Berm. To-night I cannot. I shall come to-morrow.
Dol. To-morrow, then, Bermudez. (Accompanying him.) Save my son!
Juan. See you to-morrow, Señor de Bermudez. And have a care what you do with my Lazarus!
Berm. Till to-morrow, then, Señora. (Pressing her hand.) And my dear señor.
Dolores falls on a chair: Juan walks about with
difficulty, but with an air of great vigour.
Juan. This man does not know what he’s talking about. You have now heard him; he can’t co-ordinate two ideas. How simple we are! What, and do people lose their talents and lose their heads as one might lose a hat? Here, I got rid of my hat, and thus got rid of my head? Bah, bah! Idiots are what they are from infancy. Nor do I say idiots only—fools have been fools all through life; there is nobody more consistent than a fool. But as to a man of genius! Oh! Genius! Tut, absurdities of doctors! He to pronounce judgment on my Lazarus! He who can’t co-ordinate two ideas—on Lazarus, who is as familiar with the “finality without end” as he is with the Our Father! Come, answer. Am I right?
Dol. Would to God it might be so!
Juan. But don’t you think it is false—all that that buffoon has told us?
Dol. (with desperation). And if it were true? If it were true? What then? Then, why was I born? (Advancing upon Don Juan, who retreats.) My illusions lost through you! My youth blighted through you! My dignity sneered at through you! After twenty years of sacrifices in order to be deserving of my Lazarus—good for him! loyal for him! honourable for him! And to-day? No. You have always been a wretch: but this time you are right. Impossible! Impossible! God could not let it be so.
Juan. Well, I have been a wretch—there’s no getting over it. But do not call to mind all that—and above all, don’t speak of it. Say that you forgive me—forgive me, Dolores.