Juan. What are you thinking of? Ah! pardon! I must not disturb you.

Laz. You don’t disturb me, father. I was thinking of nothing important. My imagination was wandering, and I was wandering after it.

Juan. If you wish to work—to write—to read—and I trouble you I shall go. Ha, I shall go. (Rising.) Do you want me to go? for here I am going.

Laz. No, father, good gracious! You disturb me!

Juan (sitting down again). The fact is, as you see, that which I do can be done anywhere. It is in substance nothing. Well, for the performance of nothing any point of space is good. (Laughing.) Of space! There are your philosophical offshoots taking root in me. The father in space, the son in the fifth heaven. That’s why I say if I disturb——

Laz. No, father, don’t go away; and let us talk of what you please.

Juan. Much good you’d get by talking with me. To your great books, to your papers, to those things which astound by their greatness and are admired for their beauty! Continue—continue! I shall see you at work. I, too, shall busy myself with something. (Pulls the bell.)

Laz. As you like. [Sits down and writes fitfully.

Enter Teresa.

Juan. Little Teresa—(looking at his son and correcting himself.) Teresa, bring me a glass of sherry and a few biscuits; I also have to busy myself with something. And bring me the French newspapers; no, nothing but Figaro and Gil Blas. (To his son.) And so we shall both be at work. (To Teresa.) Listen—by the way, bring me that novel which is in my room. You can read, can’t you?

Ter. Yes, seÑor.

Juan. Well, then, a book which says Nana—you understand?

Ter. Yes, seÑor. NÁ-nÁ.—For no is nÁ.

Juan. It is something, little girl,—(aside) something that you will be in time. [Exit Teresa.

Laz. (Rises and walks about—aside). I have no ideas. To-day I have no ideas. Yes, I have many; but they come like a flight of birds; they flutter about—and they go.

Juan. See now—I cannot bear immoral novels.

Laz. You said ...?

Juan. Nothing! I thought that you said something. I said that I cannot endure immoral novels. (Assuming airs of austerity.) I read them, I read “Nana,” out of curiosity, as a study, but I can’t bear them. Literature is in a lost condition, my son, in a lost condition. Nemesio lent me that book—and I am anxious to have done with it.

Laz. Zola is a great writer. (Aside.) This is the very thing that I was looking for. (He sits and writes.)

Enter Teresa with a tray, a bottle of sherry, a glass and the
biscuits, “Nana” and the two newspapers.

Ter. Here is everything. The sherry: the newspapers just come, the tender little biscuits, and the tender little Nana (baby) as well. (She stands looking at the two gentlemen.)

Juan. Bring the sherry closer, Teresa.—Work, boy, work. Take no notice of me. Work, for it is thus that men attain success. I also in my youth have worked much. That’s the reason I look so old. (Staring at Teresa who laughs.) (Aside.) What’s that stupid girl laughing at?—(To Teresa.) Now, you may go. I don’t want you. The Gil Blas! (Unfolds it and begins to read it.) Let us have a look at these wretched little newspapers.... (affecting contempt.) I told you to go.—(To Teresa.)—Let’s see, let’s see. (Reads.)

Ter. Yes, seÑor. (She remains for awhile looking at the two, and turns towards the door in the back centre.)

Laz. (rising). Teresa—

Ter. SeÑorito—

Laz. Come here and speak lower: let us not disturb your master, who is reading. Did you take the letter which I gave you this morning?

Ter. Yes, seÑorito, I took it myself. Whatever you require me to do, seÑorito!...

Laz. Good. It was for SeÑor Bermudez, eh?

Ter. Yes, seÑorito. That doctor who has such a great name, who has come from Madrid for a few days to cure Don Luciano Barranco—the same who, they say, is either mad or not mad. (Laughing.)

Laz. (starting, then restraining himself). Ah! Yes. Quite so; the same. And did you see him? Did you hand him the letter? Did he give you the answer? Where is it? Come, quick!

Ter. Eh, seÑorito—

Laz. Come—

Ter. I gave the letter: he was not in:—they said—

Laz. Lower—(Looking at his father who laughs while reading the newspaper.)

Ter. They said that as soon as he came back they would give him the letter. Have no fear, seÑorito. Whatever little I take charge of! Well, if I do nothing worse than—

Laz. It’s well—thanks. (Dismissing her, then recalling her.) Oh! if they bring the answer—here on the instant—eh?

Ter. On the instant: I should think so! have no fear, seÑorito.

Laz. Enough! let us not trouble my father.

[Exit Teresa.

Juan. Ha! ha! ha! Facetious, very facetious! sprightly, very sprightly! Pungent as a capsicum from the Rioja! It is the only newspaper that one can read!

Laz. Some interesting article? What is it? What does it say? Let me see! (Approaching and stretching out his hand.)

Juan (keeping back the newspaper). A very shameless little article—and quite without point. It must be put away. (Puts it in a pocket of his dressing-gown, but in such a way that it may be seen.) May the devil not so contrive things that Carmen may come and find the newspaper and read it in all innocence.

Laz. (withdrawing). It is true: you do well! (Walks about nervously.)

Juan (aside). And I had not finished reading it: I shall read it afterwards. (Takes up “Nana.”) This also is good. The spring with all its verdure. (Aloud.) Work, boy, work!

Laz. (aside). I shall speak to the Doctor this very day, that he may set my mind at ease. I know that nothing is the matter with me; but I want a specialist to assure me on the point. And then, with mind at peace—to my drama, to my critico-historical work, to my Æsthetic theories which are new, completely new—and to Carmen. And with the muse at one side, recounting marvels in my ear, and with Carmen on the other side, pressed against my heart—to enjoy life, to inhale the odour of triumphs, to live for love, to satiate my longings amidst eternal mysteries.

Juan. Stupendous! Monumental! Sufficient to make one die of laughing. Lord, why does a man read? To be amused; then books that are amusing for me! (Laughing.)

Laz. Is that a nice book?

Juan (changing his tone). Pshaw—yes—pretty well. But these frivolous things are tiresome after all. (Sees Lazarus coming towards him, and puts “Nana” into the other pocket of the dressing-gown.) Have you anything solid to read—really substantial?

Laz. I have many large books. What class do you want?

Juan. Something serious; something that instructs you, that makes you think.

Laz. (going to the bookcase). Would you like something of Kant?

Juan. Of Kant? Do you say of Kant? Quite so! he was my favourite author. When I was young I went to sleep every night reading Kant. (Aside.) What will that be? It sounds like a dog.

Laz. (searching out a passage). If you like, I shall tell you.

Juan. No, my lad; any part whatever! (Taking the book.) Yes, this may be read at any part. You shall see. And don’t concern yourself with me; write, my son, write.

Lazarus sits and attempts to write. Don Juan reads.

“Under the aspect of relationship, the third consequence of taste, the beautiful appears to us as the final form of an object, without representation of end.” The devil! (holding the book far off, as long-sighted people do and contemplating it with terror.) The devil! “or as a finality without end.” Whoever can understand this? “Because what is called final form is the causality of any conception whatever with relation to the object.” Let me see—let me see. (Holding the book still further off.) “Final form the causality.” I believe I am perspiring. (Wipes his forehead.) “The consciousness of this finality without end is the play of the cognitive forces.” How does he say that? “The play of the forces—the play.” Well, I ought to understand this about play. “The consciousness of this internal causality is that which constitutes the Æsthetic pleasure.” If I go on it will give me a congestion. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! And to think that Lazarus understands about the finality without end, the causality and the play of the cognitive forces! God help me! What a boy!—(continues reading.) “The principle of the formal convenience of nature is the transcendental principle of the force of Judgment.” (Giving a blow on the table.) I shall be lost if I continue reading. But if that boy reads these things he will go mad.

Laz. Does it interest you?

Juan. Very much! What depth! (Aside.) For five minutes I have been falling, and I have not reached the bottom. (Aloud.) I should think it does interest me! But, frankly, I prefer—

Laz. Hegel?

Juan. Exactly. (Aside)—“Nana.” But you, my son, neither read, nor write: you are fretful. What’s the matter with you? Did the hunting tire you? Yet the exercise of the chase is very healthy for one who like you wears himself away over his books. Are you ill?

Laz. No, seÑor, I am not ill. And I spent these three days in the country very pleasantly. But this morning broke dull and rainy, and I said—“Home!”

Juan. And you arrived when I was getting up. I told you the great news; immediately you showed great delight; but then you fell into sublime preoccupations. Poor Carmen! (approaching him with an air of secrecy.) You don’t love her as she loves you.

Laz. With all my soul! More than you can imagine! I am as I am: reserved, untamed, unpolished—but I know how to love!

Juan. Better and better! The poor little thing—come, now—the poor little thing.

Laz. And why did not Don Timoteo answer on the spot that he accepted? When you asked him for his daughter for me, why did he hesitate?

Juan. What do you mean by hesitation? I do him the honour of requesting the hand of Carmen for my Lazarus—and he would hesitate! I should strangle the scarecrow. Marry a man like you! What more could any daughter or any father desire?

Laz. Then why did he put off the answer till to-day?

Juan. The prescriptions of etiquette: social conventionalities: he was always a great stickler for etiquette. Because he must consult with Carmen. Imagine him consulting with Carmen! When the poor little thing is like a soul in purgatory, and you are her heaven.—Ha! ha!

Laz. You are right.

Juan. No: you shall have your sweet little wife, your home; you shall work hard, you shall gain great glory, you shall keep a sound judgment—and let the whole world say: Don Lazarus Mejia, son of Don Juan Mejia! Oh!

Laz. Yes, seÑor: I shall do what I can—and I shall love my Carmen dearly.

Juan. That’s right—that’s right. But something’s the matter with you. You seem as it were absent-minded.

Laz. I am thinking—of my drama.

Juan. Then I shall go! decidedly I shall go! With my insipid chatter I prevent you from thinking. Oh! thought! the—the—(looking at the book) “the cognitive forces”—the—the—(looking again) “the finality”—that’s it—“the finality.”—Ah!—Good-bye.

Laz. But don’t go away on my account.

Juan. We must show respect to the wise. (Laughing.) I am going to read all alone the great book which you have lent me. (Taking a flower and putting it in the buttonhole of his dressing-gown.) Consider now, whether I shall hesitate between Kant and “Nana.” (Pulls the bell.)

Laz. As you please.

Juan. Good-bye, my son. To your drama—to your drama—and put nothing immoral in it.

Enter Teresa.

Ter. SeÑor.—

Juan. Listen, Teresa: take all that to my room. Wait—(Pours himself out a glass. Touching one pocket.) Here is Gil Blas, (touching) here is “Nana”: Kant hauled along by the neck—and to my room. Work, my boy, work! Do something great. Leave something to the world. I shall leave you—I think—(drinking the glass of wine.) Well, this finality—has an end. To work—to work?—Good-bye. Lord, what a Lazarus this is! To my room with all that, little Teresa.

[Exit carrying in one pocket Gil Blas, in the other “Nana,” in
his buttonhole the flower, and gripped very hard the volume of
Kant.

Laz. Teresa, they have brought no letter for me?

Ter. (preparing to remove the wine and the biscuits). No, seÑor.

Laz. Patience: you did not tell my mother I had written to that SeÑor de Bermudez.

Ter. No, seÑor.

Laz. Has my mother got up?

Ter. Got up, indeed! Before you returned this morning from hunting, DoÑa Dolores had already gone to call for the SeÑorita Carmen that they might go to Mass together.

Laz. Good.

Ter. And I don’t know how she rose so early, nor how she found courage to go out.

Laz. Why?

Ter. Because last night she was very ill: very ill indeed.

Laz. (starting up). My mother!

Ter. Yes, seÑor. I say that it must have been the nerves. How she cried: how she twisted her arms! Indeed I wanted to send an express messenger for you to come back at once.

Laz. Ah! my God, my poor mother! and why was I not informed? I would have mounted on horseback; and in one hour—here.

Ter. Because the seÑora would not have it so. “Silence, not a word to anybody,” so she said, and an order from her is an order.

Laz. But how is it possible? My father said nothing to me!

Ter. He was not informed: he went to the theatre, afterwards to the Casino with Don Timoteo and Don Nemesio; he returned late, and as the seÑora had given orders—“to nobody”—nothing was said to him; and he knew nothing.

Laz. But how was it? Why was it? She who is never ill!

Ter. I don’t know. The seÑora dined early and alone. Afterwards she went out. She came back at ten o’clock: she could scarcely enter her room, and immediately fell to the ground—just like a tower that falls.

Laz. My God! my God! And you never informed me!

Ter. Well, I am informing you now. And in spite of what she said, “not a word.” But as to you—for your sake! Oh! when it concerns you, seÑorito. (Lazarus pays no attention to her.) But don’t be distressed: this morning already she was so strong and so well: yes, really, very pale and with such dark circles round the eyes! but so strong. We women are thus: now we are dying and afterwards we revive: we go back to death and again we return to life.

Laz. You mean that now she is well? But entirely well?

Ter. Don’t I tell you she is as well as could be? Let your mind rest, seÑorito.

Lazarus, very much agitated, has been walking about.

Laz. Good, good, if it has already passed off—in short, when my mother returns, tell me.

Ter. You have no other orders?

Laz. No. (A bell rings several times.) My father is calling: go, go quickly. The vibrating of the bell makes me nervous.

Ter. I must take away this. (Takes up the trays.)

Laz. (the bell continues ringing). Take it away quickly for pity’s sake.

Ter. On the instant; what a hurry that good gentleman is in!

Laz. And if they bring the answer from SeÑor de Bermudez.

Ter. Immediately afterwards. (The bell continues.) I am coming, I am coming. (She says this without calling aloud, as if to herself.)

[Exit Teresa.

Laz. (alone). What she has told me about my poor mother has unstrung all my nerves. I am not well. Bah! I am not ill. How Doctor Bermudez will laugh at me when I consult him. The fact is that I am very apprehensive; but I feel strong: Javier says to me every moment: “My boy, don’t strut about on your heels so much.” Steady; so, steady. (He walks about, treads with his heels and laughs.) I know now what’s the matter. I am very happy and I have a horrible dread of losing so much happiness. Very happy. (Counting on his fingers.) My father and mother, so good; Carmen, who adores me; I, who am raving about her; glory, which calls me; I who answer, “Forward, Lazarus”; my eyes, which are my own and are never satiated with drinking in light and colours; my thought, which is mine, and which does not tire of originating wonders; my life, which is mine, and which desires to live more, to live more—yes, more! (A pause.) They say that life is dull, that it is mournful. Buffoons! Has anything better been discovered? Is it better to be stone which has no nerves to quiver with delight? Is it better to be water which always runs in headlong stupidity without knowing where it goes? Is it better to be air to blow without motive and to fill itself with the foulest earth and dust? No, it is better to be Lazarus. (Resumes the counting on his fingers.) For Lazarus has very good parents; he has Carmen; he has glory; he has life; and he has, above all, thought, reason! Ha! I have all this: I have it: what remains to be done if I have it! (Sits down in a somewhat cowering manner.) It is evident—because all this is so good, and because I have it, I am afraid to lose it. I am as terrified as a little child; at times it seems to me that I am a little child, and I am seized with impulses to run to my mother and wrap myself round in her skirt. A man who almost understands Kant and Hegel; who writes dramas which are very well received, yes, seÑor, very well received; who meditates transcendental works. A man, in every sense a man, who has fought duels in Madrid, and has had a little love affair or so—(laughing)—and very pleasant too: the practical reason, not of Kant but of Zola, which turns the Pure Reason of Kant into ridicule and makes even the good matron laugh. Well then, this formidable Lazarus at times is a child, and he would like his mother to embrace him and to buy him toys! To be a child, yes; all the same it is good to be a child. Nay. I should like it. (Laughing.) But what absurdities! Lord, what absurdities! (Remains cowering in his chair, thinking and laughing very low.)

Enter Teresa.

Ter. SeÑorito, a gentleman has given me this card.

Laz. (as if awaking). A gentleman? Let me see—Doctor Bermudez! But why has he put himself to inconvenience? I would have gone to him. Let him come in. Let him come in. Quick, woman, let him come in. (Exit Teresa.) With this man I must have much prudence, much composure, much calm. If he had heard the nonsense that I was talking! What a terror!

Teresa. (re-entering and announcing). SeÑor de Bermudez.

[Exit Teresa.

Enter Bermudez.

Berm. SeÑor Don Lazarus Mejia?

Laz. Your servant—very much your servant—one who is grieved to the heart for having troubled a person such as you. A man of eminence—a man of knowledge. (With much courtesy, but endeavouring to restrain himself.)

Berm. Not so—not so—I received your letter.

Laz. Indeed, it was not meant that you should give yourself any trouble. I begged you to be good enough to appoint a time for me and I should have gone to your house. But take a seat. I cannot allow you to remain standing an instant longer. Sit down! (Making him sit down.) Here—no—here—you will be better here.

Berm. Many thanks. You are very amiable! (Takes a seat.)

Laz. I don’t know whether I am entitled to sit down in the presence of a man like yourself; a national glory! (Commands himself so that his accent is natural: perhaps however he errs a little by excess of courtesy.)

Berm. For goodness’ sake!

Laz. A man of European fame!

Berm. You overwhelm me. I don’t deserve—(Aside.) He is very engaging, this young man. They were right in Madrid to say that he has plenty of ability.

Laz. You don’t deserve it? Ah! in the mouth of a celebrity like Doctor Bermudez, modesty will always have a voice, but it has no vote.

Berm. SeÑor de Mejia. (Aside.) How well he speaks!

Laz. Don’t treat me ceremoniously. I am not deserving of so much solemnity. “SeÑor de Mejia”! (Laughing.) Call me Lazarus. I really don’t deserve anything better; treat me as a master might a pupil. I dare not say as a kind friend would treat a respectful friend.

Berm. As you please. It will be an honour for me! (Aside.) Very engaging, very engaging!

Laz. Well, I repeat that I am sorry at heart for having given you this trouble.

Berm. Not at all. I already told your mother last night that if at any other time she required me, or if she wished by any further suggestions to make me amplify my opinion, I was unconditionally at her orders. A card saying to me “Come,” and I should come instantly. And so it is that on receiving the letter this morning—as you may imagine—I said, “I must place myself at the feet of that lady, and I must personally become acquainted with her son, a national glory of the future, one who is destined to have a European renown.”

Laz. SeÑor de Bermudez! (Repudiating the honour with a gesture. Aside.) My mother—last night—what does he say? (Commanding himself, then aloud.) So my mother went last night—to see you—because——

Berm. Yes, seÑor, she has already explained everything to me. That you were out hunting, and that you did not mean to return this week; that she had been informed that I was going back to Madrid this day, and that she had been anxious to consult me without the loss of a moment concerning the illness of that poor young man—a cousin or a nephew, or a relative—I think he is a nephew of your mother, whose name she said was—Don Luis—Don Luis——

Laz. Quite so—a nephew. You have it. (Smiling. Then aside.) What’s this? What relative is that? Why, it is not true. God of Heaven! (Aloud.) A nephew—that’s it. To whom God does not give sons, the devil,—— (Laughing.) Yes, but she also has me—her Lazarus, her son!

Berm. And she must be proud.

Laz. SeÑor de Bermudez, have compassion on a beginner. But I wish you to explain to me what you had the kindness to explain to my mother; because ladles—don’t understand much about medical science—and though I understand just as little of it, nevertheless——

Berm. Quite so; it is a speciality.

Laz. A speciality, that’s it; it is a speciality. And moreover, I know that young man more intimately—poor Luis! And I can supply you with fresh particulars.

Berm. Oh! those of your mother were very precise. She has a keenly observant mind.

Laz. Very much so; don’t you describe it well! A keenly observant mind. (Aside.) My God!—my mother—and on her return home—her weeping—what does this man say?

Berm. Altogether it would be better that I should see the poor young man; but should that not be possible——

Laz. I should think it is possible, and that would be the best. You shall see him. I myself will take him to you—to your house. Yes, seÑor, to your house; yes, seÑor.

Berm. That will do perfectly. That was what I said to your mother, but she told me in reply that so long as things don’t come to an extremity, families require to consider. I understand and I impute no blame.

Laz. Nothing of the kind. Now, at this very moment you shall come with me to see that—that poor young man. A man like you! Why, there’s no difficulty about it.

Berm. (rising). Then I await your orders.

Laz. Allow me, my friend, my dear friend: first of all I should like—I beg of you to tell me what my mother explained to you and what was your opinion; because, although she related everything to me this morning, I should be glad to hear it from your lips. One learns everything by listening to such a man as Doctor Bermudez. (In a persuasive tone.) I am so anxious that you should speak, and that I should hear you. Indeed, it has been the dream of my existence. Speak, speak.

Berm. Dear Lazarus. (Aside.) I have fascinated him, decidedly. (Aloud.) Your mother explained to me with great lucidity all the antecedents of the patient: his sufferings when a child, his character, his studies, his excitable imagination, the first symptoms of the illness, a fainting attack, another more violent.

Laz. (somewhat drily). All that I know already. Go on. (With extreme cordiality.) Go on, my dear Bermudez.

Berm. The doctor is rather like a confessor, and your mother did not object to letting me know of the youthful days of the father—of the father of the young man.

Laz. Ah! his youthful days—yes—his youthful days—yes—yes—and what else?

Berm. His vicious conduct; his unbridled libertinism——

Laz. (excitedly). Libertinism! (Controlling himself.) Yes. (With a forced laugh.) Follies of youth. A lady always exaggerates these things. I have not been a saint myself; neither have you. Doctor, doctor, you with all your science and all your gravity. God knows. God knows! Oh! these doctors! (Giving him a slap on the back.) And what more?

Berm. (laughing). We are mortals and sinners, friend Lazarus.

Laz. And we take for fine gold little lenses of talc. Come, come to the talc.

Berm. Thus stands the case—that that good gentleman, the father of the patient, reached the age of gravity, and he was not a steady man, and he did not correct his faults. His wife seems to have suffered very much. Is all this exact which your mother told me? Because if it is exact it must be taken into account. That’s the reason I ask.

Laz. (aside). My head! Oh my head! (Succeeds in commanding himself, and speaks naturally. Aloud.) See, doctor, those are details of which I know nothing. But if my mother told you so, it will be true. My mother is a superior spirit, a most pure soul, a mother beyond comparison. But let us not speak of the mother, only of the son, that’s to say of the son of the other mother. Therefore let’s see, let’s see. What more did she tell you?

Berm. That to prevent the son from becoming fully acquainted with the disorders of the father—because the boy, naturally, was growing up, the mother had to send him to a college in France.

Laz. (aside). It is I. It is I! Ah! ah! Calm! let me be calm!

Berm. What do you say?

Laz. Nothing. I laugh at those family tragedies—the father a madcap, and the son,—— And as you fill me with such respect—and as the subject is so sad—I should not have presumed to laugh. Ah! SeÑor de Bermudez, what a world this is!—what a world this is! Come, come. (Growing calm.) Yes, seÑor, the history, so far as I know, is entirely correct. Then they sent him to study in Madrid—that unfortunate, unfortunate youth: but, look you, not so unfortunate—for he went through his course with distinction.

Berm. Quite so, and the father remained always the same.

Laz. (somewhat harshly). Let us not speak of the father. And why? Because the son is now launched on the world; then let us leave out of the question the other. (Recollecting himself.) Ah! pardon me. I love my father so much, I respect him so much, that those words which you have uttered have caused me much pain, much pain. A weakness I confess; a man of science does not know those weaknesses; but we poets are thus. You—you raise yourselves above the level of human miseries. The eagle soars alike—eh? above the peak of granite with its robe of frost—eh? and over the infected puddle—or the mire—the mire—eh? But we are not all as Doctor Bermudez? (Grasping his hand.)

Berm. I respect your delicacy: but science is implacable. A father who has consumed his life in vice——

Lazarus retreats in his chair.

Who has wallowed with all the energies of his nature in the mire of riot, who has heated his blood in the embers of all impure fires—runs the danger of transmitting to his son nothing but the germs of death or the germs of madness!

Lazarus recoils more and more.

And I tell you, as I told your mother last night, without prejudice to the rectification of my opinion when I have examined the patient, that if the description which you have given me is exact—and I conclude that it is——

Laz. It is. What then?

Berm. Ah! the springs of life cannot be corrupted with impunity. The Son of that father will very soon sink into madness or into idiocy. A madman or an idiot: such is his fate!

(He says this without looking round, with solemnity,
like one who pronounces a sentence: gazing forward and motioning with his arm
towards Lazarus. The latter cowers in his chair and looks at
Bermudez with horror.)

Laz. Ah! No! What? My father! I! A lie! A lie! It is a lie! (Hides his face in his hands.)

Berm. What’s this? Lazarus! SeÑor de Mejia! Are you ill? What do you say? (Rising and approaching Lazarus.) I don’t understand! Can it be? What?

Laz. That I am the madman? Silence! That I am the idiot? Silence! That I am such—I? Look at me well: study me well: strengthen your judgment: meditate, examine, give sentence!

Bermudez standing, Lazarus seated and clutching
the doctor by the arm.

Berm. But this is not fair, SeÑor de Mejia! This is not just! By God—by the Holy God!

Laz. Fairness, justice, in a man such as I? Bermudez, Bermudez, I did wrong, I confess—(with a mixture of courtesy, sadness, and some sarcasm)—An idiot who presents his most humble excuses to a wise man! Be generous, pardon me.

Berm. You have not understood me. I am sorry for you, Lazarus, because I have given you—a shock—a bad time of it, without cause—believe me, without any cause. God help me, these dramatic authors—no, one is not safe with them! (Wishing to turn the matter off with a laugh.)

Laz. Let us be calm, let us be calm. I want the truth; there still remains to me some glimmer of reason, and I can understand what you say to me. Ha! the truth—Bermudez, the truth! It is the last truth that I can understand, and I wish to enjoy it. (Rising.) Out with it! I still understand—yes—still!

Berm. Friend Lazarus! By all the saints of the heavenly court!——

Laz. No, I still keep my senses; I shall explain to you all that has passed. My mother, pretending to inquire about another, inquired about me; I, pretending to be interested on another’s account, was interested on my own, and a poor mother and a lost wretch have between them cajoled a wise man. Ah! cajoled—no: pardon. We wished to know the truth—nothing more; but as the truth is treacherous, it is necessary at times to drag it forth by treason. I humbly beg that you will pardon us—my mother—and myself.

Berm. I tell you that I cannot recover from my surprise; that I am cut to the heart for having spoken with such levity. I have already told you that my opinion was haphazard—quite haphazard—without examination of the patient. (Seeking where to go.)

Laz. Well, here is the patient. Don’t I tell you that I am the man? Oh, have no fear: I am a man capable of looking face to face upon death, and of answering the grimace of madness with another grimace even more grotesque. While a heart remains to me, the head will obey.

Berm. For God’s sake, calm yourself. All this is not serious.

Laz. I am perfectly calm; I am still master of myself. Sit down. (Makes him take a seat.) Let us talk quietly. Tell me all, but in a low voice, that my mother may not know; that she may not know. And of my father, not a word! Of my father—no, enough—nothing! I have been a madman in Madrid, so that the madness is mine. It is all mine! Oh! you deny that it is all mine? That is not right, SeÑor de Bermudez. Take to yourself the accusation that it is not right. You deny me my own reason, and you even wish to deprive me of my own madness, saying—saying—that my father—silence! Well, my reason may not belong to me: patience! But my madness belongs to me; I swear to you that it belongs to me, and I shall defend it—I shall defend it, Bermudez! (Advances upon the physician. Then restrains himself.) And now, let us talk soberly of myself—of my suffering.

Berm. SeÑor de Mejia, dear Lazarus—as for what I told you a while since, it was purely hypothetical; now that I know you, I modify my opinion in every point.

Laz. (with a mocking smile). Indeed? By God, SeÑor de Bermudez, that I am a madman we’ll let pass; but I am not yet an idiot.

Berm. By God, SeÑor de Mejia, I am sure that I shall go out of this house either an idiot or a madman!

Laz. When do you calculate that I shall suffer the decisive attack—the last: that of eternal night; that which surrounds us with blackness for ever? How easily it is known that I have been a poet, eh? Eternal night, eternal blackness! Is it not true? However, say—when? What term do you allow me? A year? three months? or is it immediately? Candidly. You see, now, that I still hear, and understand, and even speak poetically. Eternal blackness, eternal night! However, let me know—let me know. A year, eh?

Berm. It is readily perceived that you are a poet. You plunge into the regions of phantasy. You see, your nervous system is shaken, somewhat shaken. I don’t deny it; but I make myself responsible for your cure; do you want more?

Laz. We are coming to the point. As for my cure, I am ready to believe that. But the decisive attack—when? I have such a feeling these few days past, that I think it will be very soon.

Berm. Ravings, ravings! these are ravings.

Laz. Precisely. Ah! you have said it—ravings. Come, an effort. Will it be to-morrow, will it be to-day?

Berm. Neither to-day, nor to-morrow, nor within twenty years, if you keep your senses.

Laz. If I keep my senses! You are ingenious. “I shall not lose my senses if I keep my senses.” Naturally.

Berm. A good sign: now we are joking.

Laz. Yes, I am very quiet. At first I felt a wave of blood roll through my brain; then a wave of ice, which spread through all my being. And now—well—quiet—tired, a little tired, nothing more.

Berm. Good; then take a rest, put your mind at ease; and before my setting out for Madrid I shall return. I have to convince you——

Laz. I am convinced! Oh, my God! I don’t wish to keep you any longer, I have sufficiently abused your kindness.

Berm. (making a movement to withdraw). Then if you will permit me——

Laz. Yes, seÑor, assuredly (accompanying him). And don’t have any ill-will towards me.

Berm. Good God—no; however, my friend——

Laz. (detaining him). One moment! (In his ear.) When?

Berm. Some other time.

Laz. No; the one thing that I wish you to tell me, is this: “Lazarus, there is no hope; the attack will be next month, or next week, or to-morrow, or to-night, or this very hour,” in short, when must it be? This is the only thing you have to tell me: I ask no more.

Berm. But how can you have me knowingly utter nonsense?

Laz. (energetically). Because you have the inevitable power of telling me the truth; however sharp, however bitter, however mournful, it may be, you must tell it to me. It is a question of honour, of life or death. Now you shall understand me. (In a low voice in the doctor’s ear.) I love, I adore Carmen; our wedding has been arranged: it will take place in a short time—within fifteen days. And now, answer me: Can I, in conscience, without being guilty of infamy, can I bind the existence of Carmen to my existence—to the existence of an idiot?

Berm. What a question!

Laz. If you are a man of honour——. What, go away without answering me? Well, the way is free to you (withdrawing from him). Oh! I’ll not detain you.

Berm. By God, Lazarus——

Laz. But reflect, that through the cowardice of a moment, through not having spoken to me as one man speaks to another man—for I still am a man—you are about to do great mischief. Because if you don’t say to me, “Renounce,” I shall not renounce Carmen; I shall embrace her and drag her down with me to the abyss.

Berm. You see that I can do no more.

Laz. You see that love is life—the oil of life which propagates itself. And what will be our posterity? Come, say it, boldly. A swarm of neurotics, of idiots, of lunatics, perhaps of criminals. A common sewer hurrying on to death the wrecks of humanity. In candour, in honesty, say it.

Berm. Oh! what a head! Indeed, if you continue thus, I assure you that you will go mad.

Laz. By the memory of your mother, by the honour of your family, by the happiness of your children, by the sacred duty of your profession, by your conscience as an upright man, by your God, by piety, by compassion——, if you had a daughter would you allow her to marry me?

Berm. To-day? No! (Wishes to continue.)

Laz. Enough! nor to-morrow either. Enough—never—thank you. My sentence! Carmen, Carmen! (Falls on the sofa.)

Berm. Lazarus—for God’s sake—you did not allow me to finish. Lazarus! What a creature! Listen to me. I must call. (Pulls the bell.) He is losing his wits—Lazarus! (The bell.) Eh! Here! (going to the door.)

Enter Dolores and Don Juan.

Berm. SeÑora!

Dol. (running to him). Bermudez!

Juan (to Bermudez). My Lazarus!

Dol. (to Bermudez). My boy!

Juan. But what is this? Lord, what is this?

Laz. (rising). Nothing. We called—they did not appear. We continued to call—and you have come. And I called because I wished to introduce you to my kind friend, Doctor Bermudez. My mother (introducing her); you already know each other. Is it not true that you know each other?

Dol. My son!

She and Lazarus embrace.

Laz. (to Bermudez). Don’t be surprised. As I was hunting a whole week—and as we did not see each other on my return—we were embracing.

Berm. It’s natural.

Laz. My father (introducing him). I have already seen my father this morning, that’s why I don’t embrace him. (Juan looks at him imploringly.) However, that you may not imagine I love him less than my mother, I shall embrace him likewise. Father!

Juan. Lazarus! (Embracing him.) Closer to me! closer! so! (To Dolores, aside.) You see, Dolores, you see? He has such strength; he has nearly squeezed the breath out of me. It’s all folly what you have been telling me.

Dol. Yes—quite true—folly.

Juan (to Bermudez). What’s this boy suffering from?

Berm. Nothing: in substance, nothing.

Juan (to Dol.). Are you listening? What a head you have!

Laz. Make your minds easy. Delicate—slightly delicate. Don’t be cast down, mother.

Dol. (caressing him). Lazarus, my son, my Lazarus!

Juan (approaching Lazarus with envy). And must I be cast down or not? Oh, it matters little whether or not I be cast down.

Laz. Neither must you be down-hearted, father. There is no cause. I am perfectly well; let Bermudez tell you. And I am going to work for a while (with anguish), because I can do no more (restraining himself)—I can do no more with this idleness, eh? And with the regimen that you have prescribed for me—and by following your advice—within a short time you shall see—the resurrection of Lazarus! Good-bye, Bermudez; my own mother, father and seÑor—illustrious doctor—note that phrase—that phrase—the resurrection of Lazarus. Ah! for this Lazarus there is no resurrection.

[Exit.

Juan (to Bermudez). Speak, by Christ crucified! I know that it is nothing—but I wish you to speak. Come, my Lazarus—what? Why does this woman say such things? Jesus, Jesus, what a woman! You have always been the same. (To Bermudez.) Don’t speak lightly—these are very important matters. However, come! let me know, let me know!

Berm. SeÑor Don Juan, you understand——

Dol. Have you changed your opinion?

Berm. Substantially it remains unchanged.

Dol. My God! my God! (Throws herself sobbing on a chair.)

Berm. But we must have a little calmness; SeÑora, for God’s sake.

Juan. Calm? I should think so; since what you two say is impossible: then nothing else was required. As if this could do no more than come down upon a genius like Lazarus—and all in a moment. If it were I—good, because I—SeÑor de Bermudez—I may be puffed off any day; but Lazarus, Lazarus, consider well what you say, for these things are very important. And they must be thought over deliberately. Very important—very important indeed.

Berm. You are right, Don Juan. And now, you’ll both excuse me, I am deeply affected—and I could not co-ordinate two ideas.

Juan (aside, to his wife). Are you listening? He could not co-ordinate two ideas. I say, I say, why did I trust to him!

Berm. Later on—to-morrow—some other day—I shall have the pleasure of paying my compliments to you and of seeing Lazarus. Now, permit me to retire.

Dol. (rising and hurrying towards him). But you are not yet going back to Madrid? No, for God’s sake!

Berm. No, seÑora. I shall remain here fifteen or twenty days longer.

Dol. Then, come again; come again, I implore you!

Juan. Yes; come again.

Berm. Yes, seÑor, I shall come again.

Dol. To-morrow?

Juan. If you gave a little look in to-night—eh? You could take coffee with us. I have some sherry——

Berm. To-night I cannot. I shall come to-morrow.

Dol. To-morrow, then, Bermudez. (Accompanying him.) Save my son!

Juan. See you to-morrow, SeÑor de Bermudez. And have a care what you do with my Lazarus!

Berm. Till to-morrow, then, SeÑora. (Pressing her hand.) And my dear seÑor.

Dolores falls on a chair: Juan walks about with
difficulty, but with an air of great vigour.

Juan. This man does not know what he’s talking about. You have now heard him; he can’t co-ordinate two ideas. How simple we are! What, and do people lose their talents and lose their heads as one might lose a hat? Here, I got rid of my hat, and thus got rid of my head? Bah, bah! Idiots are what they are from infancy. Nor do I say idiots only—fools have been fools all through life; there is nobody more consistent than a fool. But as to a man of genius! Oh! Genius! Tut, absurdities of doctors! He to pronounce judgment on my Lazarus! He who can’t co-ordinate two ideas—on Lazarus, who is as familiar with the “finality without end” as he is with the Our Father! Come, answer. Am I right?

Dol. Would to God it might be so!

Juan. But don’t you think it is false—all that that buffoon has told us?

Dol. (with desperation). And if it were true? If it were true? What then? Then, why was I born? (Advancing upon Don Juan, who retreats.) My illusions lost through you! My youth blighted through you! My dignity sneered at through you! After twenty years of sacrifices in order to be deserving of my Lazarus—good for him! loyal for him! honourable for him! And to-day? No. You have always been a wretch: but this time you are right. Impossible! Impossible! God could not let it be so.

Juan. Well, I have been a wretch—there’s no getting over it. But do not call to mind all that—and above all, don’t speak of it. Say that you forgive me—forgive me, Dolores.

Dol. What does it matter to you—my forgiveness?

Juan. It matters to us both. If you don’t pardon me, and at the same time God purposes to chastise me, and chastises me in my Lazarus—“He might have been a genius, here you have in him an idiot.” These things are very serious. Come come, don’t say that.

Dol. What things you do say! You, too, talk at random. No matter—under such circumstances. I pardon you with all my heart.

Juan. Thank you, Dolores. Thus we are more secure.

Dol. (clinging to him). But help me to save Lazarus.

Juan. With my whole soul. Though I had to give up for him all the life that remains to me.

Dol. Give your life! Ha! what life have you? All the life that God first granted you, you should give him.

Juan. Dolores!

Dol. Ah! it’s true. I had pardoned you. I shall not recall my word. But what are we to do?

Juan. Take him to Madrid, that the best known physicians may see him.

Dol. Well thought of!

Juan. And then to Paris. We shall consult all the eminent men.

Dol. Quite so. Then to Germany.

Juan. And to England. The English know a great deal. Bah! there is plenty of science dispersed throughout the world.

Dol. Then we shall collect it all for Lazarus.

Juan. Without fail! All for him! Whatever remains of my fortune for him! I have squandered much, but I am still rich.

Dol. I have never called you to a reckoning. You have squandered your own.

Juan. No, seÑora: no, seÑora. It was not mine. I see it now. It belonged to Lazarus. But Lord! I did not know I was going to have Lazarus. Dolores, we must save him.

Dol. We hang on to his reason like two creatures in despair, that it may not fly away. Is it not true? (Clinging to him.)

Juan. Like two of the desperate, and like two parents. Is it not so? (Pressing her to him.) And we shall save him, eh? Don’t say no; don’t say no! (Falls weeping on a sofa.) I have been bad, but without bad intention. I did not know this. Would that I had been told! Lazarus, my Lazarus!

Dol. Don’t be distressed. Don’t you see that you will not have energy to struggle?

Juan. I’ll not have energy? Ah! you’ll see. Ho! ho! I have no energy!

Dol. I love to see you thus. And believe me that Bermudez exaggerates.

Juan. He is a fanatic—a buffoon—a madman that can’t co-ordinate two ideas. Ah, blockhead. (Shaking his fist.) I don’t know how I keep my head. My breast is burning. My throat is dry. (Pulls the bell.) Teresa! eh! Teresa!

Dol. (calling). Teresa! (Turning to Juan.) What’s the matter?

Juan. Nothing—nothing.

Teresa entering.

Ter. SeÑor?

Juan. Bring me a glass of sherry. No, a glass of water—water only.

Ter. Yes, seÑor. [Exit.

Juan (walking about). From this day I have to mortify myself—on bread and water, like an anchorite—all for Lazarus. Come, is not this to be put to my credit?

Dol. Yes; but much prudence. Let nobody know anything.

Juan. Nothing. Our journeys will be journeys of pleasure; artistic voyages, that Lazarus may see the world and gain instruction. If all these were false terrors!

Dol. Not a word to anybody.

Juan. Not to Carmen—say nothing to Carmen.

Dol. Poor Carmen, my poor angel! But you are right. The first is Lazarus.

Juan. The first—that’s clear. But that girl does not come, and I am choking.

Enter Teresa and Don Timoteo.

Ter. (announcing, and with the glass of water). Here is Don Timoteo.

Juan. Let him come in.

Ter. He is already in.

Juan (to Dolores). Silence, and let us affect indifference.

Dol. (aside). Indifference and gaiety. (Wiping her eyes. Don Juan drinks a glass of water.)

Juan (to Dolores). Will you take some? Drink, dear. Be calm!

[Exit Teresa.

Dol. Thank you; I am calm now.

Tim. DoÑa Dolores!

Dol. Friend Don Timoteo!

Juan. My dear Timoteo! (Wishing to embrace him.)

Tim. Don’t embrace me. Don’t you see that I have come according to etiquette? All in black!

Dol. In black! Why?

Juan. Why?

Tim. Don’t be alarmed; it is not mourning, but etiquette. I come in all solemnity. Now you shall see. Isn’t Carmen here?

Dol. We went together to hear Mass. She came back with me—and she is now in my sitting-room with Don Nemesio and with Javier—so merry!

Tim. Then let everybody come here! (Dolores rings the bell.) Everybody—except Lazarus; he must come afterwards. Ah! solemnity! solemnity! (Laughing.)

Ter. (entering). SeÑora ...

Dol. Let the SeÑorita Carmen have the goodness to come here.

Tim. She and all—all. And till they come let no one speak to me.

Dol. (aside to Don Juan). Don’t you guess?

Juan (aside). Yes.

[A pause.

Tim. Solemn silence! Silence, a precursor of something very grave. Ha! ha!

Enter Carmen, Nemesio, and Javier.

Car. (to her father). Did you call me?

Tim. Silence, little one. Don’t you see how grave we all are?

Car. But what’s the matter?

Tim. (to his daughter). You stand beside Dolores.

A movement among all: Carmen embraces Dolores.

So: that’s well.

Dol. My own daughter!

Juan (aside). God assist me!

Nem. Ah—ha!

Jav. (to Nemesio). We are having a wedding.

Tim. Silence!—Are we ready? All attention—and every solemnity—for I am going to begin. Ah! you, Javier, being the youngest man here, shall go out in haste at the fitting moment to find Lazarus—“Lazarus! Lazarus!” You understand?—So, so—all very quiet: hanging on my lips. (A pause.) SeÑor Don Juan Mejia—(with comic solemnity.) My dear sir?—The devil, I seem as if I were going to write a letter!—Juanito, you asked me for the hand of Carmen for Lazarus: I have consulted the girl, she is dying about the boy, and now I bring the girl to the boy. And I say before all—Let them be married—the devil—let them be married!—(with great energy.)—The programme in these cases—gentlemen, the programme.—The blushing, the weeping, the smiling, the embracing!

(All spontaneously go through the instructions. Carmen and
Dolores embrace, and Dolores weeps passionately. Nemesio and
Javier laugh while pointing out the groups. Timoteo and Nemesio
likewise embrace. Then Timoteo, as if recollecting himself,
continues—)

Javier—go and look for Lazarus—Away, the situation is falling flat!

Jav. I am off—I am off! Lazarus! Lazarus! [Exit.

Car. Mother!

Dol. My own daughter—my own daughter! (Aside.) My God! My God!

Tim. (to Don Juan). And you say nothing?

Juan. Why, nothing more was required.

Tim. But he is not coming.

Re-enter Javier and Lazarus; the latter pale, disordered, and
materially dragged along by the former.

Laz. Where are you taking me? Where?

Jav. Come, Man, Come ... To Happiness!

Laz. What’s this? What do they want with me? Why do they call me?

Tim. Tableau! Carmen is yours! I bring her to you! You are to be married! (To Don Juan.) Eh! you father of a cork-tree, say something to them; I have gone through all my part!

Laz. Carmen—she—is it true? My Carmen!

Dol. Your Carmen—she is yours.

Juan. What the devil! She is yours—be happy, and let the world founder! what do I care for the world!

Laz. Mine, mine! I may go to her! fold her in my arms! embrace her with all my soul! drink her in with my eyes! I may if I like?

Juan. Yes! enough that you say—yes!

Laz. Oh, the infamy of it! Oh, the treachery! Carmen!

Car. (going up to him). Lazarus!

Laz. No, keep off! To whom are you coming? You are not to be mine! Never—never—never!

Car. He casts me off! He casts me off! I knew it! Mother! mother! (Falls into the arms of Dolores.)

Dol. Daughter of my heart!

Tim. My daughter! What have you done? What have you done?

Nem. But I don’t understand.

Jav. I do.

All hasten to help Carmen.

Juan. Lazarus—my son!

Laz. (embracing his father). Father—father—you are my father, save me!

Juan. Yes, I shall save you—I gave you life!

Laz. You gave me life! But that’s not enough: give me more life—to live, to love, to be happy—give me life for my own Carmen—give me more life, or cursed be the life which you gave me!

[Falls insensible.

END OF ACT II.