The Evil Doers of Good/Act 2

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Don Heliodoro. [Calling] Don Francisquito! Don Francisquito! Don Francisquito.… quito.… quito.… quito.…

Don Francisquito. [Waking up] Eh? Ah! Don Heliodoro——

Don Heliodoro. Taking a siesta?

Don Francisquito. No, I was reading, as you see. A most interesting book.… It is too hot in my room.

Don Heliodoro. So it is in mine. The only comfortable rooms in the house are those reserved for guests. We poor sinners are allowed to mortify ourselves. Frizzling here and the mosquito bites will be credited to us hereafter.

Don Francisquito. Don Heliodoro, why will you be so sacrilegious? You were not always an unbeliever.

Don Heliodoro. No, but that was when I had money. What do you expect? When a man has money he can believe in anything. By the way, that reminds me.…

Don Francisquito. Speaking of money? I know what you are going to say.

Don Heliodoro. Yes, I went without my siesta so as to find you alone. Whenever you suspect that I have occa​sion for a word or two, you slip through my fingers like an eel.

Don Francisquito. So as to avoid discussion.

Don Heliodoro. Discussion! Discussion! You are the one who could avoid discussion. Come, Don Francisquito, let us not have any discussion to-day. I feel sure that we will not have any.

Don Francisquito. No, sir, we will not. Once for all, I might as well tell you in plain terms—no, no, no!

Don Heliodoro. Now you are beginning the discussion. No! no! You always say the same thing.

Don Francisquito. Because you always ask the same thing—money, money.

Don Heliodoro. Money? Anybody would think to hear you talk.… Money? An advance of fifteen duros, a trifling advance?

Don Francisquito. But, Don Heliodoro, we have not reached the fifteenth. Is it possible that you have spent your entire allowance?

Don Heliodoro. Don Francisquito, I am willing to take a great deal from you, but, remember, I can never consent to call that pittance an allowance. Forty dollars an allowance?

Don Francisquito. Yes, but forty dollars in two weeks. How is it possible to spend so much in this place?

Don Heliodoro. It isn't that I spend it in this place. I spend it on myself, for my own purposes—which I consider a capital investment. It would be the same anywhere. Lucullus eats only at the table of Lucullus; Heliodoro lives only to himself, not in this village nor in that. It is I; I am the man.

Don Francisquito. Now you are joking. Let us not descend to that level. You know that the Marchioness has ​forbidden me to lend you money, or to make you any advance.

Don Heliodoro. What necessity is there of her knowing anything about it?

Don Francisquito. A nice question for you to ask, when you are always the one who lets her know.

Don Heliodoro. I? I? Do I tell her that you advance me money?

Don Francisquito. No, it isn't necessary to tell her. Do you think that anybody needs to be told when you have money? It is the same thing every month: from the first to the tenth the going is bad; from the tenth to the fifteenth, days of bonanza!

Don Heliodoro. As the weather man has it, fair and warmer.

Don Francisquito. If I relax a little, from the fifteenth to the twentieth increasing cloudiness, followed by storms, hurricanes, and high seas. I have made up my mind this month, in so far as it is in my control, that we are going to have settled weather.

Don Heliodoro. You are a Gracián when it comes to constructing allegories. However, to reconsider.…

Don Francisquito. No, no! Not to-day. If you insist, I shall speak to the Marchioness. This month, no advance.

Don Heliodoro. But Don Francisquito, we are talking at cross-purposes. We have not the same thing in mind. I have been unlucky this month at the Club; I have lost abominably at tresillo. I have debts—gaming debts. You know gaming debts are debts of honor.

Don Francisquito. Is that so? When you play with me, you never pay when you lose. Where are those four duros you owe me from the other night?

Don Heliodoro. Exactly what I say. Gaming debts are ​sacred. Don't make me blush for four duros. Let me have twenty, and out of the surplus I'll pay you on the spot.

Don Francisquito. Come, Don Heliodoro, what is the use of wasting time over this foolishness? If you can get along with ten pesetas, I can let you have them, and not as an advance either, but out of my own pocket—ten pesetas which you are at liberty to add to that sacred debt of honor.

Don Heliodoro. Ten pesetas? I have not fallen so low. No, no, keep your ten pesetas. Ah, Heliodoro, Heliodoro, you never expected this! This is the last degradation! Give me twenty-five anyway; it is only fifteen more, and it won't be such a humiliation.

Don Francisquito. Don Heliodoro, ten are all I have. Believe me.…

Don Heliodoro. Never mind; let us not get into another discussion. Hand over the ten pesetas. I must drain the cup. Now you owe me fifteen. Somehow or other when we leave off you always owe me money.

Don Francisquito. Not a hint to the Marchioness, whatever happens.

Don Heliodoro. On ten pesetas? Who do you think I am? It is like chaining an eagle in a dungeon underground.

Teresa. Hello, uncle!

Don Heliodoro. Couldn't you sleep either? What disturbed your siesta?

Teresa. I never take one.

Don Heliodoro. No, your husband won't let you. He snores terribly I can hear him now. By the way, since we are alone, how I do detest your husband!

Teresa. For heaven's sake, uncle, how can you say such a thing? Besides, we are not alone.

Don Heliodoro. Oh, Don Francisquito is in the secret! ​He is in all the secrets—secret service. His post is at the keyhole.

Don Francisquito. Don Heliodoro! Fortunately, the Marchioness does not believe what you say.

Don Heliodoro. No; we understand each other, Don Suave—which is what I call him. It is too bad to see such exceptional diplomatic ability wasted in this back country.

Don Francisquito. Now, Don Heliodoro.…

Don Heliodoro. I leave it to you whether striking a balance between the ten or twelve ladies who buzz about this community, is not more difficult than to preserve the equilibrium of Europe.

Don Francisquito. I must retire now, Señora Marchioness. We all know Don Heliodoro.… [Goes out.

Don Heliodoro. A fool and his money are soon parted. However, let us return to your husband.

Teresa. Uncle, you are perfectly outrageous.

Don Heliodoro. Stop! I know that you agree with me, otherwise I should say nothing. I cannot abide these people who have only one idea, who lay out their lives in a straight line exactly parallel to that idea, and then pride themselves upon making their conduct conform to it—just as if our ideas were ever anything more than our temperament or convenience. Your husband is disgustingly consistent, naturally; he is all of a piece. He is one of the sort of men who measure even their smiles off upon a scale, so much for their equals, so much for their inferiors, so much for their superiors. How condescending he is to those of us who don't agree with him! He seems to be saying: Unfortunately, I have to put up with you here, but hereafter—you will be in hell while I shall be in glory, with my robes pressed and gold shoes on. Class distinction, you see. The man is insufferable. Give me genuine saints, Saint Francises, Santa ​Teresas, Saint Pauls, or otherwise red-hot fanatics who are all passion and fire—Savonarolas, Calvins, Torquemadas, but none of these modern candied Tartuffes, who neither take fire spiritually themselves nor burn us materially—and come armed only with safety-pins! They get on my nerves; they infuriate me. One of them will turn a whole family into purgatory, as I have learned by experience. And imagine how many there must be in the world! They are the people who plume and puff themselves up if you are foolish enough to tolerate them out of good nature. They take your tolerance as a sign of weakness, or else for the respect which is their due. If you oppose them out of the instinct of self-preservation, ah!—they are the first to invoke liberty and the right of free speech, which they detest, and the tolerance which they never practise themselves. Bad stock! Thoroughly bad!

Teresa. You are excited, uncle.

Don Heliodoro. I free my mind because I have suffered a good deal in our family. I will admit that I was foolish and made mistakes when my father died, and I found a fortune on my hands. I had been brought up so strictly, with such severity, that I broke loose as soon as I found myself free, by natural reaction. And the usual thing happened. My will had never been fortified; it had been undermined—according to the orthodox theory of education and government in Spain. I compromised myself horribly. It was a hard lesson, but it might have been profitable if they had only treated me in the right spirit. But not at all; I was regarded as absolutely incapable, and bullied as if I were a child again, when for the first time I was really beginning to be a man. My brother-in-law, the Marquis of Casa Molina, was an exact counterpart of your husband; he was obsessed by his ideas, by his principles. He crippled him​self to help my brother Ramón, your father—you know what he was—he was no better than I—and he helped me too. But how? He humiliated us in the eyes of the world, he incapacitated us forever from attempting to restore our credit, our fortune. Your father died broken-hearted, while I was forced to leave the woman who was my whole life, I was forced to abandon her with a child who was my idol, my ideal, the hope of my future, and compelled to marry a woman they picked out for me. I don't need to tell you what a success my married life was! They overran me like an invading army in the name of their principles; they ravaged my most private affairs, our home, our hearts. And I, because I had no will of my own at the time, submitted to it meekly. I believed that the honor and good name of our family took precedence of all else, and had to be saved at whatever cost, because they told me so. And they were saved, everything was saved, except the woman I loved and the boy I adored, while I.… I am not I any more, because there is nothing left to me which is mine, and I only know that I am the same man when I burst out like this in savage protest, or sometimes in ironic scorn, like the raving of the mad, or in surly rebellion which no doubt seems to them ingratitude, or else with tears in my eyes which well up within me—seldom, very seldom—when I find myself alone, or with some one like you, who can weep with me, and then I feel for both of us, because you have suffered some of the things which I have suffered, and you know how I feel. For you do, my poor girl!

Teresa. I know, uncle, I know. I should never have dared to confess it to any one else. I am dreadfully unhappy

Don Heliodoro. Didn't I tell you? My poor girl!

​Enrique. Are you here? I thought there was somebody in the garden.

Teresa. You couldn't hear us from your room?

Enrique. No; but I came down out of curiosity. I was hiding—in ambush.

Teresa. In ambush?

Don Heliodoro. There was nothing to ambush.

Enrique. Oh, yes! Something interesting.

Teresa. There was? Tell us, tell us.

Enrique. Since mamma brought Nativity to our house to stay until she is married to Martin, you know that the poor girl has not been out once, so as to avoid any scenes such as we had the other day.

Don Heliodoro. Yes, a sort of anticipatory confinement.

Enrique. And we have heard nothing more about Jesus.

Teresa. No, they say he has gone to Brazil, or some other place.

Don Heliodoro. While they were telling her, I noticed that all the ladies kept their eyes glued upon the girl so as to see how she took it.

Teresa. She took it very calmly.

Enrique. that is what I thought; and the reason was that she knew he was here all the time.

Teresa. No!

Enrique. Wait and see. Of course everybody is in the house taking a siesta in the afternoon.

Don Heliodoro. All respectable people are. Your mother has issued a decree from which, as usual, there is no appeal: "At this hour nobody is permitted in the garden." But we have undertaken to demonstrate that we are permitted here. As with most things which are forbidden, all that you need do is take the dare.

Teresa. Let Enrique finish.

​Enrique. I came down here yesterday—for some reason I wasn't able to sleep—and picked up a book.

Don Heliodoro. I know; it was mine. I missed it. By the way, if I were you, I don't think I would show it to my mother.

Enrique. Why, uncle! No, I am sure it wasn't your book.…

Don Heliodoro. Oh, very well! It is nothing to me—although I noticed that it was short three or four illustrations.

Enrique. Uncle!

Teresa. What was the book?

Don Heliodoro. Oh, some trash or other—"The Nude in Art"—I forget. Better keep your eye on the pictures, or your mother will confiscate them.

Enrique. You are joking.

Don Heliodoro. However, continue; Teresa doesn't mind.

Enrique. Am I boring you?

Don Heliodoro. No, no; this is interesting.

Enrique. Well, as I say, I was in the dining-room, reading, when all at once I heard footsteps coming very softly in my direction, and I saw Nativity in the garden, looking about cautiously from one side to the other; presently she went to the gate and opened it to admit Jesus, and they both began to talk, and they stayed there talking for half an hour, and when he said good-by.…

Don Heliodoro. He gave her a kiss.

Enrique. Were you looking, too?

Don Heliodoro. No, but it was just as good.

Teresa. Why, could you hear?

Don Heliodoro. Yes, the kiss. That was enough for me. So I judged that they were getting along.

​Enrique. Yes, for I heard something. He is coming back to-day.

Teresa. To-day?

Enrique. At this hour; that is the reason I hurried down. However, since you were here.…

Teresa. We have disturbed the combination? What a pity!

Don Heliodoro. It may not be too late yet. This interests me. Let us separate, each in a different direction. I will pretend that I am going out to the street, and will come back through the carriage-house; you make believe that you are returning into the main house, and then come out and hide wherever you are able. We must see, we must hear.…

Teresa. Yes, we must. This interests me.

Enrique. It does me, it does me! It is as good as a novel.

Don Heliodoro. With illustrations. Now separate, and then to your places.

Teresa. Hurry, hurry! I wonder where I can hide?

Enrique. Come with me, I will show you.

Teresa. If we hide together they will be more apt to see us.

Enrique. Not at all; I know some splendid places.

Don Heliodoro. Yes, he knows more than you think.

Enrique. Uncle!

Don Heliodoro. Good-by, then. We meet here to compare observations. I am in my element.

​Jesus. I was afraid you weren't coming; I thought may be you had deceived me yesterday so as to get me to go away.

Nativity. No, there were people in the garden, and I think some one is here now.… No, it's only the young Marchioness; she is nice; she won't say anything. She has been good to me, and I am fond of her. She is kind. But I can't stay long.

Jesus. You can't? Why not? I sail to-night. Have you anything to tell me?

Nativity. What should I have to tell you?

Jesus. Something. That you are sorry, that you are glad, whatever you feel. You never say anything.

Nativity. What could I say? It isn't true that I am glad. You wouldn't believe me if I said that I was sorry, so it would be the same as if it wasn't true. That is the reason I didn't say anything. It's the best way.

Jesus. We shall never see each other again. I can't believe it—separate, never see each other again, never hear of each other.

Nativity. Why can't we hear of each other?

Jesus. Do you think I would write to your house, or that he would let you write to me? No, I take that back; he might let you after all, since he never loved you. He is only marrying you for what he can get out of it.

Nativity. I don't believe it. He loves me; we both love each other.

Jesus. You don't; that's a lie—it's a lie! You never spoke to each other alone more than twice in your lives, and so you have always had to say what you thought you ought to. You don't call that love; love is saying everything that you have in your heart, good or bad—the whole of it. But he—what has he ever told you? What do you know about him? What other people have said. That he is honest, ​that he is a good worker—and I don't deny it—that he is well-behaved; naturally—the first business they started him at happened to suit. They struck his taste, his ability. Every man is good at something; there must be something, too, that I could do, and I mean to find it. I read once somewhere that the men who have done most in the world, were always stupid and slow at first, and badly thought of, and everybody always believed that they were good for nothing. That was the way with Christopher Columbus, who discovered America; and most of the saints and wise men, when they began, were something terrible.

Nativity. You ought not to read such books, Jesus; you would be better off if you hadn't read all those bad things. They have made you what you are.

Jesus. What I am, what I am! God knows what I have done that is too bad to be forgiven. I am no ingrate, and I never was, although people may say so; but I haven't had the chance that you have. Women always seem to fit in better everywhere; and you have always been treated as if you came from this village. But I have always been a stranger—I have come from a great way off, because they knew my mother was from Africa, and because I was born there in Orán, but of Spanish parents, you know that; and when I was a boy they always called me the Moor and the Jew, and the little acrobat, or something of the sort—it was always the same tune: "Blood will tell, blood will tell!" It wasn't so with you; you were so small and pale and golden-haired, that everybody always felt as if you had been born by a miracle out of the sea and the sky, since they didn't know who your mother was, nor whether you had any people, nor where you came from; you were alone, and everybody loved you, but not me—nobody loved me. They ought to have let me drown; that would have been the truest charity.

​Nativity. You mustn't talk so bitterly. You show that you are ungrateful for what has been done.

Jesus. When you give a man life, and the life is not worth the living, do you do him a favor?

Nativity. It is getting late, Jesus. The ladies and gentlemen will be coming out. [A pause.

Jesus. When is the wedding?

Nativity. Sunday; you know that. You mustn't ask me again. We are not going to talk about it any more.

Jesus. No, nor about anything else—not a thing. I will be far away from here before Sunday. They say that every mile is a year when a man wants to forget. Now I shall find out whether it is true or not.

Nativity. I hear some one in the house.

Jesus. How careful you are! If they see me you'll lose your place, I suppose? Well, you won't lose it upon my account. I am too anxious to see you get on.

Nativity. Jesus! [A pause.

Jesus. No, you will have to be the one to say good-by first. I am not going to say it.

Nativity. But don't you see.… You know I love you.

Jesus. What kind of love is it? You don't love me as I love you; I have never looked at another woman in all my life—only you. There has never been any other woman for me—it was as if other women did not exist. I thought God had saved us together never to let us part. Why, if you really loved me—what wouldn't you do, what wouldn't you dare?

Nativity. No, don't begin that again, like you did yesterday. That isn't loving me; it is being wicked. What? Runaway? Run away like a bad woman? Never, never!

Jesus. You are right. What would the ladies say, and everybody? What could you hope for from me? It would ​be too much like trusting yourself in the hands of the Lord, and the Lord doesn't perform miracles every day. He saved us once, and people here have done the rest. Yes, they have! They have given us bread, they have provided us with shelter, and now they say that they have done us good.

Nativity. And they have; only you don't know how to appreciate it.

Jesus. I might have once; but now they persecute me, they——

Nativity. It may be the best thing that could happen to you. Who knows but that you may be happy yet, and rich?

Jesus. May you never be!

Nativity. Is that the way you love me?

Jesus. So that you will always think of me. If you were happy, how would you think of me? You would always say: I did right when I did it, and you would never be sorry.

Nativity. That is no way to talk.

Jesus. It is the way I feel. I tell you I feel a great many things which I keep to myself. Come, say good-by, good-by —forever! I shan't say it. Never! Though they pretend I am an unbeliever, I believe in God—and I believe that it will not be forever. I don't know why, but I can't believe it. It is impossible. Come.…

Nativity. Good-by.

Jesus. No, I am not going to kiss you. Keep your kisses for him. Mine was the first kiss, and it is worth all the others.

​Teresa. Did you hear what they said?

Don Heliodoro. I did. Did you?

Enrique. Every word. Poor Jesus!

Teresa. Poor Nativity!

Enrique. I am not sorry for her. If she really loved him.…

Teresa. What do you know about it? I tell you she is the one I am most sorry for.

Don Heliodoro. I am sorry for both of them—or for neither, unless they accept my advice. I am going to follow Jesus, take him by the hand and reason with him, and then —and then you will see. Oh, you will see!

Teresa. But uncle!

Don Heliodoro. No! Don't look at me. I am sober to-day, and before I am done I may be soberer yet. I can fix this thing, or else nobody can. I feel myself a protecting angel, a benevolent fairy such as you see in the extravaganzas. All I want is a talisman, and there is only one talisman that amounts to anything—money. Money! With ten pesetas that you have borrowed, you can't expect to work miracles. But we shall see what can be done, we shall see—by Heliodoro, the love sprite! Get ready the calciums for the apotheosis. [Disappears, following Jesus.

Enrique. He will do something awful.

Teresa. We can't help it; the result will tell. Sense, nonsense—what is the difference? Who knows? The result will tell.

Enrique. I wonder if you were as anxious as I was to have Nativity not be so sensible? You ought to hear mamma and the other ladies—they are so proud of their committee. They believe that the happiness of every one they meet is dependent upon them in this life, besides salvation in the next. What would they say to this? I un​derstand why the girl is afraid. But what I want to know is who gave them the right to dispose of other people's hearts? Of course, they tell us that they allow them perfect liberty—they are free to do as they please. "We merely suggest, we propose".…

Teresa. Yes, but when you suggest and propose upon the strength of past favors, when the slightest dissent is interpreted as ingratitude, or a hint of refusal as disobedience.… when one is alone in the world, and to refuse is to launch out into the unknown, or, what is worse, into poverty, which is known, where nobody is so strong that he can answer for his conscience or for his acts—Ah! you don't know what a coward it makes of one to be poor, unless you have gone through it—deprived of everything which makes life happy, which puts independence into the heart or courage into the soul to face the grind of every day. From one year's end to the other, it is nothing but struggle and despair. Only those who have been poor can appreciate what it means to succumb, or can sympathize with those who fall by the wayside. No one else has a right to judge.

Enrique. I know. Think what it must mean for a woman who is alone in the world. I can understand why Nativity resigns herself. It is sad to be obliged to resign oneself just as life is beginning, to live only upon memories. The first love should always remain sacred. Don't you think so?

Teresa. The first love?

Enrique. Were you never in love?

Teresa. Enrique!

Enrique. Now don't tell me that your husband was your first love. I don't believe that he was the second, either, although I don t suppose you have loved more than once.

Teresa. Enrique!

Enrique. Your story is the same as Nativity's; that is ​the reason you are so much interested in her. You too were saved from a shipwreck. I want you to tell me some day how you ever came to marry your husband. There must be some memory in your life. The first love ought always to be held sacred.

Teresa. Ah! That is what you think. After a few years, I shall want you to tell me whether it is not the one that is most easily forgotten; I am sure I don't know. When I was old enough to have my first love, our life at home was one long series of misfortunes. Nobody even suggested love to me. I was not a good match for men of my own class; I was too far above the others—I was a lady in reduced circumstances. I did not attract my equals, and the rest were ashamed to offer to share their poverty with me. And to tell the truth, what with being too calculating or too timid, they scarcely inspired love. So the first love, which you say should remain sacred, never existed for me. I can never have that memory, and if I have never had that memory, much less can I ever have hope.

Enrique. Hope! I have no hope, and yet I am young— just like you.

Teresa. Like me? You are a child.

Enrique. I am an old man. Life is nothing but a memory to me.

Teresa. You amuse me. I told you that I was going to ask you about that memory within a few years—a very few years—when there are other flowers in the garden, which are not these flowers, but just like them, other white and blue butterflies which are like these—but not the same.

Enrique. But I… I will be the same.

Teresa. Yes, you and the garden. I know; but other flowers will have bloomed m your heart, other butterflies have fluttered through your brain.

​Enrique. Butterflies? No—look, look! It is a bee which is hovering above our heads. A bad sign!

Teresa. Are you superstitious? No, it is not a bad sign when it is out-of-doors; it is only bad when it comes into the room and buzzes about our ears. It is not a bad sign here at all. I never saw so many white and blue butterflies.

Enrique. White butterflies bring good news. Are you expecting any?

Teresa. I? From whom? Where would it come from? Oh, yes! I am expecting a letter. A letter.…

Enrique. From whom?

Teresa. From my children—no, my little sisters, the little girls. I sent them a letter to the school which must have made them happy. Poor dears, I know how they feel. People always tell children stories about stepmothers which are horrible! I suppose some one has told them that now they have a stepmother so as to make them uncomfortable. They wrote such a doleful letter to their father, but I sat down at once and wrote the dearest reply—I put all my heart into it—and now I am expecting them to send me lots of kisses, and call me dear mamma, their own dear mamma. Now, see if they don't. I am sure it will come to-day; I see so many white butterflies.

Enrique. What do blue butterflies bring?

Teresa. We used to think, when I was a child at school, that they were messengers from the dead who loved us in this life and were in heaven—that they came from the souls of the blest. In cemeteries you always find clouds of blue butterflies.

Enrique. If that is true, when you come here again—after a little while, a very little while—you will see clouds of blue butterflies.

Teresa. Ha, ha! You are not thinking of dying, cousin?

​Enrique. Don't laugh at me. You think that I am only a boy. Do you suppose that I have no feeling, that my life is not sad? I know what it is to love, although I may not be loved in return.

Teresa. I see; the first love which must always remain sacred. Who is she? Who is she? Are you afraid to tell me?

Enrique. Don't laugh at me.

Teresa. Laugh at you? Never! I never laugh when others are unhappy. But you will forget, I promise you.

Enrique. How do you know that I will forget?

Teresa. The first? Yes, Enrique, you will soon learn how little it signifies in your life—a memory as meaningless as the white butterflies which bring letters from absent friends, or the blue butterflies which are messengers of the blest. You are young yet, but you will learn. The first love? Of course you will forget!

Enrique. I wish you had felt it; then we should see if you did not remember forever.

Teresa. Do you mean the first love? There is a better love than the first, Enrique, the love that we never forget—it is the last!

Enrique. Teresa!

Teresa. No! Look out! Drive him away! Don't you see?—the bee buzzing again in my ear. Drive it away!

Enrique. The bee! Doña Esperanza and Assumption in the garden.… A bad sign! And a bad time!

Doña Esperanza. A pleasant afternoon, Teresita. Adios, Enrique.

Teresa. A very pleasant afternoon.

Enrique. Ladies.…

Assumption. I suppose the Marchioness is taking a siesta?

​Teresa. Yes. We are expecting her at any moment.

Doña Esperanza. We came early so as to have an opportunity to see your aunt before the meeting of the Junta, and decide who is to have charge of the Charity Table during the novena of La Buena Esperanza. If we wait until the Junta meets, it will result in dissension. Some women are never content unless they have a finger in everything, not to speak of the liberty they take of asking questions.

Assumption. It is only natural that people should prefer the hour of high mass, especially when there are young girls in the family who wish to show themselves off and flirt with the men.

Doña Esperanza. That is precisely the reason that we are anxious to have one of our friends in charge of the table, such as the Marchioness or yourself, if you would be so good as to assist your aunt.

Teresa. With great pleasure.

Assumption. The point is to appeal to the men, and ladies such as your aunt, who are familiar with and respected by the substantial element—by those who are the best to do—accomplish more at the hour of service when there are most men in the church. The boys do nothing but flit in and out and smile at the girls. The most that they ever give is a couple of pesetas—poor things!—when they are forced into a corner, and then you have to hold them up. Probably one of them will turn out to be counterfeit.

Doña Esperanza. Last year we foolishly assigned the service to Don Casimiro's family. Apart from the scandal they created by appearing in costumes which would have attracted attention at a bull-fight, before they were done they cost us over two hundred reals.

Assumption. Not to mention the fact that Father Michael selected that day to denounce in his sermon women who ​painted, and the congregation all turned and stared at them, so that they were offended, and said that he had no business to notice such things in the pulpit. Poor Father Michael, as he told us later, never dreamed that there were any women who painted in the village, which was the reason he chose the subject for his sermon, so as not to give offense. [A long pause.

Doña Esperanza. What time is it? We must not be too late for the Junta.

Enrique. Shall I tell mamma that you are here?

Doña Esperanza. No, no; don't disturb yourself. We can wait. [To Teresa] I am glad to find an opportunity, however, of talking with you. I have something to tell you which I should not like to say before your aunt.

Teresa. Something to tell me?

Doña Esperanza. Of course you know how fond I am of you. Whatever I say, you will understand is dictated only by the kindliest motives.

Teresa. Surely. Can I have done anything wrong without thinking, without my aunt having noticed it? I am certain that she would have spoken of it.

Doña Esperanza. Your aunt? In confidence, my dear, your aunt was the one who asked us to speak to you.

Teresa. I am sorry that she has so little confidence in me.

Doña Esperanza. Whatever you do, don't let her know that we have said anything. Your aunt is afraid that she has said too much already—she does not wish to annoy you—and the very first thing that she made us promise was never to let you know that she had said anything. However, I am not good at deceit; I feel that my face gives me away.

Teresa. But what have I done? I want you to tell me plainly.

​Doña Esperanza. You are very young, Teresa. Of course you have been brought up in the modern mode; you do not attach the same importance as we do to a great many things —which no doubt proves your good intentions. But the world, my dear, cannot judge by intentions. It judges by the evidence, by what it sees.…

Teresa. But what have I done?

Assumption. It is not so bad as that. There is a good deal of talk about your bathing at nine o'clock in the morning. No lady bathes at that hour. It seems conspicuous.

Teresa. I like to swim when the beach is not crowded and I can have plenty of room. Bathing is an exercise to me; my father brought me up to it. As a child, I was very timid about the water, but my father was a man who could never tolerate fear.

Doña Esperanza. Your father's tastes were rather exotic. There are many things of which women should cultivate a wholesome fear. Believe me, my dear, at least one-half of virtue is fear.

Enrique. Be careful! After this, you had better bathe at eleven, and hold tight fast to the life-line; then whenever a wave comes, give a piercing shriek and jump up and down —which is impeccable. There is little to see on the beach at eleven, but there is plenty to hear.

Assumption. I am surprised at Enrique; he appears to have forgotten himself. It is fortunate that your mother is not here.

Doña Esperanza. We are advising Teresa for her own good. Of course, if she fails to appreciate it.…

Teresa. No, no, I do fully.

Assumption. I also take exception to the bathing-suit.

Teresa. Don't you think it is becoming?

Assumption. I know it is what they are wearing at San ​Sebastián and other fashionable beaches; but here no one would be so bold as to show herself in it.

Teresa. What do you wear here?

Doña Esperanza. Haven't you noticed? A tunic gaththered loosely around the neck, which reaches all the way down to the ground.

Assumption. Preferably trailing.…

Teresa. Yes, but if the wind comes up.…

Doña Esperanza. My dear, you wear bloomers, long bloomers, which envelop the figure the same as a skirt.

Teresa. Then how am I ever going to swim?

Doña Esperanza. We do not approve of swimming. Bathing is bathing; exercise is not for women. I heard yesterday that you swam out as far as the float, and sat down there to rest while you talked with the life-preserver, who was a man.

Teresa. An old man, I noticed.

Doña Esperanza. But all the same he was a man.

Assumption. Yes! A man!

Doña Esperanza. Remember what you had on. You think that nobody looks, but only half an hour ago we heard that Don Rosendo was up on the roof of his house with a telescope.

Assumption. Nothing escapes him. He has happened on a number of things in the village. Doña Esperanza. As Enrique can testify.

Enrique. I?

Assumption. Yes, one day when the maid was hanging clothes on the roof of this house, and you were not far away.

Enrique. I? I? Does Don Rosendo say that I—Tell him from me to put armor on his telescope. To the devil with Don Rosendo and his telescope!

Teresa. No doubt he finds it amusing.

​Enrique. Mamma is awake. She is coming into the garden.

Doña Esperanza. Teresita, promise us not to say one word to your aunt.

Teresa. No, no! I am much obliged to you.

Enrique. I should think you were. [Aside] Who ever heard of such an outrage? I hope you don't believe that story about the roof?

Marchioness. Have you been waiting long? Why didn't you let me know?

Doña Esperanza. It was not necessary. We had plenty of time. We knew that you were resting. How do you like our town, my dear Marquis?

Marquis. I am charmed with my summer. How quiet it is! I am astonished that we do not see more visitors.

Marchioness. I hope we never shall. They world dissipate the charm. We live here like one big family. We are left to ourselves, as it were.

Enrique. [Aside to Teresa] Which explains why it is so tiresome.

Teresa. [Idem] You will be set down as an anarchist if they hear you.

Enrique. [Idem] You can't set me down.

Marchioness. [Aside to Esperanza and Assumption] Did you speak to Teresita?

Doña Esperanza. Yes, although I am sorry to say that she did not take it in good part. I could see it in her manner.

Marchioness. She is her father over again; I am more certain of it every day.

Assumption. There has been a great change in Enrique since she arrived.

Marchioness. In my son? What do you mean?

​Doña Esperanza. Yes, he seems more active, more alert. Keep your eye on him. It is well for a mother to know.

Marquis. [To Teresa] Here is a letter from the children —no, this is for me. Here is yours.

Teresa. Quick, quick! I am so happy! Didn't I tell you? Look, Enrique!

Enrique. Is it the letter you were expecting?

Teresa. Yes.

Doña Esperanza. [To the Marchioness] We came to apportion the hours so as to avoid any discussion. The other ladies will be satisfied with what you decide.

Marchioness. Let us retire into the dining-room and dispose of everything. Enrique, bring us pen, ink, and paper.

Enrique. At once.

Marchioness. We can write down our impressions as we go along.

Assumption. I suppose we must invite the wife of that impossible creature who has returned from America. He has made a handsome subscription.

Doña Esperanza. As a matter of fact, I have not heard anything against her for some time. I was never able to believe one-half of what I did hear, I can say with a clear conscience.

Marchioness. Although half was sufficient. However, if she has found time to repent.…

Marquis. How do you like the letter? I see nothing objectionable in it. The tone is respectful and obedient. The children have been thoroughly well trained.

​Teresa. Yes.…

Marquis. It is exactly what I told them to say.

Teresa. Oh! You did? It was you, then? You were the one who told them? But my letter.…

Marquis. Your letter? Oh! Perhaps I ought to tell you, Teresa. When you read me that letter, I thought it best not to say anything. I could see that you were nervous and excited. I felt at once that it was improper; the letter was—how shall I put it?—sentimental, overdone. It would have shocked the children. It was like the letter of another child. In other words, although I said nothing, I decided it was better not to send it. You can sit down now and write more calmly, when your nerves are under better control. Of course, I want you to be affectionate, but try to make them respect you. Avoid overeffusiveness and be natural. I do not ask you to love them as if they were your own children; that would be preposterous. But I should like to have them respect you; endeavor to make yourself respected. You will find that I am perfectly fair; I am only reasonable. I expect no impossibilities.

Teresa. No, I see that you don't. You expect no impossibilities. But that letter, whatever it may have been, was written from the bottom of my heart, and I should have preferred to have them read it. But now.… I don't think you have done right—and I might as well tell you plainly—either by me or by the children. It was not the right thing to do.

Marquis. Come, come! Let us not have another attack of nerves.

Teresa. Nerves, nerves! I haven't any time to have nerves! I scarcely recognize myself any more. Life is too strong for us; sooner or later we are all cowed and thoroughly tamed. Nerves! When I was a child, when I always had ​my own way, when my parents were alive to spoil me and the whole world revolved about what I wanted to do next, then I did have nerves! But now I haven't any. I keep still; I submit to everything.

Marquis. What are you talking about?

Teresa. Nothing, nothing! I say nothing. I always suspected it, but now I know that it is true. To be happy, to get on in the world, we must pretend, we must keep still. Don't trouble yourself; I shall never speak my mind to you again. You will see how silent I can become, and you will have cause to regret my silence.

Marquis. We will take that up when you have regained control of yourself. For the present it will be sufficient if you give no more exhibitions before your aunt.

Teresa. No; never. I told you that I had learned to keep still.

Marquis. It would not hurt you, either, to begin by being sensible.

Teresa. Ah!

Don Heliodoro. I have found the talisman! I have found the talisman! Eh? What is the matter? Have you been crying?

Teresa. No, no; it was nothing.… Did you say a talisman? But uncle, what have you been doing? Where have you been?

Don Heliodoro. Never mind me; no wonder. I did not care to be seen on the street with Jesus, so we went in and sat down somewhere—it might have been a pastry shop; I can't say. But I feel better now. Aha! I am going to give them a surprise—and it is time. I am going to give them a shock. Aha, ladies and gentlemen, you may be ​dignified and respectable, but I have the best of you now! I have found a talisman!

Teresa. But, uncle, don't be silly. What talisman?

Don Heliodoro. Look! [Exhibiting a wallet filled with bank-notes] Money! Money! And there is no end to it. I gave Jesus as much. They are going to sail together, they are going to be happy, and the ladies will have a spasm. Some one is going to burst before she hears the last of it—I won't tell you who.

Teresa. Yes, but explain; tell me all about it. Something is the matter with you, uncle.

Don Heliodoro. With me? Never! I feel positively fit. Call Nativity; tell her to come at once. Jesus is waiting for us, and I will lead her to him myself.

Teresa. But, uncle, it will never do; it is out of the question.

Don Heliodoro. It is, is it? The details are all arranged. All that remains is to convince Nativity.

Teresa. Impossible! She will never consent. If you are planning an elopement, such as people read about in novels, I tell you it is wrong, it is outrageous. I will be the first person to prevent it.

Don Heliodoro. You? Aha! If my nephew Enrique were not a mere infant in arms, I would pack you off, too, while I was about it.

Teresa. Uncle! What?

Don Heliodoro. Don't imagine that I haven't noticed the effect that you have on Enrique. He is unfolding his petals like a rose.

Teresa. For shame!

Don Heliodoro. It reminds me of Cherubino's love for the countess, who was his godmother. I came upon some ​of his verses. They were bad, of course—which was natural —but they breathe passion. Oh!

Then he describes some horrible apparitions, which I take to be Doña Esperanza, Doña Assumption, and Don Francisquito, and then you appear, like a celestial shape, all fragrance and light.…

Teresa. Uncle, you are making this up.

Don Heliodoro. Yes, making it up, making it up, am I? Do you mean to say that you have not been conscious of it from the beginning? Women are always the first to notice these things themselves.

Teresa. I don't intend to argue with you. But tell me what is more important. Did you really see Jesus? Did you overtake him?

Don Heliodoro. Everything in due season. When I left the house I stopped in at the Club to see if there were any letters for me, and—wonder of wonders!—there was a letter from an old friend of mine, a happy soul like myself, whom I had lent money one night when he was in need of it—I say lent, because it describes the transaction as well as anything else. However, there are times when we reap the whirlwind. To-day he writes me saying: "I hear that you are in need of money, while I have more than I know what to do with. It occurred to me that you had always been generous." And he encloses a draft. Think of that! I ran to Zurita's—naturally the bad one's; he always has plenty of money—and he cashed the draft! And with the talisman in my pocket, I set sail in search of Jesus. I found Jesus, I conferred with him, and we agreed upon a plan. Ah! By the way, I also saw Martin, and he assured me that he was only ​marrying out of gratitude, to please the ladies, unhappy man!—and because he thought it might do him good. So when she says that she doesn't love him, he is even with her already. He will raise no objections; he has the fear of Jesus in his heart. Now you know the whole story. Run and tell Nativity—although it is probable that she knows. Jesus will have found a way. When I left him he was writing a letter, and such a letter! It was as bad as Enrique's verses, but it burned like fire. Here comes Nativity. What did I tell you?… She knows!

Nativity. Señorita, help me, save me! I know you are good!

Teresa. But you must not take it so hard. What is the matter?

Nativity. You could never guess; I have a letter from Jesus. He says that unless I run away with him to-day—this very minute—I will be responsible for the loss of his soul. He says, too—to show you how crazy he is—that he has plenty of money. How could he honorably have plenty of money? It is impossible! I don't want to tell the Señora Marchioness, because she would make an example of him, but I know it is impossible. Save me, señorita!

Teresa. Don't cry; don't be afraid!

Don Heliodoro. You are misjudging Jesus. I was present when he wrote that letter; he did it by my advice. And I gave him the money. It will keep him until he can get work, and you can establish yourselves.

Nativity. You gave it to him?

Don Heliodoro. Yes, I. That is the way I do; I am crazy myself, and I wish to see you both happy in your love. I know you love Jesus, and he loves you, which is right and proper, and as it should be. Martin has confessed that he ​feels just as you do about it. The disappointment will not kill him.

Nativity. But, Don Heliodoro——

Don Heliodoro. Mark my words. Let us be frank now about your feelings, about what you would really like to do. Suppose you were certain that if you confessed you loved Jesus, that if you declared you would never marry any one else, that nothing would happen; suppose that the ladies should not be angry, nor take it as ingratitude, nor withdraw then support; suppose that they should pardon Jesus in their hearts, and you both should live happily ever afterward—what would you say?

Nativity. Yes, but that would be different.…

Don Heliodoro. Because you do love Jesus?

Nativity. I shouldn't be so unhappy if I didn't love him.

Don Heliodoro. You would rather marry him than the other fellow?

Nativity. Sí, señor; I am not ashamed to say it to you.

Teresa. In that case.…

Don Heliodoro. In that case, speak out freely.

Teresa. But do you honestly believe that if Nativity should confess.…

Don Heliodoro. Confess nothing. Words are worse than useless. I know these people. First, they would be angry; afterward, when they became convinced that it was of no effect, they would pretend to be reconciled; they would be hypocritically calm, smooth, and affectionate, and, with every art at their command, scheme to place Jesus in a false position, in which he would appear like a scoundrel. They would take advantage of every slip, of every moment of irresolution, in order to make you believe it—oh! I know them—and in the end they would succeed. That is precisely what I do not intend to have. No, the more sea and ​land between you the better. Then you will remain in blissful ignorance of their horror, their consternation, and their cries. What is neither seen nor heard is as if it did not exist. Come, Nativity, do not hesitate; it is the best, the only way. Otherwise you need not count upon my protection, which is at least as generous as that of any one else, and a great deal more disinterested.

Nativity. Señorita, do you hear what he says? I can never run away like this.

Don Heliodoro. Like this, like this? You can get married in the first port of call, or, if necessary, on the ship. As an emergency, seasickness yields nothing to death. Or you needn't get married. You would be less hampered in that case should there be cause of regret.

Teresa. Don't be sacrilegious, uncle.

Don Heliodoro. Nonsense! You know my views. Well, how is it? Do you hesitate?

Teresa. This cannot go on forever. Speak out; don't be afraid.

Don Heliodoro. Oh, yes! I understand; I told you how it would be. Now, listen to me, Nativity—and you, too. I don't purpose to give you any advice. She is the one who is going to do it—another woman like yourself. You love the señorita, do you not?

Nativity. Oh, sí, señor! I do.

Don Heliodoro. And you believe that she is virtuous and good, and incapable of giving bad advice?

Nativity. Oh, no, señor!

Don Heliodoro. Suppose she should say to you: "I want you to go with the man whom you love; do it for me." Well, answer her.

Nativity. Since the señorita says so.…

Teresa. I?

​Don Heliodoro. Answer her.

Nativity. If the señorita should say so.…

Don Heliodoro. It is your turn now, don't you see? Weigh it carefully; balance it in your conscience. The fate of this girl depends upon you. They married you precisely as they purpose to do her; her life will be what yours is. She will be bound forever to a man who does not love her, with whom she can have no true companionship; they can never be one. They will remain two persons, who measure and weigh their words eternally so as to conceal their true thoughts, not to reveal them. I am serious now, intensely serious—sober, if you like. What does your heart say? What does your conscience?

Teresa. You ask me that question in a terrible crisis of my life, when I see clearly for the first time what my future must be—devoid of love, as you say, of true companionship, lived with a man into whose thoughts I can never enter; we can never be one. My heart would not hesitate, but the responsibility of determining the life of another is too grave. If I should be wrong, if it should be a mistake—I cannot advise you; I cannot pronounce the word. Your own heart must decide.

Don Heliodoro. But what would yours do? The truth, now, by all that is holy, yes, by the living truth itself, which is the holiest thing in our lives. The one duty of our lives is to follow the truth all our lives, lead where it will lead.

Teresa. You are right. It may mean poverty and it may mean suffering, but you are called by your love. You may be happy for only one day, but you will be happier then than those of us who have never been happy, who cannot even hope to be happy in our lives.

Don Heliodoro. Do you hear?

Nativity. Señorita!

​Teresa. Do you love him dearly?

Nativity. Yes, señorita; I love him, and my heart goes out to him, because I know that he can never be good unless it is with me. If he is alone in the world, he will come to some bad end, and my heart wall always bear the remorse.

Teresa. It is the truth. Then go with him, and do not hesitate; be happy in your lives. Together you were borne in from the sea, and the sea shall carry you away.

Nativity. Señorita.… do you mean?.… Ah! I don't believe it can be wrong! I cry for joy!

Don Heliodoro. Come, come with me! You will need a few things. We can go out through the carriage-house and no one will ever know.

Nativity. Señorita, nobody every spoke like this to me before.

Don Heliodoro. I said a few things myself. If it hadn't been for me.…

Nativity. I know you are a good man.

Don Heliodoro. In my own way, perhaps, although it may not be the best. I know that you love each other; I cannot tell whether you will be happy, but when we undertake to determine the future, we are encroaching upon God's preserve. Come with me.

Nativity. Señorita, tell them that I am not ungrateful, that I am not a bad woman.

Teresa. No, my poor girl. Embrace me before you go—for part of my soul goes with you.

Enrique. Teresa, Teresa! Is Uncle Heliodoro back yet?

​Teresa. Yes, but don't talk to me. I don't know what to do. Where are your mother and the other ladies?

Enrique. Holding a grand council. They have La Repelona.

Teresa. Ah! I am glad to hear it. She will keep them talking.

Enrique. No, she has repented. She says that she has left her man, that she is not willing to live in sin any longer, and begs them to help her, and to get her some work. It is the old story, but it produces results.

Teresa. Poor woman!

Enrique. Tell me, what did Uncle Heliodoro have to say? Has he been with Jesus?

Teresa. Yes, he has. You will hear later.… I don't know what is the matter with me; I am so depressed. Have I done right, have I done wrong?

Enrique. Have you done wrong? What do you mean?

Teresa. [Leading him to the rear] Look, look!

Enrique. Nativity, Uncle Heliodoro.… Where are they going?

Teresa. Hush!… The ladies! Pretend not to see. I don't know what I am saying. It may not be too late yet. I don't know, I don't know.…

Enrique. But you don't mean?… Not really?…

Teresa. Yes.

Enrique. I am delighted! I am sure they will be happy!

Teresa. Do you really believe that it is possible to be happy in this world?

Marchioness. We heard what you said. All that we need is to be satisfied as to its credibility.

La Repelona. Ah, Señora Marchioness, whose image I ​preserve in my soul, and Doña Esperanza's, which is in my heart, and her dear sister's, if it can ever be said again that I have gone back to live with that man, and it is true what they say, then you will know that I deserve to live with him and nothing else, and be reduced to what I am now by that villain and worthless vagabond, ay, and drunken sot that he is. I only wish you could see the wounds on my body he has made, and you would know that I live in martyrdom, so that if I was a saint I would already have had my day in the calendar, only I am not enough of a saint; but there are plenty who are less martyrs. Yet I repent.…

Doña Esperanza. Persevere, persevere, my woman, in good works.

Repelona. I always persevere so long as you stand by, señora, and all the ladies. I don't know what would become of me if it wasn't for you. I will be as steady in my work again as I was before I met him—in an evil hour for me! Surely I lay under the curse.

Marchioness. Be more careful hereafter, and avoid all such occasions. God be with you, and may He assist you in your labors. If that man follows you, or if he threatens you, let us know without delay, and don't attempt to tell us that he overcame you through fear.

Repelona. Oh, no, señora! Let him dash me into pieces and drag me in the dust, but I shall never look at him—I shall never look at his face again! God be with you, ladies, and may He repay you and grant that you live as many years as there are good deeds you have done in the world, and may he lend me the strength to follow and kiss the ground where you set your feet.

Doña Esperanza. For the present, that will be sufficient.

Repelona. You are all so good—so kind and good! [She goes out.

​Marchioness. What do you think of this conversion?

Doña Esperanza. Sometimes it must be sincere. What do you think, Marchioness?

Marchioness. I see no reason to doubt it. I believe that the Junta will approve the expenditure, in view of the urgency of the relief.

Doña Esperanza. Why not? Shall we go. Marchioness—if you are ready?

Marchioness. At once. Enrique, ask Nativity to bring the bundle of clothes which I left in the store-closet, and to follow immediately.

Enrique. Yes, mamma.

Teresa. [Aside] Don't you go.

Enrique. Eh?

Marchioness. We are waiting.…

Enrique. Yes, of course.—What was that?

Teresa. No, no; go.… but delay as much as possible. [Discovering Martin, who enters] Never mind; it is too late. It makes no difference.

Martin. Have I permission? May I come in?

Marchioness. Why, Martin! What brings you here at this hour? Is there something you wish to say to Nativity, or do we allow you too little opportunity to talk? She will be with us directly and then you may see her, but only for a moment.

Martin. Nativity? No, I did not come to see her, and I never expect to see her again. I don't care if I never see her!

Marchioness. How?

Martin. No, señora. Nativity and Jesus have taken ship, and at this moment they are sailing away. They are at sea together, transported.

The Marchioness, Doña Esperanza, and Assumption. ​Eh? What is that? Impossible!… Nativity! Nativity! [They begin calling Nativity upon all sides.

Marchioness. Nativity! Nativity! [To Enrique] Run and find her. It is impossible, because she was just here. [To Teresa] We saw her with you.

Teresa. Yes, but she went out.

Marchioness. She went out? [To Martin] But how do you know?

Martin. I know because I know; I listened to Jesus.…

Doña Esperanza. I have no faith in that man.

Marchioness. He is too horrible for words!

Assumption. He overpowered her; he carried her away by force.

Martin. No, señora, she went willingly. They loved each other, and so they ran away for fear that you would not permit them to marry. I am glad it happened now, because if it had been afterward.…

Marchioness. But how could they run away? Where did they get the money?

Martin. They had plenty. You can ask Don Heliodoro.

Marchioness. My brother?

Doña Esperanza. It might be, Marchioness.

Assumption. Your brother is capable of anything.

Don Heliodoro. Yes, it was I! I am the man! I am proud of it, and I don't regret it.

Marchioness. You may well be proud.

Doña Esperanza. He is not the only one who is to blame. What ingratitude! What ingratitude!

Assumption. I should never have believed it of the girl.

Doña Esperanza. But the impudence of it! To run away, to elope!

​Assumption. Her punishment will come later—we can imagine what it will be.

Marchioness. What are those shouts?

Assumption. [At the rear] I can scarcely believe my eyes. No, no, don't you look, Marchioness! This is not for you.

Martin. [Hurrying to the rear] It is Cabrera and the boys. They are hooting him as usual.

Doña Esperanza. [Rushing to the rear also] Cabrera, drunk as can be, and that woman on his arm—embracing repentance with a vengeance!

Marchioness. Enough! Enough! I don't care to hear! I wash my hands of the whole business. I am done with your Junta, I refuse absolutely to interfere.

Doña Esperanza. Yes, this surpasses anything I ever heard of.

Assumption. It would be impossible to go further. Ah!

Marchioness. What can you expect of such people? But the others, the others.… She was such a nice girl! What a pity!

Doña Esperanza. This is what we get in return for our charity.

Marchioness. They eat our bread.…

Assumption. They owe their very lives to our mercy. Marchioness. [To Don Heliodoro] And it is all your fault!

Doña Esperanza. This is the result of preaching your ideas. Now you see the consequence.

Marchioness. [To Teresa] And you knew it! It was a ​plot. But wait till your husband hears! We shall take good care that he does hear.

Enrique. Why, mamma——

Don Heliodoro. Hold your tongue!

Teresa. Yes. What is the use? We did it—we rebels, we ingrates. For once we had our way.

Don Heliodoro. Yes, we had our way, and it was a good one. We shall never regret it. We can rest satisfied with a clear conscience.—What is all this nonsense? Suppose they did eat your bread, suppose they were ungrateful and owed their lives to you? We have given them something which is better than life—we have given them liberty and love.