had not already temptation enough!

Don Heliodoro. I do, eh? Come, come, I don't want to disgrace myself, but discomfort for discomfort, I prefer the headaches I suffer to the pain which you give me. Good day, ladies. [Goes out.

Doña Esperanza. Nativity is fainting.

​Marchioness. No wonder—after the shock. He threatened her.

Assumption. Pay no attention to what he said. He will learn what is good for him.

Marquis. Doing good is nothing but one annoyance after another.

Doña Esperanza. You have no conception of it, my dear Marquis. When we appear on the street, this hussy will be lying in wait for us, to fling it in our teeth.

Marquis. You must allow me to come along.

Assumption. Yes; come, Nativity.… Get the child something.

Doña Esperanza. A cup of tea.

Marchioness. Take her into the dining-room. Bring medicine.

Marquis. Disgusting!

Enrique. Well, you heard all of it.

Teresa. Yes; and I am awfully sorry. Poor fellow! He may be bad, but when you listen to him it doesn't seem possible.

Enrique. No, it doesn't. I agree with you. I think that Jesus is the one who ought to marry Nativity. It would be more appropriate.

Teresa. Yes.… but you know all life is not like that.

Enrique. There are many charming things about life.

Teresa. Do you think so?

Enrique. You, for instance.

Teresa. Why, cousin! Ha, ha, ha!

Enrique. No, no! Hush! Now don't you repeat what I said.

​Teresa. To nobody; don't you worry. It can remain a secret between us. Don't you think it is charming to have secrets?

Enrique. Charming? Very.