In trying to interpret the idea of my last drama, “The Son of Don Juan,” the critics have said many things. That the idea was the same as that which inspired Ibsen in his celebrated work entitled “Gengangere.” That the passions which it sets in movement are more natural to the countries of the North than to our sunnier climes: that it deals with the problem of hereditary lunacy. That it discusses the law of heredity. That it is sombre and lugubrious, with no other object than that of arousing horror. That it is a purely pathological drama. That it contains nothing more than the progress of a case of lunacy. That from the moment when it is perceived that Lazarus will go mad, the interest of the work ceases, and nothing remains but to follow step by step the shipwreck of the poor creature—and so forth. I think that all this is but a series of lamentable equivocations on the part of the great and little judges of the dramatic art. The idea of my drama was not one of those mentioned. Its motive is very different, but I shall not explain it. Why should I? In all the scenes of my work, in all its personages, in nearly all its phrases it is explained. Moreover, to explain it would be dangerous; it might be imagined that my proposal was to defend the poor Son of Don Juan under the pretext of exposing the central idea from which he drew birth. I never defend my dramas; when I write their last word I leave them to their fate. I neither defend them materially nor morally. I finish a drama, I give it to the management of a theatre, it is put on the stage, it is liked or not liked, according to the favour of God. The management does what is most suited to its interests, without my interference: the actors represent it as they can, almost always very well, the public pronounces its judgment in one sense or another, according to its feelings, and the critics unbosom themselves to their satisfaction. I neither wish nor ought, if only from good taste, to defend my new drama; but it contains one phrase which is not mine, which is Ibsen’s; and that phrase I must defend energetically, for I consider it one of extraordinary beauty: “Mother, give me the sun,” says Lazarus. And this phrase, simple, infantile, almost comic, enfolds a world of ideas, an ocean of sentiments, a hell of sorrows, a cruel lesson, a supreme warning to society and to the family circle. Thus I look at it. A generation devoured by vice; which bears even in its bones the virus engendered by impure love; with a corrupted blood which in its course drags along organisms of corruption mingled with its ruddy globules, this generation goes on falling and falling into the abysses of idiocy: the cry of Lazarus is the last twilight of a reason which founders in the eternal blackness of imbecility. And at the same time nature awakes and the sun comes forth—another twilight which will very soon be all light. And the two twilights meet and cross and salute each other with the salutation of everlasting farewell at the close of the drama. Reason, which is precipitated downward, impelled by the corruption of pleasure. The sun, which springs upward with immortal flames, impelled by the sublime forces of nature. Below, human reason which has come to an end; above, the sun which begins a new day. “Give me the sun,” says Lazarus to his mother. Don Juan likewise asked for it from between the tresses of the woman of Tarifa. On this point there is much to be said: it gives room for much thought. For, in truth, if our society.... But what the devil are these philosophical speculations that I am plunging into? Let every man compose such for himself as best he may, and let him clamour for the sun or beg for the horns of the moon, or ask for what suits his appetite. Does nobody understand or take an interest in these matters? What then? This, at most would prove that the modern Don Juan continues to bequeath many sons to the world, though they have not the talent of Lazarus. Let us give a respectful greeting to the sons of Don Juan.

JosÉ Echegaray.