Juan. That’s right—that’s right. But something’s the matter with you. You seem as it were absent-minded.
Laz. I am thinking—of my drama.
Juan. Then I shall go! decidedly I shall go! With my insipid chatter I prevent you from thinking. Oh! thought! the—the—(looking at the book) “the cognitive forces”—the—the—(looking again) “the finality”—that’s it—“the finality.”—Ah!—Good-bye.
Laz. But don’t go away on my account.
Juan. We must show respect to the wise. (Laughing.) I am going to read all alone the great book which you have lent me. (Taking a flower and putting it in the buttonhole of his dressing-gown.) Consider now, whether I shall hesitate between Kant and “Nana.” (Pulls the bell.)
Laz. As you please.
Juan. Good-bye, my son. To your drama—to your drama—and put nothing immoral in it.
Enter Teresa.
Ter. Señor.—
Juan. Listen, Teresa: take all that to my room. Wait—(Pours himself out a glass. Touching one pocket.) Here is Gil Blas, (touching) here is “Nana”: Kant hauled along by the neck—and to my room. Work, my boy, work! Do something great. Leave something to the world. I shall leave you—I think—(drinking the glass of wine.) Well, this finality—has an end. To work—to work?—Good-bye. Lord, what a Lazarus this is! To my room with all that, little Teresa.