Juan. Of Kant? Do you say of Kant? Quite so! he was my favourite author. When I was young I went to sleep every night reading Kant. (Aside.) What will that be? It sounds like a dog.
Laz. (searching out a passage). If you like, I shall tell you.
Juan. No, my lad; any part whatever! (Taking the book.) Yes, this may be read at any part. You shall see. And don’t concern yourself with me; write, my son, write.
Lazarus sits and attempts to write. Don Juan reads.
“Under the aspect of relationship, the third consequence of taste, the beautiful appears to us as the final form of an object, without representation of end.” The devil! (holding the book far off, as long-sighted people do and contemplating it with terror.) The devil! “or as a finality without end.” Whoever can understand this? “Because what is called final form is the causality of any conception whatever with relation to the object.” Let me see—let me see. (Holding the book still further off.) “Final form the causality.” I believe I am perspiring. (Wipes his forehead.) “The consciousness of this finality without end is the play of the cognitive forces.” How does he say that? “The play of the forces—the play.” Well, I ought to understand this about play. “The consciousness of this internal causality is that which constitutes the æsthetic pleasure.” If I go on it will give me a congestion. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! And to think that Lazarus understands about the finality without end, the causality and the play of the cognitive forces! God help me! What a boy!—(continues reading.) “The principle of the formal convenience of nature is the transcendental principle of the force of Judgment.” (Giving a blow on the table.) I shall be lost if I continue reading. But if that boy reads these things he will go mad.
Laz. Does it interest you?
Juan. Very much! What depth! (Aside.) For five minutes I have been falling, and I have not reached the bottom. (Aloud.) I should think it does interest me! But, frankly, I prefer—
Laz. Hegel?
Juan. Exactly. (Aside)—“Nana.” But you, my son, neither read, nor write: you are fretful. What’s the matter with you? Did the hunting tire you? Yet the exercise of the chase is very healthy for one who like you wears himself away over his books. Are you ill?
Laz. No, señor, I am not ill. And I spent these three days in the country very pleasantly. But this morning broke dull and rainy, and I said—“Home!”