Lázaro. Hegel?
Don Juan. Just so (Nana).
After talk of Lázaro's health and engagement, Don Juan, learning that the young man is pensive or preoccupied, solely because he is projecting a drama, says he will leave him to thought. Glancing into Kant, he mutters, 'The—the—cognitive forces—the—the—finality,—yes, the finality.' 'Work, my son, work. Above all, write nothing immoral.' He drinks off a glass of sherry, and regretfully remarks that this finality has an end; then marches away with the bottle, Gil Blas, and Nana to study in solitude.
This is the sole touch of comedy in a play of ever increasing gloom, pervaded by the stupor of the hero and the cough of the heroine. 'My father loves me dearly, Carmen remarks to Dolores, Don Juan's embittered wife. 'Then he ought to have given you stronger lungs,' the elder woman retorts, with shocking directness. It is indeed, as Echegaray complains the critics assert, a pathological drama. When his friends are not discussing the symptoms of Lázaro's strange malady, he himself is enumerating them in merciless monologues. He talks of his greatness, of his fame, of the popularity of his works, and then falls into childish drivel and longs for playthings. 'His head is not firm,' says Don Nemesis to Carmen's father, in dubiety before the prospect of the marriage; 'that is why he is so stupendous at times, and all the world calls him a genius. Put no trust in geniuses, Timotheus. A genius may walk down one street, and hear the people cry, "The genius!" Let him round the corner into another street, and he will hear the street arab shout after him, "The lunatic!" Much talent is decidedly a dangerous thing.' 'God defend us from it!' piously exclaims the elderly roué. 'I have always been very careful not to cultivate it.'
It would be difficult to conceive a more needlessly disagreeable scene than the interview between the celebrated brain doctor and Lázaro, who, the night before, has been consulted by Dolores on behalf of a nephew, and innocently, but with terrible frankness, discusses the case with the unfortunate victim himself. 'We cannot with impunity corrupt the sources of life,' says Doctor Bermúdez, in the high scientific manner, without noticing the increasing emotion of his companion; 'the son of such a father must soon fall into madness or idiocy.' 'Ah! No! What? My father! I—It is a lie!' Lázaro burst out, in frantic horror. When the poor mother enters the scene and brings her maternal note of despair to the son's distracted terror, we feel that the modern drama has reached a pitch of tragedy unapprehended in healthier and more barbaric ages. 'Lose one's brains as one might lose a hat!' exclaims Don Juan when enlightened. 'Bah! idiots are born so.... but a man of genius! ... Lázaro, who understands the finality without end as he knows the Paternoster!'
Dolores. [Despairingly.] But if it were true? If it were true? And then? Oh! why was I born? [Approaching Don Juan who retreats.] Through you have I lost my illusions, stained my youth, debased my life, forfeited my dignity—through you! And after twenty years of sacrifices, to be worthy of Lázaro! ... good for his sake, loyal for him, resigned for him, honourable for him, and to-day! ... No, you have always been a scoundrel; but for once you must be right. Impossible! impossible! God could not will it.
Don Juan. Good, I have always been a scoundrel. What more? But don't remember it now; above all, don't say it. Say that you forgive me. Forgive me, Dolores.
Dolores. What does it matter?
Don Juan. It matters to us both. If you should not forgive me, and if God should remember to punish me, and punish me through my Lázaro!
Pitiful is the poor mother's wavering between softness and bitterness. At one moment she pardons him with all her heart, or only bargains that he shall help her to save their boy. And then when he vows to do so with his whole soul and the remainder of his life, she retorts cruelly, 'With what life you have left; what Heaven, in its mercy, still grants you.' 'Dolores!' the poor wretch exclaims, and again she softens: 'It is true; I had forgiven you.' Upon this the elderly scapegoat brightens and mentions Paris, Germany, England—'the English know so much. Bah! there is a good deal of science scattered over the world.' 'Then let us gather it all for Lázaro.'