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.)