Juan. Yes, but I was the libertine; I was the man that drained the cup of pleasure and the cask from the wine-cellar: the invalid of the orgie. “That fellow is consumptive,” they used to say. “That fellow will die some morning,” you thought. And suddenly I became restored to life in Lazarus. Lazarus is my resurrection. And how robust and strong he is. And what talent he has! A prodigy—a Byron, an Espronceda, an Edgar Poe—a genius. That’s not what I alone say: you have it written in all the journals of Madrid.
Tim. Yes, the lad is able.
Nem. He is able.
Juan. Well, now, frankly—he who has led the life that I have led—he who while saying: “I must rest for a time,” has a son like Lazarus: that man—is he not a man, indeed?
Tim. Fine subject of rejoicing for a Tenorio.
Juan. What subject?
Tim. This of yours. Does it not come to this that you are the father of a genius?
Juan. And what then, dotards? Strength is strength, and becomes transformed: you don’t understand this. I make no doubt that I had all the genius of Lazarus concealed in some corner of my brain; but as I gave it neither time nor opportunity it could not exhibit itself. At last it grew tired of waiting, and it said: “Eh! I am going with the son, because with the father I can make no headway.” (Laughing.)
Tim. Don’t delude yourself, Juanito. The talent of Lazarus, for indeed he seems to have great talent, is not inherited from you: he must have derived it from his mother. The paternal heritage will have been some rheumatism, some affection of the nerves.
Nem. The sediments of pleasure and the dregs of alcohol. (Drinks.)