Don Lorenzo. Bear you rancour! I?
Doña Ángela. Then good-bye.
SCENE V
Don Lorenzo. [Seated at table in profound dejection. Fire burns redly, room enveloped in deep shadow. Pause.] Now I am alone. How the shadows play around me! The fire burns dull and red. So much the better. Darkness gathers. Come to my aid, obscurity! 'Tis now the hour when the conscience spreads its most luminous rays. I would do what is right, but then, I know not what is right. My will is strong enough, but reason is dimmed. Three names dance before my eyes in the black night that enshrouds me. Ángela, Juana, and Inés! Destiny leads me to my Calvary, and I ascend my cross of suffering without complaint. But you, my dear ones, you, Inés, why must you precede me, marking with your tears the way that is to tear my feet? I alone—but not you! My God, my God! how low the flame of conscience flickers, and how faint is my will! Despair, alas! holds me in its grip. I desire good, and seek it in Thee, O Lord. Come to my aid, answer to my call. Shadows that encircle me, space in which I most dolorously wander, time that is mine own eternity of pain, and thou, august silence, that dost hear me in thy consoling mood, call all of you upon your God whom my voice may not reach. Tell him that I would my daughter were spared, and that I implore the chalice of bitterness may pass her by, that I myself may drain it with my lips to the very dregs. Let all fall upon me, and let her live in all her loveliness and goodness and purity.—Not on her, my God, not on her! [Drops his head on table in bitter weeping.]
SCENE VI
Don Lorenzo and Juana, who stands in door R.
Don Lorenzo. A flickering shadow has passed before my eyes. Has it all been a dream? No, Juana is yonder, and the proof, the proof. [Opens desk and takes out paper.] Here is the proof. Unhappily it is no dream. It is terrible and implacable reality. I have read it a hundred times, and can never weary of reading it: 'I have loved you like a son, although you are no child of ours.' 'Although you are no child of ours!'
Juana. [Aside, watching him.] He is reading—reading that letter written by one he believed to be his mother. I it is who am his mother—not another. [Advances slowly.] How sad he looks! and there are tears in his eyes. In his eyes, do I say? Perhaps it is my own eyes, looking at him, that are wet. His eyes or mine! What matter? There are tears somewhere. [Comes nearer.] He is crying. Why? Because I am his mother? But what of that, if nobody else knows my secret? I am so near death! Yes, death! I shall soon die. Cold and eternal night has already penetrated to the depths of my being. It is all dark within. [Staggers and leans against the table. Don Lorenzo turns to her.]
Don Lorenzo. Juana!
Juana. Still that name.