Juan. What have I to confess?
Tim. Something has happened to you which never happened to any one else.
Juan. What happened to me?
Tim. In order to get your spine straightened you had to be put in a casing of paste, and they used to hang you up by the neck twice a day.
Juan. But that was because we were playing at single stick in the Plaza de Toros, and they broke two of my ribs; that might happen to anybody.
Tim. No, no: you were not like us. Do you remember, Nemesio? “Where is Juanito?” “In bed.” “Where is Juanito?” “At Panticosa.” “Where is Juanito?” “At Archena.” “Where is Juanito?” “Shut up in his casing.” “Where is Juanito?” “At this moment they must be hanging him.” Ha, ha!
Tim. and Nem. laugh. Don Juan looks at them angrily.
Juan. Don’t laugh very loud, or we shall have a general breaking up. I have been a man and you two have been pitiful fellows. You (to Tim.), got married at forty: you locked yourself up in a corner of this town with your wife, and there was an end of Timoteo. You (to Nem.), flying like a coward from the storms of the world, took refuge in Arganda, where you drink each year the vintage of the year before. I, on the other hand (speaking with proud emphasis), I—it is true that I also got married—at forty-two; but that’s no proof of weakness. If Don Juan Tenorio had been allowed the time, he would have married Doña Inez, and indeed there is a rumour that they celebrated their mystic wedding in heaven. But I, the other Don Juan, got married like a man, like a free citizen; yet I did not thereupon abandon the field of honour. I am myself at home, myself abroad, at nine in the convent, at ten in this street. Well, then I had my Lazarus!—Eh!—There’s a lad! That’s what it is to have a son.
Tim. God help me, with your glorious triumph! Jump into the street, and you won’t see a neighbour who is not the son of somebody. Each individual has a father.
Nem. One father at least.