to master, those familiar maladies whose causes and whose cure are unknown, although there are many, are not so much the despair of physicians as those other ills, in which life, not death, is the enemy, those maladies which we know so well and whose cure we also know, which have but a single name—poverty. I should not speak to others as frankly as I do to you, it might give offense; there is so much false pride. But here I am a friend. Since we have been neighbors, and I have had the pleasure of attending you, I have come to be deeply interested in you all.
Carmen. We appreciate it, Don Hilario; you have been kind and generous to us. You must forgive us if we abuse your generosity, but your visits are a consolation.
Hilario. Say no more. Doña Carmen. As I have told you, there is but one word for Luisita's illness, poverty, poverty of blood, poverty of life, poverty of everything. Even though you were to make a great effort, and to change your manner of living for a time completely, what would be gained by it? The inevitable reaction would ensue, accompanied by greater suffering, greater privations. I know there are physicians, and I envy them, who look upon the patient as an abstract being, and have the temerity to prescribe expensive travels and costly diets, fillets and champagnes of rare vintages, whether they ride up in an elevator and trip over soft carpets, or clamber up a hundred steps to an attic, clattering over broken tiles. It is my misfortune to be considerate, and there are those who do not thank me for it. There are persons who say: "Don Hilario does not diagnose my complaint; he prescribes nothing." Whereas I say: "What am I to prescribe here? Bank-notes of a thousand pesetas?" All I can do is appear forgetful, and neglect to send in my bill. If I cannot bring health, at least I have no right to take it away.
