Car. Yes, much sadness which never ends. I felt that when I had doubts of you. It is true, the world was a desert.
Laz. Well in that desert you gather up a handful of sand and you begin to count the little grains—one, two, three, hundreds, thousands—and you never finish counting. Yet there is no more than a handful—and you gather up another—and you gather up another—and the sand never ends. And you run and run; but no,—onward to the horizon all is overwhelmed with sand.
Car. But what’s the meaning of this? I don’t understand.
Laz. It means—it is very clear—don’t you see? It seems clear to me, yet you don’t understand. It means that I, who had wild dreams of applause, of glory, of gaining still more glory and applause with my Carmen, I see before me the fate of having to count grains and grains, handfuls and handfuls of sand, for days and nights and years, until the end—if there be an end. I don’t know if there be an end.
Car. Lazarus, Lazarus, don’t talk so; don’t look in that way!
Laz. Then save me! Why what did I call you for except that you should save me?
Car. Yes, I will save you; but how?
Laz. Consider now whether you love me so much. Suppose that we are about to say farewell for ever—because we are on the confines of that desert—both together at a little fountain—the last! It holds fresh water, the last! On the falling of the tube into the water it forms flakes of foam—the last—and I wish to drink for the last time and to cool my face and to sprinkle foam upon my lips that they may become wreathed in smiles. Help me—look at me—speak—laugh—sing—weep—do something, Carmen, for I am now being hurried away from you. I am now going into the desert; do something; throw me at least what your hands will hold of water, that a few drops may fall upon my face.
Carmen folds him in her arms.
Car. But why do you say that? I don’t understand. Are you sad? Are you vexed? Are you ill? These few days past, this very morning, you were so well, so cheerful, Lazarus.