Laz. And if they bring the answer from Señor de Bermudez.
Ter. Immediately afterwards. (The bell continues.) I am coming, I am coming. (She says this without calling aloud, as if to herself.)
[Exit Teresa.
Laz. (alone). What she has told me about my poor mother has unstrung all my nerves. I am not well. Bah! I am not ill. How Doctor Bermudez will laugh at me when I consult him. The fact is that I am very apprehensive; but I feel strong: Javier says to me every moment: “My boy, don’t strut about on your heels so much.” Steady; so, steady. (He walks about, treads with his heels and laughs.) I know now what’s the matter. I am very happy and I have a horrible dread of losing so much happiness. Very happy. (Counting on his fingers.) My father and mother, so good; Carmen, who adores me; I, who am raving about her; glory, which calls me; I who answer, “Forward, Lazarus”; my eyes, which are my own and are never satiated with drinking in light and colours; my thought, which is mine, and which does not tire of originating wonders; my life, which is mine, and which desires to live more, to live more—yes, more! (A pause.) They say that life is dull, that it is mournful. Buffoons! Has anything better been discovered? Is it better to be stone which has no nerves to quiver with delight? Is it better to be water which always runs in headlong stupidity without knowing where it goes? Is it better to be air to blow without motive and to fill itself with the foulest earth and dust? No, it is better to be Lazarus. (Resumes the counting on his fingers.) For Lazarus has very good parents; he has Carmen; he has glory; he has life; and he has, above all, thought, reason! Ha! I have all this: I have it: what remains to be done if I have it! (Sits down in a somewhat cowering manner.) It is evident—because all this is so good, and because I have it, I am afraid to lose it. I am as terrified as a little child; at times it seems to me that I am a little child, and I am seized with impulses to run to my mother and wrap myself round in her skirt. A man who almost understands Kant and Hegel; who writes dramas which are very well received, yes, señor, very well received; who meditates transcendental works. A man, in every sense a man, who has fought duels in Madrid, and has had a little love affair or so—(laughing)—and very pleasant too: the practical reason, not of Kant but of Zola, which turns the Pure Reason of Kant into ridicule and makes even the good matron laugh. Well then, this formidable Lazarus at times is a child, and he would like his mother to embrace him and to buy him toys! To be a child, yes; all the same it is good to be a child. Nay. I should like it. (Laughing.) But what absurdities! Lord, what absurdities! (Remains cowering in his chair, thinking and laughing very low.)
Enter Teresa.
Ter. Señorito, a gentleman has given me this card.
Laz. (as if awaking). A gentleman? Let me see—Doctor Bermudez! But why has he put himself to inconvenience? I would have gone to him. Let him come in. Let him come in. Quick, woman, let him come in. (Exit Teresa.) With this man I must have much prudence, much composure, much calm. If he had heard the nonsense that I was talking! What a terror!
Teresa. (re-entering and announcing). Señor de Bermudez.
[Exit Teresa.
Enter Bermudez.