Nem. Delightful time. Don Juan’s country seat—so we called it.
Tim. What I liked was that running balcony or gallery, or whatever it was. What a view! The Guadalquivir! And it looked towards the East—you saw the sun rise—it was enchanting. (To Juan.) Have you fallen asleep?
Juan. I? I never sleep. That’s what I should like—to sleep. For this is the way I pass the night—with a wrench of this nerve and a wrench at the other. The little pain which is in the neighbourhood of my elbow goes for a walk. My cough appears before it and says, “Good evening, neighbour.” My head cries out, “I am going to waltz for a while, stand away there.” And my stomach heaves, “No, for God’s sake; I shall be sea-sick.” Sleep, indeed! It’s ten years since I have slept.
Nem. But you are not telling us the story.
Juan. What story?
Tim. Why, man, that about the fiery outbreak of genius. When you learned that you had something inside here. (Touching his forehead.) Something sublime, eh?
Nem. I should think so, corrosive sublimate. Ha, ha! Another little glass.
Tim. Come. However, we are left at where you got to know once upon a time that you were a larva-like genius—like the pulmonary larvæ.
Juan. I got to know it. There’s nothing to laugh at.
Nem. In your country seat by the Guadalquivir?